Pacific Performances: Theatricality and Cross-Cultural Encounter in the South Seas (Studies in International Performace)

Pacific Performances Theatricality and Cross-Cultural Encounter in the South Seas

Christopher B. Balme

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Pacific Performances

10.1057/9780230599536 - Pacific Performances, Christopher B. Balme

Studies in International Performance Published in association with the International Federation of Theatre Research

Culture and performance cross borders constantly, and not just the borders that define nations. In this new series, scholars of performance produce interactions between and among nations and cultures as well as genres, identities and imaginations. Inter-national in the largest sense, the books collected in the Studies in International Performance series display a range of historical, theoretical and critical approaches to the panoply of performances that make up the global surround. The series embraces ‘Culture’ which is institutional as well as improvised, underground or alternate, and treats ‘Performance’ as either intercultural or transnational as well as intracultural within nations. Titles include: Christopher B. Balme PACIFIC PERFORMANCES Theatricality and Cross-Cultural Encounter in the South Seas Judith Hamera DANCING COMMUNITIES Performance, Difference and Connection in the Global City Joanne Tompkins UNSETTLING SPACE Contestations in Contemporary Australian Theatre Forthcoming titles: Elaine Aston and Sue-Ellen Case (editors) PERFORMING GLOBAL FEMINISMS Helen Gilbert and Jacqueline Lo PERFORMANCE AND COSMOPOLITICS Cross-Cultural Transactions in Australasia Adrian Kear THEATRE AND EVENT

Studies in International Performance Series Standing Order ISBN 1–4039–4435–0 (hardback) 1–4039–4436–9 (paperback) (outside North America only) You can receive future titles in this series as they are published by placing a standing order. Please contact your bookseller or, in case of difficulty, write to us at the address below with your name and address, the title of the series and the ISBN quoted above. Customer Services Department, Macmillan Distribution Ltd, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS, England

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General Editors: Janelle Reinelt and Brian Singleton

Pacific Performances

Christopher B. Balme

10.1057/9780230599536 - Pacific Performances, Christopher B. Balme

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Theatricality and Cross-Cultural Encounter in the South Seas

© Christopher B. Balme 2007

No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2007 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN-13: 9781403985989 hardback ISBN-10: 1403985987 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 9 16 15

8 7 14 13

6 5 4 3 2 1 12 11 10 09 08 07

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne

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All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.

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This book is dedicated to my parents Brian and Pamela Balme in gratitude for a Pacific childhood

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10.1057/9780230599536 - Pacific Performances, Christopher B. Balme

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List of Illustrations

ix

Series Editors’ Preface

xi

Preface

xii

Introduction Definitions Mimetic capital and exotic commodities Performance in Paradise Fishing grounds The passage

1 2 7 9 12 13

1 Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches and Women Trumpets and hornpipes Landings and beaches Shocking spectacles Venus observ’d Wanton dancing Becoming the other

19 20 24 29 36 38 42

2 Staged Authenticity: The South Seas and European Theatre, 1785–1830 Spectacles of emotion: Cook o sia Gl’inglesi in Othaiti Restaging first encounters: La Mort du Capitaine Cook La Perouse and the imaginary Pacific A royal revue: their Sandwich Majesties

47 48 56 61 67

3 Comedians and Crusaders: Anti-Theatrical Prejudice in the South Seas Plato’s legacy Arioi te fenua: comedians of the land Ocular proof: baptisms and idols Plays and heroes

74 76 79 85 89

4 Dressing the Hula and Taming the Haka: Performing Identity in Hawai‘i and New Zealand Performative metonymy Reinventing the hula

95 96 98

vii

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Contents

viii Contents

102 104 115

5 Kindred Spirits: Spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany A place in the sun Anthropological anxieties Samoan troupes and the politics of the colonial gaze ‘Impressing the natives’: colonial ceremony in Samoa Tenth anniversary celebrations Mixing ceremonies

122 123 126 129 134 139 142

6 Birds of Paradise: American-Pacific Dramas of Displacement The Bird of Paradise Rain Pacific and Oriental lines: South Pacific

146 148 155 164

7 ‘As You Always Imagined It’: The Pacific as Tourist Spectacle The Polynesian Cultural Center and tourist performance Staging Polynesian culture(s) Mimicry and resisting the tourist gaze Framing authenticity

174 177 179 181 186

8 Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific Pacific diasporas The play of memory Ritual reincorporation The Pacific is burning Dystopic paradise

191 192 194 196 200 213

Notes

218

Selected Bibliography

245

Index

251

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Hula kahiko (ancient hula) Iconography of the hula Taming the haka

1 The Landing at Middleburgh, One of the Friendly Islands 2 The Landing at Erramanga, One of the New Hebrides 3 ‘Captain Wallis on his arrival at O’Taheite in conversation with Oberea the Queen, while her attendants are performing the dance called the Timorodee’ 4 King Rheo Rhio [Liholiho] and Queen Kamehameha [Ka’ahumanu] delighted at the performances of Punch (1824) 5 The king and queen of the Sandwich Islands, and suite, at Covent Garden Theatre (1824) 6 Destruction of the idols at Otaheite 7 Jacques Arago: Les Isles Sandwich: Femme de l’isle Mowi dansant 8 Bathélemy Lauvergne: Scène de danse, aux Iles Sandwich. Hula dancing with a solo female dancer 9 Two Hula dancers. Ambrotype, 1858 10 The ‘Honolulu Dandy’ Ioane Ukeke with his hula troupe, c.1880 11 Hula dancers in a forest setting, c.1899 12 Backyard hula dancing in informal setting, c.1900 13 Premier Richard Seddon attending a haka performance at the Holborn restaurant, London, 1897 14 Hosts of the Ngati Kahungunu tribe welcome visitors to a wedding at Taradale, East Coast, North Island, New Zealand 15 Haka party at Rotorua during visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall, 1901 16 Programme for the 1901 tour 17 Postcard of Samoan performers in Hagenbeck’s zoo in Hamburg-Stellingen, 1910 18 Arrangement of spectators for flag-raising ceremony, Apia, Western Samoa, 1 March 1900 19 Sheet music cover featuring Laurette Taylor 20 Poster for Federal Theatre Project presentation of Bird of Paradise at the Belasco Theatre, Los Angeles, showing a woman wearing a bikini top and skirt, standing next to a palm tree 21 Jeanne Eagels as Sadie Thompson dancing to her gramophone 22 Tourist drinking coconut milk while being filmed by Samoan chief at the Polynesian Cultural Center, Hawai‘i ix

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26 27

41 69 71 88 106 108 109 112 113 114 116 118 119 131 133 137 151

152 161 183

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Illustrations

x

Illustrations

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23 Tatau – Rites of Passage, 1996. Tattooing ceremony at the beginning of the play 24 The ‘lesbian’ fa’afafine brother performs a Maori poi dance 25 Dancer from Paradise by Mau ensemble, directed by Lemi Ponifasio

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In 2003, the current International Federation for Theatre Research President, Janelle Reinelt, Pledged the organization to expand the outlets for scholarly publication available to the membership, and to make scholarly achievement one of the main goals and activities of the Federation under her leadership. In 2004, joined by Vice-President for Research and Publications Brian Singleton, they signed a contract with Palgrave Macmillan for a new book series, ‘Studies in International Performance.’ Since the inauguration of the series, it has become increasingly urgent for performance scholars to expand their disciplinary horizons to include the comparative study of performances across national, cultural, social and political borders. This is necessary not only in order to avoid the homogenizing tendency to limit performance paradigms to those familiar in our home countries, but also in order to be engaged in creating new performance scholarship that takes account of and embraces the complexities of transnational cultural production, the new media, and the economic and social consequences of increasingly international forms of artistic expression. Comparative studies can value both the specifically local and the broadly conceived global forms of performance practices, histories and social formations. Comparative aesthetics can challenge the limitations of perception and current artistic knowledges. In formalizing the work of the Federation’s members through rigorous and innovative scholarship, we hope to contribute to an ever-changing project of knowledge creation.

International Federation for Theatre Research Fédération Internationale pour la Recherche Théâtrale

xi

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Series Editors’ Preface

In March of every year in Auckland, New Zealand, Pasifika, a large-scale festival of the performing and material arts attracts tens of thousands of visitors and hundreds of participants from Auckland’s huge Polynesian community. A month later the Merrie Monarch Festival, a week-long celebration of hula, takes place on Big Island, Hawai‘i, where it is literally the talk of the islands with live broadcasts on prime-time television and heated debates on local buses. On Oahu, the commercial and political centre of Hawai‘i, tourists can visit seven different Polynesian cultures (on six days of the week throughout the year excepting Sundays) at the Polynesian Cultural Center and witness highly elaborate performances ranging from Maori haka to a high-tech Broadway-style night show. Every four years the Pacific Arts Festival is organized at a different venue throughout the region, in which representatives from over 20 island cultures gather and perform in a variety of genres encompassing traditional dances, literary readings and experimental theatre. On most nights in Apia, the capital of Western Samoa, tourists and locals can gather to watch night club acts featuring transvestite performers. An outrageous comedy show by New Zealand-based Pacific Islanders, The Naked Samoans, is sold out when and wherever it is performed. This list documents, among other things, the astonishing vitality and variety of performance genres cultivated in the Pacific region. While most outsiders associate with the conjunction of ‘Pacific’ and ‘performance’ the undulating grass-skirt clad hips of hula girls, designed primarily for the tourist gaze, they would probably be surprised to learn of stand-up comics, both traditional and modern, of avant-garde theatre performed at international arts festivals, or indeed of hula not directed at the tourist market. Apart from palm trees and sandy beaches, the primary association with this region is performance: the said dances and music. In fact, no region in the world has been more closely associated with performance than the Pacific. It is this still largely unexplored conjunction that is the subject of this book. It seeks to examine from a historical perspective the question of cross-cultural encounter through modes of performance. The central thesis is that these cross-cultural contacts were theatrical as much as they were economic, sexual or political: that is, much took place, and still does, in modes that we generally subsume under the term ‘performance’. The narrower argument to be explored is that theatrical performance in a cross-cultural context is fraught with particular difficulties, even doubts and suspicions. This contested, ‘doubtful’ history rests on the conjunction of two extremely powerful discursive histories: colonialism and theatricality. The broader argument proposed is that theatricality, or the discursive practice xii

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Preface

of theatricalizing other peoples and places, was a necessary prerequisite for later colonial enterprises. While the intersection of these histories is by no means particular to the Pacific region, the latter offers, I believe, a particularly fruitful field of study because of remarkably persistent and recurring patterns of perception and representation. Like most books, there is a great deal of personal investment in this one. Its author is a New Zealander working in theatre and performance studies in Europe. Looking at Europe from a Pacific viewpoint and vice versa has been an integral part of my professional life for the past 20 years so it is hoped that this reciprocal perspective will resonate both thematically and methodologically. It draws on methods and material from Pacific history, culture and literature, colonial history, theatre and performance studies, and postcolonial theory. While this list may seem to some ‘dangerously’ eclectic, I would argue that the phenomenon of cross-culture performance requires just such a multi-perspectival approach. This study has been dependent on the cooperation and generosity of scholars and artists from a number of countries. It would not have been possible without the financial assistance of the German Research Society (DFG), which funded the project within the framework of a larger research initiative on theatricality. The latter was instigated and directed by Erika Fischer-Lichte of the Free University in Berlin. Without her energy and vision, the present book would have had a much more difficult genesis. Most of the research and writing was conducted at the Departments of Theatre Studies at the Universities of Munich and Mainz, where I was assisted by a number of collaborators and research assistants. The first phase profited from discussions with Astrid Betz (née Carstensen) who completed a doctoral thesis within the framework of the same project, and from my indefatigable Brazilian research assistant Nara Heemann. At the University of Mainz I was assisted by Nicole Leonhardt and Christiane Brosius, whose own project on early Pacific cinema will hopefully be published in the near future. Final revisions were made in the intellectually salubrious atmosphere of the University of Amsterdam. In New Zealand I benefited from two sojourns at the Victoria University of Wellington, where I was welcomed and assisted by David Carnegie, David O’Donnell and John Downie in the Department of Theatre and Film, who took a keen interest in the project. The then chair of anthropology at the same university, Niko Besnier, has remained an important dialogue partner on all things Pacific. The material on the fa’afafine in Chapter 8 could not have been written without his generous assistance. Thanks as well to Caroline Armstrong, manager of the Naked Samoans for providing me with videos, the indispensable handmaidens of memory. The Alexander Turnbull Library in Wellington was an invaluable resource for both written and visual source material for the Pacific region. The National Archives in Wellington provided access to German colonial records. The Hamilton

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Preface xiii

Library at the University of Hawai‘i, Manoa, was a crucial resource at the early stages of research, as was the Bishop Museum with its excellent visual collections. Chapter 3 could not have been written without access to the LMS archives of the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London. The bottomless resources of the British Library and its librarians provided material unavailable elsewhere. Much of the research for Chapter 5 was conducted in the Nelson Memorial Library, Apia, Western Samoa. The Library of Congress in Washington provided rare typescripts of forgotten plays. The National Library of Australia collection of Pacific iconography and the Mitchell library of New South Wales continue to be essential ports of call for Pacific research. Some of this material has been published previously in slightly different versions in: Humanities Research (Canberra); Theatre Journal; Theatre Research International; TDR: The Drama Review; and Paideuma (Frankfurt). I would like to thank the editors and in some cases anonymous reviewers for engaging with and supporting this research. Christopher B. Balme

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xiv Preface

When Louis-Antoine de Bougainville first glimpsed the high peaks and luscious vegetation of Tahiti on 5 April 1768, probably only the second European ship’s captain to do so, the metaphors that sprang to mind, and that he recorded in his logbook, were theatrical ones: ‘The aspect of this coast, elevated like an amphitheatre, offered us the most enchanting spectacle.’1 For the next ten days, during which the two ships, La Boudeuse and L’Étoile lay at anchor in Matavai Bay, Bougainville and his fellow shipmates and explorers encountered a seeming unbroken succession of theatrical or painterly scenes. The subjects represented in this ‘natural theatre’ ranged from the pastoral – two Tahitians lying under a tree with one playing an air on the nose-flute, a scene ‘worthy of Boucher’s brush’2 – to the erotic: the famous self-presentation of a naked ‘Venus’ on board ship to lusty Phrygian shepherds (the French sailors). In all cases, the vocabulary is drawn from the theatre: it is almost invariably a ‘scène’ or ‘spectacle’. Very often, the scenes the early visitors witnessed were actual performances, ranging from elaborate festivities to impromptu dances. They invariably tantalized the senses and stimulated the fancy of hardened sailors and dispassionate gentlemen alike. The theatrical metaphors that abound in the written accounts of these encounters are more than just rhetorical tropes. They are, it will be argued, symptoms of deeper-seated, fundamental categories of perception that can be best embraced by the term ‘theatricality’. It is, however, theatricality of a special kind, occasioned by the encounters between different cultures. The theatricality of cross-cultural encounter is located in a semantic field of considerable breadth. These encounters could, and can, take many forms, ranging from meetings on Tahitian beaches to Broadway musical theatre. This study will endeavour to demonstrate the connections between them, even though the bloodlines may be far from pure. The approach proposed here is genealogical in the sense defined by Joseph Roach in his magisterial study of circumatlantic performance.3 Genealogy refers to ‘the historical transmission and dissemination of cultural practices through collective representations’ which form a network of interlocking discourses 1

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Introduction

and practices that establish continuities over long periods of time.4 These (dis)continuities are not to be understood in the traditional sense of motifs or myths. Genealogies of performance are rather to be detected in a particular combination of corporeal and perceptual practices determined by a high degree of reciprocity. The body, perhaps the most labile and complex site of reciprocal exchange, is the place where this transmission is enacted. The performance genealogies of and in the Pacific can only function through a consciousness of the past that links the place of performance with the productive memories of performers and spectators. Cross-cultural Pacific performances are therefore always citational practices in the sense that performers and spectators both draw on common, but not necessarily congruent repertoires of knowledge. As these grow over time, they begin to intersect and form a citational domain, which permits a high degree of reflexivity, in the sense of referring back to themselves. As we shall see again and again, European encounters with Pacific peoples are invariably correlated metaphorically with pre-existing perceptual matrixes that extend from Greek mythology to Teutonic warriors. This book examines the ways explorers, colonialists, missionaries and tourists tried to make sense of the performances they saw. The performative response on the part of the local people was to incorporate this ‘sense-making’ in their own performances for the visitors, thus initiating a strategy of performative reciprocity that begins very soon after first contact was made and which continues until the present. Although reciprocity is a two-way street, it is seldom a balanced state of affairs, especially in the context of colonial history. Since we will be studying representations of encounters, both written and iconographic, we are reliant almost exclusively on a European perspective. Even when indigenous voices are quoted in journals or missionary reports, they are by definition mediated. This situation has of course long been recognized in historical anthropology, especially in the Pacific context. Scholars such as Anne Salmond, Greg Dening and Marshall Sahlins, whose work is cited extensively in this book, have demonstrated to what degree one can reconstruct an indigenous understanding of cross-cultural encounters.5 The early chapters of this book rely predominantly on European perceptions of events and practices but include, where possible, interpretations from an indigenous perspective. The final two chapters, devoted to the postcolonial, present document representations controlled predominantly from the local perspective.

Definitions The cross-cultural encounters studied in this book were and continue to be enframed by modes of perception that can be termed theatrical. Despite the

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2 Pacific Performances

3

tremendous upsurge in interest in the term, theatricality remains notoriously difficult to define. Its present popularity is doubtlessly linked to the insight that contemporary culture manifests itself increasingly in transient processes of staging and representation rather than in enduring works or monuments.6 The evanescence of theatricality thus renders it especially resistant to conventional hermeneutical analysis and requires a multifaceted approach. Two recent collections of essays document the astonishing semantic breadth of the term, which has prompted the editors of both books to question whether it can be considered a concept in the narrower sense of the term at all. As Tracy Davis and Thomas Postlewait note: ‘the domain of theatricality cannot be located within any single definition, period, or practice.’7 This does not mean, however, that it is ‘meaningless’. On the contrary, the editors point to theatricality’s ‘protean flexibility that lends richness to both historical study and theoretical analysis.’8 Similarly, Josette Féral observes that the scholars and researchers contributing to her volume ‘often ascribe widely divergent – and at times diametrically opposed – meanings, values and properties to theatricality’.9 Because of its conceptual slipperiness but undisputed importance for both historical and contemporary research, each scholar must outline his or her use of the term within the bounds of the research questions to be examined. Like so many concepts in contemporary theoretical discourse, theatricality is, to use Mieke Bal’s term, a ‘travelling concept’. Such concepts, as Bal understands them, are ‘neither fixed nor unambiguous’, but processual and only of interest when they can be attached to specific problems. Their semantic range and operative value change when they ‘travel’, that is, when they are taken up and used in a historical context or within a discipline to which they were originally foreign. They become recharged with new meanings and develop new potential as instruments for analysis.10 Theatricality is, as shall be shown, just such a travelling concept whose ‘protean flexibility’ is a sign of fecundity and not of limitation.11 The danger inherent in falling back on terms such as ‘travelling’ or ‘protean’ is that a concept becomes arbitrary and can be applied to almost anything. As already stated, theatricality will be understood in this study primarily as a perceptual category employed to characterize certain kinds of phenomena that appear to resemble or embody elements associated with theatrical performance. When examined more closely, it will become clear that this set of elements changes over time in keeping with the changing nature of the theatrical medium itself. Just as the theatres of the eighteenth and the twentieth centuries differ in many respects, so too is the theatricality of the eighteenth not necessarily commensurate with that of the twentieth century. Nevertheless, some elements remain similar. As Erika Fischer-Lichte has argued, theatricality invariably brings four factors into a state of interaction: corporeality, perception, mise en scène, and performance. Performing bodies are perceived as being staged in some way.12 This

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Introduction

definition is exceptionally broad and needs to be modified for the particular case of cross-cultural interactions. Nonetheless, it offers a framework within which one can begin to investigate the concept from both historical and systematic perspectives. The beginnings of theatricality as a discursive field go back to the eighteenth century, in fact to that period which saw the development of imperial and colonial expansion on an international scale.13 In the eighteenth century the word theatrical and its cognates were used within three broad semantic fields. The first can be roughly defined as a trope for dramatic events of a particular kind. Phenomena deemed ‘theatrical’ appeared to be so on account of their extreme concentration and focus engendered by tensions produced by dramatic situations. These include conflicts, confrontations and the antagonistic or agonistic structure constitutive of drama as defined by Aristotelian categories such as peripeteia or anagnorisis. A second perceptual component of theatricality developed in the eighteenth century is the primacy given to things visual and, more narrowly, to the idea of the spectator. There is a massive shift within eighteenth-century aesthetics and philosophy from the aural to the visual, and from the level of production (normative poetics) to reception (theories of sense and sensibility). Sight as the dominant sense and things visual are increasingly given preference as modes of perception and representation. This question forms a bridge to the third and most persistent model of theatricality current in the eighteenth century. To deem something theatrical in this period – and this still holds true today – was to bestow on it a number of pejorative epithets revolving around ideas of second-handedness, deceit, duplicity and simulation. While it may seem that these three variations on theatricality have little to do with one another – the one dramaturgical, the second aesthetic and the third epistemological – when they coalesce, they invariably produce associations with the theatre. Next to its visual emphasis, theatre is of course predicated on corporeality of a special kind, the performing body. Corporeality is the only given material of theatricality. Because most definitions of theatre assume that a live performer is somehow at the centre of the medium, the staged body seems to feature as an integral aspect of theatricality. While this is no doubt true in most understandings of the term, we will encounter usages that are not dependent on human beings in action. Concepts such as ‘spectacle’, which are certainly semantically allied if not entirely coterminous with theatricality, can be applied to landscapes, for example. The example of corporeality shows that no one element can be deemed theatrical in isolation, but only in relation to the other elements. This condition of interdependence is particularly true for the category of perception, which lies at the core of any understanding of theatricality. In an important study, the sociologist Elisabeth Burns defined the latter as a historically and culturally determined ‘mode of perception.’14 Burns is concerned from her sociological perspective with exploring the

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4 Pacific Performances

5

ways theatre and role-playing in social life are laminated. Theatricality as a mode of perception means that things and actions, peoples and places, are not in themselves theatrical – they possess no inherent theatricality – but rather are rendered such by a combination of aesthetic conventions and discursive practices. They in turn determine around which phenomena we place the ‘frame’ of theatrical apprehension. Thus, theatricality can be understood as both a discursive and performative practice by means of which theatre (as an institution and aesthetic form) intersects with wider cultural contexts. The theatrical mode of perception is thus a complex one, consisting of interlocking, mutually conditioning elements from different genres and forms of representation. Expressed more concretely, theatricality is a mode of perception and representation that either merges verbal, visual and corporeal dimensions or forms a bridge between them. What cannot easily be identified is an immutable set of signifiers or iconographical markers that provide, as it were, an index of constitutive elements. Because theatricality is more a question of perception than it is of representation, its existence will be found most usually at the interface of the two. The question must also be asked what consequences this framing strategy had on the epistemological status of the peoples and places perceived. This problem lies at the heart of the most persistent model of theatricality. To deem something theatrical is to bestow on it a number of pejorative epithets revolving around ideas of deceit and duplicity. While these notions and their links with the theatre are much older and constitute the epistemological basis of the ‘antitheatrical prejudice’,15 it was not until the eighteenth century that a broader category of perception was developed linking the aesthetic and the moral into a wider concept.16 Closely, even inextricably, entwined with the moral idea of social intercourse being inherently theatrical is a counteractive tendency towards valuing objects or forms of behaviour that emphasize authenticity. The discourse of authenticity emerges roughly at the same time and can be regarded as the flipside of the unease provoked by an all-pervasive theatricality of everyday life. As we shall see in Chapter 2, the first theatre productions set in the South Seas, which were almost invariably influenced in some way by the widely read accounts of Captain Cook’s voyages to the Pacific, attempted to capitalize on the authenticity bonus. Theatrical authenticity has of course an oxymoronic ring to it, a resonance, which is central to this study. From a poststructuralist perspective, an authentic representation is already a contradictio in adjecto because every representation is by definition conditioned by a state of vicariousness. As Jonathan Culler has noted: ‘The paradox, the dilemma of authenticity, is that to be experienced as authentic it must be marked as authentic, but when it is marked as authentic, it is mediated, a sign of itself and hence not authentic in the sense of unspoiled.’17 Theatricality is mediation to an intense degree, as we have already suggested.

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Introduction

Therefore the search for authenticity, in people and places, is an attempt to escape the ubiquitous theatricality of modernity. One essential condition of modernity is that it creates its own antithesis through an interest in traditional societies. Modernity in this sense begins, as both Jürgen Habermas and Niklas Luhmann have argued, in the eighteenth century with the ideas of the Enlightenment.18 The history of cross-cultural contact in the Pacific is thus framed in an ineluctable and ultimately irresolvable tension between the search for, and experience of, traditional authenticity and its experience and representation within the perceptual frame of theatricality. Finally, it is necessary to specify theatricality in cross-cultural contexts. A particular characteristic of cross-cultural theatricality lies in its unexpected power to transform and redefine signs. This transformative power integral to theatre (its ability to make a table into a mountain by a simple word or gesture) is extended to everyday experience in situations of cross-cultural contact. Here gestures or articles of clothing can become theatrical signs as members of different cultures meet and attempt to make sense of each others’ cultural signs. This kind of theatricality is particularly marked in first contact encounters, but it continues even as cultures become better acquainted with one another. When these encounters are enacted as formalized performances – dances, songs, rituals, plays – then the intensities of contact, and the possibilities of misunderstanding, are increased. As the embodied objects move from one culture to another, they become charged with an excess of divergent meanings. Performances also provide a particularly fruitful ground for cultures to imitate and thereby approach one another. The imitation of the other – a fundamental experience of cross-cultural and colonial contact – constitutes a history of asymmetrical power relations as cultures in contact adopt each others’ performances for many different reasons. We can summarize the discussion of theatricality in the following way. Theatricality is a mode of perception that brackets moments of action or particular places in such a way that they are imbued with extreme concentration and focus. It invariably emphasizes the visual senses and moves the beholder to become aware of his/her act of spectating. Because this mode of perception depends on the recognition of pre-existing patterns and conventions, it is often framed or, pejoratively spoken, marred by a sense of second-handedness. Apprehending something in theatrical terms (to borrow from Macbeth’s inebriated porter) thus ‘increaseth’ the sensation, but ‘lowereth’ the ontological status. Theatrical situations are hence often marked as citable, repeatable, and are therefore intrinsically mediated. Yet, it is this state of citability and mediation which enables theatrical perception to be transported via performative genealogies over long periods of time. To understand why and how this was effected in the context of the Pacific, it is necessary to engage with the dynamics of exoticism and mimetic capital.

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6 Pacific Performances

Introduction

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In his study of first contacts in the New World, Marvellous Possessions, Stephen Greenblatt asks what is probably the most fundamental question regarding cross-cultural contacts both old and new: ‘How does one read the signs of the other    how is it possible for one system of representation to establish contact with a different system?’19 Greenblatt articulates the semiotic dimension of negotiating alterity, which he describes as a reciprocal process where both sides or systems of representation strive to make sense of one another. Apart from or over and above the initial disorder such contacts inevitably engender, a second stage sets in that Greenblatt terms the assimilation of the other, whereby both sides devise strategies to accommodate the new signs and beings. Adapting Marx and Bourdieu, Greenblatt proposes the concept of mimetic capital to explain the dynamics of what happens as these new signs begin to circulate. Mimetic capital refers to several interconnected processes. These include the global proliferation, circulation, and also the stockpiling of representations so that mimetic capital is built up over time as: a set of images and image making devices that are accumulated, ‘banked’, as it were, in books, archives, collections, cultural storehouses, until such time as these representations are called upon to generate new representations. The images that matter, that merit the term capital, are those that achieve reproductive power, maintaining and multiplying themselves by transforming cultural contacts into novel and often unexpected forms.20 Like the New World, the exploration of the Pacific in the second half of the eighteenth century produced a rich stockpile of tales, images and, as this book is determined to show, performances that contributed to the mimetic capital of the region. The first explorers and subsequent visitors were struck by the highly performative nature of the cultures they encountered. Wherever they went, they were met with a succession of rituals, ceremonies, dances, oratory, even dramatic sketches in which they themselves figured. So rich indeed was this performative aspect of the islands that early visitors had the impression of attending one long heiva (a Tahitian ceremonial gathering). Mimetic capital operates on several levels, some of which will be studied in this book. Of particular interest is the passage of the encountered cultural forms through time as the exploring and then colonizing powers assimilate and commodify them for a variety of aesthetic, political and economic reasons. The initial basis of this mimetic capital was provided by the succession of official and the almost simultaneous unofficial publications that were issued in the wake of the voyages. Louis de Bougainville’s Voyage autour du monde (1771) marks the beginning of this process, followed by John Hawkesworth’s Account of the Voyages    successively performed by Commodore Byron, Captain Wallis, Captain Cateret, and Captain Cook (1773). This lavishly

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Mimetic capital and exotic commodities

illustrated three-volume publication was compiled by Hawkesworth from the official logbooks and other documents produced in the course of four voyages of exploration to the Pacific in the 1760s. It was quickly translated into other languages and became arguably the most influential book on Pacific exploration ever to be published. Its pictures and purple prose provided a truly rich ‘stockpile of representations’ for artists, satirists, novelists, playwrights and scenographers. Almost equally influential were the two official accounts written by Cook himself documenting his second and third voyages (the latter published, understandably, posthumously). As we shall see, these widely translated books literally inflamed the European imagination, spawning operas, ballets, plays, pantomimes and other entertainments. But, as Adam Smith and Karl Marx have taught us, capital not only accumulates, it also diminishes. This is doubly true for mimetic capital which, if the history of the Pacific on the stage is anything to go by, proves to be particularly susceptible to the law of diminishing returns, as its representational appeal, predicated on the fickle laws of novelty, begins to pall. The dynamics of mimetic capital are multifaceted and multi-directional. The circulation of images and performance forms within European media economies is only one aspect of a more complex equation. Greenblatt stresses that mimetic capital, or more widely, mimesis, has also a social dimension: any given representation is not only the reflection or product of social relations but that it is itself a social relation, linked to the group understandings, status hierarchies, resistances, and conflicts that exist in other spheres of the culture in which it circulates. This means that representations are not only products but producers, capable of decisively altering the very forces that brought them into being.21 A much discussed example of such processes whereby representational practices become themselves producers is the phenomenon known as colonial mimesis. In the course of this book we shall encounter colonial mimesis and mimicry in a variety of forms: in the context of first encounters (Chapter 1), and in the highly reflexive mode of subversive tourist performances (Chapter 7) and contemporary cabaret and drama (Chapter 8). Mimetic capital manifests itself of course in a more directly economic fashion as commodification. A glance at any tourist brochure of Hawai‘i or Tahiti will testify to the fact that the Pacific is very much a commodity predicated on the exotic. Following Graham Huggan‘s work on the postcolonial exotic, one can say that the South Pacific and its peoples are not intrinsically exotic; there are no qualities inherently strange and attractive. The exotic is rather ‘a mode of aesthetic perception – one which renders people, objects, and places strange even as it domesticates them’.22 It is also a dialectical process that oscillates between strangeness and familiarity.

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The totally strange, if there can be such a thing, is not exotic because it would lack some familiar element that makes it attractive to the viewer. Neither can it be totally familiar because it would then cease to be attractive. A handmaiden of colonialism, exoticism often functions to conceal or disguise the brutal realities of colonial conquest and imperialistic control. Today exoticism functions primarily as a commodity in the context of the Pacific: it sells and has always sold. As we shall see in the course of this book, the indigenous peoples and their performance forms have been exoticized and commodified to such an extent that one is reminded of the Marxist term ‘commodity fetish’. A fetish is an object representing (usually) an absent spiritual being (or object of desire). When applied to regions or peoples we can observe, following Huggan, commodification operating on three interlocking and recurrent levels: (a) as a mystification of historical experience: the Pacific is timeless and always in a pre-contact state; (b) as imagined access to this mystified Pacific: whether as a postcard, a material object or through a live or mediatized performance; (c) as reification of people and places as exchangeable aesthetic objects: tourist performances and ethnographic spectacles can be regarded as the performative equivalent of the hula skirt or airport art. Commodification and mimetic capital stand in a reciprocal relationship to one another: as mimetic capital diminishes through overuse and overexposure, so too does its commodity value. What holds for goods is doubly true for performance(s). Over the course of two centuries Pacific peoples and their performance forms have been repeatedly used as mimetic capital for commercial and aesthetic purposes.

Performance in Paradise Imagining the Pacific and its peoples has been an activity that Westerners have followed with almost as much energy as they have invested in its colonization. Immediately following the early exploration of the Pacific by Wallis, Cook, and Bougainville and the publication of their journals, the ‘South Seas’ became invested with both desire and repulsion. In his important collection of essays, Imagining the Pacific (1992), the Australian art historian and Pacific scholar Bernard Smith diagnoses two broad tendencies within the visual imagery produced in the wake of Cook’s voyages and representations of the Pacific more generally: Yet there is a tendency for the representations to coalesce into two antithetical and yet mutually supportive images around which a high degree of internal consistency    develops during the nineteenth century; that is to say, the Pacific as a kind of Paradise in which Europeans might find heavenly bliss on earth, and an opposing image of the Pacific as a kind of Purgatory from which the poor children of nature might be won for a life of bliss in heaven. It was Dante who first placed purgatory in the southern hemisphere.23

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Introduction

Pacific Performances

And in his conclusion Smith states unequivocally that ‘the imagery was a component of the decision-making of those Europeans who would enter the Pacific in their thousands and eventually dominate it.’24 Many, if not most, representations of the Pacific in literature, painting, film, theatre and music tend to position themselves within the coordinates outlined by Smith. The Pacific as paradise is certainly the most overworked epithet in the discursive field we are dealing with. Because of its persistence, however, as Smith notes, it cannot be simply ignored as outworn and thereby consigned to the scholarly midden heap. On the contrary, its prominence requires both justification and emendation. Its invocation in the first phase of Enlightenment response to the voyages of Cook and Bougainville, albeit in a secularized form, is legendary and formulated in Diderot’s famous ‘supplement’ to Bougainville’s Voyage autour du monde.25 In a recent novel, Paradise News, David Lodge satirizes the commodification of the term in present-day Waikiki where it is applied by the local service industry as a ubiquitous epithet for anything from roofing to used furniture.26 Somewhere between Diderot’s ironic Eden and Lodge’s paradisiacal furniture store we find an insistent and gnawing aspiration that the South Pacific beaches may indeed offer, if not Paradise, then at least a counterpoint to the experience of civilization (in the eighteenth) and modernity (in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries). It is a projection with both political and aesthetic ramifications. Translated as ‘utopia’ the Pacific as paradise topos exerted a continual influence on schemes both explicitly colonial and implicitly romantic. Both can be seen as transgressive in as much as they sought to move beyond the geographical and cultural borders of their European homelands and occupy another geographical space. Read aesthetically, the South Pacific seemed to offer a locus amoenus with heightened appeal to the senses and a sensuous culture of performance with dancing and trouble-free intercourse appearing as points on a performative continuum rather than as separate areas of permissible and prohibited activity. ‘Pacific Performances’ can be understood then as a double transgression. To occupy this space either actually (by travel) or virtually (on the stage) meant crossing borders of many kinds. As the missionaries (and generations of clerics before them) knew only too well, dancing was a dangerous matter to be engaged in at best not at all, or at worst under strict supervision. As we shall see, dancing, both actual and metaphoric, became perhaps the most common form of cross-cultural contact and exchange both then and now. The Pacific is also transgressive in the more literal sense of moving across definitional boundaries. Whereas the term South Seas had reasonably well-defined boundaries – roughly the Polynesian islands as well as parts of Macronesia and occasionally New Zealand – the Pacific became increasingly ill-defined and thereby discursively uncontainable. While the Pacific for a long time functioned in the popular imagination as a kind of

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synonym and substitute for the obsolete term ‘South Seas’,27 it gradually shifted its conceptual coordinates until by the late 1980s it appeared to be located somewhere in the Far East. The Australian scholar of postcolonial literature Paul Sharrad described this shift in 1990 in an article entitled ‘Imagining the Pacific’.28 Sharrad bemoans the fact that recent articles or books featuring the word ‘Pacific’ turn out to be about Korea, Japan or Singapore. It is therefore necessary, he argues, to distinguish between Pacific Rim and Pacific Basin. The Pacific Rim is, as he puts it, an ‘extremely flexible line’, running right around the Pacific, including not only a great many Asian countries, but depending on the interest of the commentators, the United States, Canada, South America, Mexico, and Australia and New Zealand. The Pacific Basin, on the other hand, and it is in this area that Sharrad is interested, consists of the many island groups formerly known as the South Seas: Until very recent times the Basin has been represented not as a political sphere or an economic one in an active, productive sense, but as a passive receptacle of observation, a space for European adventuring, an area of natural science, history, anthropology and ‘development studies’.29 The idea of the Pacific Basin as a ‘passive receptacle of observation’ or as an area of scholarly inquiry – and, it could be added, of untold representations in all possible media from priceless Gauguin paintings to travel brochures – is an eminently colonialist one. A place and its peoples become the object of study and representation according to a set of mostly unchanging criteria. Focusing his attention more closely on this history of European representations, Sharrad detects not only an almost exclusive interest in the Polynesian peoples of the Pacific Basin, but ‘a sense of kindred feeling for the Polynesians’ as opposed to ‘the darker and “more savage” Melanesians.’30 While this opposition between Polynesian and Melanesian is certainly accurate, long-standing and the subject of much commentary,31 of more interest is the lack of attention paid to the other peoples present in the Pacific who do not belong to the indigenous peoples. This means for the most part Asian peoples of different backgrounds: Vietnamese (or Tonkinese as they used to be called) in the New Hebrides, Chinese on most Polynesian islands, Japanese in the Torres Straits and Hawai‘i, Indians in Fiji to name only some. Notwithstanding these new geocultural complexities, this book will focus on three main areas of cross-cultural contact: the Hawaiian, the Tahitian and the Samoan islands, with occasional excursions to New Zealand for comparative purposes. That these areas and cultures are also the most intensively studied is consistent with the logic of this study, which will examine the processes of performative reciprocity. Reciprocity requires a certain degree

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Introduction

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Pacific Performances

of patterned exchange to function at all, so it is only consistent that welltraversed areas are required in order that performance genealogies can form and be sustained over a long period.

In an informal interview conducted at the commencement of my research with William Pearson, then retired professor of English and New Zealand literature at Auckland University and author of a fine collection of essays on the Pacific in Western literature,32 Pearson remarked somewhat sceptically that he had been told back in the 1950s by a renowned Australian historian that the Pacific was pretty well ‘fished out’ in research terms. Fifty years on, over-fishing is a subject all too familiar to Pacific peoples, although more often associated with Japanese trawlers and Korean drift nets. Any scholar trawling the archives of Pacific culture will find traces of those who have gone before and, indeed, their catches provide essential beacons for further orientation. And 50 years on, the fishing shows no signs of abating: on the contrary, the Pacific as a site of cross-cultural contact has produced interdisciplinary scholarship with resonances throughout the humanities. My debts to precursors both past and present will be obvious as the individual chapters unfold. As this project is as interdisciplinary as the medium of performance is multi-dimensional, it has had to draw on a variety of sources and disciplines. In the field of literary representation, the recent work of Neil Rennie, Vanessa Smith, and Rob Edmond has done much to clarify the complexities of inter-cultural encounters by applying techniques of colonial discourse analysis to textual representations of the Pacific for the period 1767 to 1900.33 The literature on the early explorers, mainly Cook and Bougainville and the ensuing publications by expedition members, can no longer be easily surveyed. The best point of departure still remains J. C. Beaglehole’s definitive edition of the logbooks of Cook and Banks. The ground-breaking study by Bernard Smith, European Vision and the South Pacific (1960), mapped out conceptual territory and discussed visual and written source material, which are still vital for scholars exploring the question of the European artistic response to the early Pacific voyages. Smith revisited his own early research in the collection of essays, Imagining the Pacific (1992), cited above, and discusses this material within contemporary paradigms of colonial discourse analysis. Of material and methodological importance for the present study is historical anthropology, a relatively new field that emerged in the 1970s and 1980s, and which honed its methodologies on Pacific material. Clifford Geertz, one of its distinguished practitioners observed at the end of the 1980s ‘a change in the ecology of learning that has driven historians and anthropologists like so many migrant geese, into one another’s territories: a collapse of the natural dispersion of feeding grounds that left France to

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Fishing grounds

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the one and Samoa to the other’.34 Two names, which will loom large, are Marshall Sahlins and Greg Dening. Sahlins, the anthropologist turned historian, and Dening, the historian cum anthropologist have both in their individual geographical areas (Hawai‘i for one, Tahiti and the Marquesas for the other) explored the dynamics of cross-cultural encounters of the past.35 Of the two, Dening has encroached deepest into the feeding grounds of performance and theatre studies. His study of William Bligh and the mutiny on the Bounty36 combines social and theatre history, historical anthropology with film criticism, and frames these multiple perspectives within theories of theatricality: of shipboard life, of the stage, of writing history. The collection of essays, self-reflexively entitled Performances (Dening, 1996), frames the whole process of writing (ethno-) history as a theatrical or performative act: ‘The “theatricality of history-making” involves the notion of viewing in a space so closed around with convention that the audience and actors enter into the conspiracy of their own illusions.’37 Disciplinary border-crossing as performed by Greg Dening seems to be a hallmark of modern Pacific studies. It is nowhere more apparent than in the writings of the anthropologists Anne Salmond and Nicholas Thomas. Salmond’s studies of first encounter in New Zealand document a clear move towards a historical anthropology of the indigenous point of view,38 whereas Thomas moves between (historical) anthropology,39 art history40 and editorial endeavour, all of which have found their way into this study. Two recent editions of the Forsters, father and son, edited by Thomas and others, have finally made available in modern editions crucial documents of Cook’s second voyage.41 Captain Cook and his voyages continue to exert a fascination for historians, biographers and anthropologists, as a spate of recent publications document.42 The above-mentioned scholars represent only a fraction of the literature that has been consulted. It can only serve to define the disciplinary cartography which underpins the basic geographical coordinates of an inquiry that methodologically is situated in the field of historical performance studies.

The passage This study is divided into eight chapters arranged roughly in a chronological order. The structure is not intended as a historical narrative, but rather as a means to trace the performative genealogies that determine the dynamics of cross-cultural theatricality. Chapter 1, ‘Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches, and Women’, examines how recurrent events – welcome ceremonies, landings, even landscapes – were rendered comprehensible by recourse to ‘figures of theatre’. Written descriptions and iconographical depictions abound with set-pieces that stress spectacle. They include graphic written descriptions of sexual encounters which define quite clearly an actor/spectator relationship. Sexuality was performed for an audience in Tahiti, it seemed, and was not

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Introduction

Pacific Performances

just a private act. It is this theatrical aspect of Tahitian sexuality, it will be argued, and not sexual permissiveness as such, that so inflamed the European mind in the wake of the voyages of Cook and Bougainville. Performative encounters include also the act of going ashore for the first time. These landings, which feature prominently in the iconographical representations of the Cook voyages particularly, always include an audience of natives, usually involved in dancing or wild gesticulation. Not only do such illustrations offer ‘ocular proof’ of imperial possession, but the integration of the local people is deemed necessary to underline the spectacle of inter-ethnic encounter. These widely disseminated travel accounts written and illustrated by eyewitnesses to the many wondrous or despicable acts resulted in a considerable stockpile of mimetic capital. Chapter 2 will trace how these events, already framed within tropes of the theatrical and the spectacular, were literally theatricalized on the European stage. The focus of this chapter will be on the early period, roughly until 1830, which saw a shift in discursive interest and representational practice from purported authenticity to arrant exoticism. The best-documented example of the former is the pantomime Omai, or a Trip around the World, first performed in London in 1785. Instead of rereading this much studied work, this chapter will examine a recently discovered Italian ballet and opera, Gl’Inglesi in Othaiti which predates the premiere of Omai and can be considered to be the first theatrical presentation of the South Seas on the European stage. The chapter will also consider Augustus von Kotzebue’s play La Pérouse in its several metamorphoses from the German, to English to Italian stage. Kotzebue’s edenic vision of a functioning ménage-à-trois on a South Sea island remained a contested presence on the European stage for three decades. The final performance to be considered is a royal one. In 1824 the recently crowned Hawaiian king Kamehameha II and his wife visited London. Their ‘Sandwich Majesties’, as the they were dubbed in the English press, were the talk of the town for about two months as they attended a wide range of performative events ranging from a trial at the Old Bailey to a Kotzebue play at Covent Garden. Wherever they went, their presence upstaged whatever was actually being performed on the actual stage as the local responses oscillated between condescension and curiosity. Their final performance was tragically their own funeral, as both contracted measles and died within ten days of one another. It too was a cross-cultural performance as indigenous funeral rites were mixed with Anglican obsequies. By the time Kamehameha II visited England in 1824 a number of South Pacific islands, including the kingdom of Hawai‘i had come under missionary influence. The bi-cultural funeral of the royal couple is in many ways symptomatic of far-reaching cultural changes that were already underway. With the arrival of European missionaries in the Pacific from the beginning of the nineteenth century, the relationship between colonization and Polynesian performance took on a new dimension. While it is well known, indeed

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part of Pacific-European mythology, that missionaries did all they could to curb or ban ‘licentious dancing’, this accepted reading requires some revision. Chapter 3, ‘Comedians and Crusaders: Anti-Theatrical Prejudice in the South Seas’, investigates the mimetic transactions enacted between Europeans and Polynesians in the context of the new and highly labile power relations induced, but not always controlled by missionization. Of particular interest is the protracted ideological battle that took place in Tahiti between the missionaries and the arioi society, a group devoted largely to professional performances ranging from dance to comic sketches. The conflict with the self-designated ‘comedians of the land’ reflects the deeper reasons for missionary opposition to indigenous performance. What was declared to be ‘licentiousness’ was probably only an epithet for a more complex problem of imposing Christian doctrine. The missionaries quickly recognized that performance and worship were part of the same system. By banning performance they effectively cut off the life-blood of the religion without having to address it on a doctrinal level. We shall examine how the missionaries themselves, although stout supporters of the ‘anti-theatrical prejudice’ which they exported to the South Seas, also made use of theatricality in the form of spectacular mass baptisms and propagandistic plays back in England. Whatever their motivations and methods, there is no doubt that the effects of missionization on indigenous Pacific performance culture were far-reaching. From the middle to the end of the nineteenth century, indigenous peoples and their performance forms came under severe pressure. Caught between missionary strictures on the one hand and increasing tourist pressure on the other, traditional performance underwent changes and was forced into new contexts. Chapter 4, ‘Dressing the Hula and Taming the Haka: Performing Identity in Hawai‘i and New Zealand’, will explore how indigenous peoples adapted performance forms such as hula in Hawai‘i or haka in New Zealand as forms of cultural self-representation. The need to perform one’s culture arose as a response to altered socio-political exigencies: the addressees being on the one hand the colonizing majority and on the other hand, other members of the indigenous culture. In both cases specific performance forms became synonymous with the culture itself. Within the framework of ethnographic and colonial exhibitions (Chapter 5) it will be argued that Pacific peoples designed strategies of metonymic performance for their own purposes. Even in the ethnographic displays staged in Europe, a certain degree of agency can be discerned. The focus here will not be on the world’s fairs, which have been extensively studied, but on the particular German performance genre of the Völkerschauen, literally ethnographic spectacles, which were developed in the latter part of the nineteenth century by the Hamburg entrepreneur and pioneer of zoological gardens, Carl Hagenbeck. Hagenbeck quickly recognized the appeal of combining wild animals and savage peoples into an elaborate performative genre. Of special interest are the activities of the Marquardt

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Introduction

Pacific Performances

brothers, specialized in importing troupes of Samoans, who were advertised to the Germans as ‘your newest compatriots’, although the activities they were required to perform were anything but ‘German’. An important corollary to the ethnographic displays staged in the Fatherland was the practice of colonial ceremonies organized in the colonies themselves. In the second part of Chapter 5, the strategies and functions of such ceremonies will be examined on the basis of festivities organized by the Germans in Western Samoa to celebrate German colonial rule. German colonial administrators went to great lengths to incorporate indigenous performance forms at special points of the ceremonial process, which were fitted into a carefully thought out dramaturgical structure. The primary end of such ceremonies, as developed in the latter half of the nineteenth century, was to provide a display of national unity by means of carefully staged signs. Yet in another, and more interesting sense, the colonial ceremony developed into a genre sui generis, because it had somewhat more complex tasks to perform than the European model. The most obvious and difficult one was to negotiate the racial and cultural conflicts that any colonial enterprise implied and make them appear harmonious. No doubt spurred on by an increase in colonial involvement, the early twentieth century sees a renewal of interest in the Pacific on the EuroAmerican stage. Indigenous Pacific islanders performed not only in German zoos but also on the ‘legitimate’ stage, namely Broadway and the West End. Chapter 6, ‘Birds of Paradise: American-Pacific Dramas of Displacement’, will examine how interest shifts geographically from the European to the American stage in the twentieth century. This move is the result of increasing US and later Asian involvement in the area, which is motivated in turn by two central events: the US annexation of the Hawaiian islands in the 1890s and the Japanese invasion of the Pacific in World War II. Both events found their theatrical reflection in immensely successful stage plays or musicals. The annexation of Hawai‘i forms the background to Richard Walton Tully’s largely forgotten musical drama, The Bird of Paradise (1912), which featured prominently Hawaiian dance and music performed by Hawaiians. The second example will consider how the missionary endeavours in the South Seas became the subject of dramatic treatment on the mainstream American stage. Rain, an adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham’s story ‘Miss Thompson’ (1921) set in Pago Pago, Eastern Samoa, recast the battle against performance and promiscuity into a struggle between a missionary and an American ‘loose woman’, Sadie Thompson. The play’s huge success can be explained to some extent by a complex process of displacement whereby the acute social debates on morality and the place of Christian moral authority are transposed geographically while remaining local in terms of identificatory potential for a metropolitan audience. Displacement also underpins the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific (1949), which broke all box-office records and is still one of the most commercially

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successful stage productions of all time. While the US–Japanese conflict appears to be central, it is in fact the now burning race issue, which again is played out not in Little Rock, Arkansas, but on a generic Polynesian island. A central thesis to be explored is the way in which local race issues were transferred to the Pacific and reconfigured there. What connects all three plays is a sharpening of racial issues along the fault-line of inter-racial liaisons. In all three works the Pacific becomes a place of debate for issues of eugenics and miscegenation. Commodification of culture is a much-belaboured catchword in the context of tourism. Tourist encounters with indigenous cultures are framed in an unstable equilibrium poised between the desire for authenticity on the one hand and the demands of commodification and consumerism on the other. Chapter 7 will investigate how the genre of tourist performances, perhaps the quintessential and most maligned metonymic performance form, can also be ‘refunctioned’ (in Brechtian terms) to subvert the very discourses being projected by the tourists. The issues will be exemplified by looking at the Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawai‘i. The Polynesian Cultural Centre (PCC), situated on the north-eastern coast of Oahu, the main island of Hawai‘i, offers a spectacular example of the theatricalization of Polynesian culture. Under the aegis of the Mormon church, a cultural complex, founded in 1963, houses seven Polynesian villages and more or less authentic inhabitants. The different activities and performances demonstrate numerous ways in which discourses of authenticity and staging merge and refine themselves. Using the disparate performances offered at the Hawaiian PCC, I shall argue that performances involving the self-representation of the ethnic ‘other’ can employ various forms of deconstruction, whereby the spectatorial patterns of expectation are parodied and ironically subverted. Since the 1960s the Pacific has seen a massive movement of populations around its rim, as Tongans, Samoans, Tahitians and many other island peoples have settled in cities such as Auckland, Sydney, Honolulu and Los Angeles. Any consideration of contemporary Pacific experience must take cognizance of its (also) diasporic nature. This holds as true for performance as it does for literature, painting, or any form of aesthetic endeavour. The final chapter will thus survey under the heading ‘translocations’ the burgeoning theatre movement, located mainly in New Zealand, and the highly visible theatricality of Polynesian transgendered persons, known mainly by their Samoan term fa’afafine. Of particular interest here is the aspect of explicit theatricality in the form of beauty pageants, shows and other performance forms where the ‘citationality’ (Judith Butler) of drag and gay sexuality is laminated with the citation of cultural identity. Sexuality would appear to be at the heart of the performance group The Naked Samoans, New Zealand’s most successful Pacific Island performance group, but its concerns are squarely those of inter-racial rather than erotic tensions engendered by immigration. Transgressive humour and cabaretstyle performance join forces with indigenous Samoan comic traditions

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Introduction

Pacific Performances

to create a new syncretic form. The Mau ensemble, an innovative dance and performance group composed mainly of Pacific islanders, directed by Samoan Lemi Ponifasio, is also a product of the Pacific Island diaspora in New Zealand, although their success is now largely international as they have garnered awards and resonated with audiences at major theatre and arts’ festivals as well as in the Pacific region. These final examples will hopefully demonstrate that a network of interlocking discourses and practices can be identified and studied which establish (dis)continuities between the late eighteenth century and today and between locations as distant as Apia and Auckland, Honolulu and London, Papeete and New York.

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1

Ever since Columbus’s exploration of the New World, the notion of a ‘first encounter’ has exerted continual fascination in Western discourse. Two cultures entirely unaware of one another attempt communication by any means at their disposal except natural language. The situation poses, in Anthony Pagden’s words, ‘the possibility, and for many the impossibility, of cultural commensurability’.1 The literature treating European incursions into the Pacific contains perhaps the richest documentation of such encounters, which, in the case of James Cook’s first and second expeditions, took place at regular, sometimes (in the course of his circumnavigation of New Zealand) at almost daily intervals. First encounter or contact situations are located in a liminal space between imprévu and déjà vu, between wonder and recognition. While most discussions tend to stress the moment of imprévu – the experience of wonder, surprise and astonishment – recent theories have begun to question whether there can be such a thing as genuine ‘first’ encounter, devoid of any premeditation.2 It can be argued that ostensible first-contact scenes are always haunted by a moment of déjà vu and are therefore always at some level recognition scenes. The Other is never totally strange, because at some fundamental level a common ‘humanity’ is apprehended. As we shall see, the cultures involved in these encounters immediately integrated the foreign culture into pre-existing matrices of response. For the European explorers, first contacts were always in some way re-enactments of previous encounters in which they employed the same basic repertoire of actions and theatrical devices. From the indigenous perspective, the visitors had to be either repulsed or welcomed by means of existing practices of ritual and ceremonial encounter. In the harbours visited on a regular basis such as Matavai Bay in Tahiti, the ruling response was genuine anagnorisis, as seasoned sailors and officers renewed old acquaintances. This chapter will demonstrate three stages and modes of performative encounter. The first tentative exchanges initiated by Abel Tasman employed trumpets and sailors’ dances in response to native conch shells and dances of welcome or warning. These exchanges could have fatal results as Tasman 19

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Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches and Women

Pacific Performances

quickly learned. Captain Cook preferred cannon fire and skyrockets to impress on the islanders a mixture of awe and fear. The second stage was enacted on the beach, which becomes a more than metaphorical theatre of encounter. As will be demonstrated, the texts and images representing the voyages highlighted such scenes, giving them the import and ideological power of history paintings. The third section focuses on the proliferation of sexual encounters, perhaps the aspect of cross-cultural ‘performance’ that occasioned the most wonderment back in Europe. In often spectacular inversions of European dichotomies, private acts became public performances, and public performances (dances) emphasized private parts to the consternation of the European visitors. The final stage of first encounter is represented by the mimesis of the other, as both Polynesians and Europeans adopt each others’ clothes and performances.

Trumpets and hornpipes Europeans had been in the Pacific intermittently since Magellan’s first circumnavigation in 1520–21. The most important expedition in the seventeenth century was that of the Dutch navigator Abel Tasman, who embarked on an expedition from the East Indies in the course of which he ‘discovered’, or rather encountered, New Zealand in 1642 and the Tongan islands in 1643. Tasman developed a method for establishing contact with indigenous inhabitants, which was primarily performative. He instructed his sailors to play music, presumably to pacify the savage breast, which had quite the opposite result. On his brief visit to Murderers’ Bay (nomen est omen) on the South Island of New Zealand, on 18 December 1642 he ordered that music be played: after our people have been on board about one glass, those from the 2 canoes begin to call out to us; in a gruff, hollow voice but [we] could not in the least understand any of it, however [we] called back to them in token of an answer, when they began again several times, but did not come nearer than a stonepiece’s [small cannon] shot, blew also many times on an Instrument which gave sound like the moors’ Trumpets, we had one of our sailor’s (who could play somewhat on the Trumpet) blow back to them in answer, those of the Zeehaen had their under-mate (who came to the Land [East Indies?] as Trumpeter    ) do likewise: after This several Times was done on both Sides    those in the vessels have finally stopped and paddled away.3 This famous ‘first encounter’ took place in Taitapu (Golden Bay) on the northern tip of the South Island. Anne Salmond interprets this musical exchange from the Maori perspective as a combination of a ‘haka, a chant for war, and the instrument played from the canoes was almost certainly

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a shell trumpet, sounding to challenge the strangers and signalling that the people in the bay were on the alert’.4 A haka is better known today as a vigorous intimidating dance, but difficult to perform in the confines of a wobbly canoe. She also suggests possible decodings of this performance from the other side of the cultural divide: ‘the warriors must have been mystified by these creatures who entered into their rituals, yet used exotic instruments and spoke an unintelligible tongue.’5 That the ritual participation was marked by fatal errors in execution is common knowledge to most New Zealanders. The Maori returned the next day in a canoe and killed four Dutch sailors in a brief but fatal skirmish. Like many first encounters this one had its precursors. On his third voyage to the New World, Columbus, desperate to communicate with the inhabitants of what is today Trinidad, ordered a tambourine to be played and a man to dance: the native response was similarly hostile.6 Irrespective of what ‘meanings’ were actually exchanged in Murderers’ Bay or on the beach in Trinidad, both examples demonstrate conclusively that wires got significantly crossed and that performative exchanges are anything but purely aesthetic in the Kantian sense of being non-instrumental in their function. On the contrary, musical instruments were in both cases promptly exchanged for more lethal ones. Tasman did not tarry long in Murderers’ Bay, or indeed in New Zealand, but sailed on into the Pacific. On 21 January 1643 he cast anchor before Tongatapu, the largest island of the Tongan group. Undeterred by the bad reception in New Zealand, he instructed his sailors to give a repeat performance: Meanwhile a number of South-landers had come back to the ships: for whom the mate and the boatswain’s boy blew on trumpets, another played on the flute, the fourth on a fiddle; the ship’s crew danced: at which the South-landers were so astonished, that [they] forgot to shut their mouths.    7 The plain trumpet duet of Murderers’ Bay was no match for the fullscale song and dance act performed for (or on) the unsuspecting Tongans. Trumpets, a flute and a fiddle provided back-up for a dancing sailors’ chorus. The locals were evidently dumbstruck by this demonstration of a maritime knees-up. In any event it was more efficacious than in New Zealand, as intercourse between the Dutch and Tongans got off on a much better foot. A pattern that was to repeat itself many times and ultimately become legend in the South Seas began. The Tongans paddled out in their canoes; a brisk trade in trinkets and comestibles ensued, which quickly shifted to other kinds of traffic: With the men came also many women on shipboard: these were all uncommonly big: but among all stood out two frightful giantesses, one

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of whom had a moustache [Marginal note: Giantesses fall in love with the Hollanders]    they both grasped the wound-healer Henrik Haelbos round the neck: each desired fleshly intercourse: whereupon [they] assailed each other with words. All had thick, curly and black hair. Other women felt the sailors shamelessly the trouser-front, and indicated clearly: that they wanted to have intercourse. [Marginal note. South-islanders what people.] The men incited the sailors to such a transgression.8 Compared to the French and English visitors a century later, the Dutch, no doubt braced by their staunch Protestant upbringing, gave no sign (at least no recorded account) of actually entering into this kind of exchange. The visitors were not, however, averse to other kinds of entertainment and thus began a practice that can be considered ‘structural’ in the context of crosscultural theatricality: [Marginal note: Wonderful King.] Tasman got an old Orangkaey9 to dress in a shirt, trousers and jacket, and put a hat on his head. Thus clothed, [he] stood a long time astonished at himself: his followers watched no less amazed: but having returned to land, [he] appeared later without clothing. Another Orangkaey presented with a glass of wine, poured the wine out: put the glass on his head, and set off, pleased with the gift.10 On the surface, we see here a fairly primitive kind of burlesque that was endemic in cross-cultural contacts. To dress the other in one’s own garb meant staging a kind of ‘mimic man’, perhaps the most infamous and ambivalent of colonial stereotypes, as V. S. Naipaul and Homi Bhabha have argued. Whereas Bhabha and Naipaul describe practices of self-motivated mimicry as the response to sustained colonialism, we observe in the old Tongan decked out in Dutch attire a variant that cannot, however, be termed colonial in the narrower sense. Relations between the encountering cultures were still suspended in the moment of ‘wonder’ that Greenblatt has analysed for the first contacts in the New World. Transformation by costume is, of course, an integral part of theatrical performance, a mode to which the Dutch here resorted to celebrate amicable relations. Unbeknownst to the early explorers was the fact that for some Polynesian cultures, the exchange of clothing was part of an elaborate reception ceremony. In this case, there were indeed two quite separate cultural performances being enacted: the one comic, the other probably more serious. This question will be discussed in more depth at the end of the chapter. The anecdote also demonstrates the unpredictability inherent in performative encounters. The inverted wineglass demonstrates how a planned mise en scène complete with props – presumably an attempt to ply the Orangkaja with ‘firewater’ – is thwarted by a flick of the wrist and transformed into its parody. Theatrical properties are material objects, and as Nicholas Thomas

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has argued, such objects change as they move between cultures; their properties are not inscribed in them.11 The up-turned wineglass suggests that – and this too is endemic to the theatricality of cross-cultural performances – both audiences are laughing at two different plays, although the action may appear to be the same. Returning now to Tasman’s trumpets, we can trace a veritable performance tradition, as the generation of Pacific explorers who succeeded Tasman a century later perfected these techniques. Captain Cook too used the occasional song and dance act to impress his hosts. In Tahiti in particular, the European visitors were treated to an unbroken succession of heiva (festivities) to which they could only reciprocate in a very modest manner. The actual nature and function of the heiva from the Tahitian perspective is difficult to ascertain because the purposes were clearly multiple. The first ones seemed to have had an important ritual function by means of which the visitors were accommodated to the local hosts. Anderson, the ship’s surgeon on Cook’s third voyage, was given a clear emic explanation by the Tahitian Mai (Omai), who was returning home after his sojourn in England.12 He instructed Anderson not to touch any objects because ‘it was not the custom here to admit freedoms of that kind till they had in some measure naturaliz’d strangers to the country by entertaining them with a festivity for two or three days.’13 ‘Naturalizing’ strangers by means of performance is familiar in most Polynesian cultures even today. The initial heiva were clearly predominantly efficacious, even if the visitors perceived them mainly as entertainment. On Cook’s second visit to Matavai Bay in August 1773, he ordered that a visiting dignitary, the famous Otoo (Tu), consort of the even more famous ‘Queen’ Oberea, be accompanied back to shore to the sounds of bagpipes and ‘dancing by the Seamen; Otoo in return ordered some of his people to dance also, which dancing consisted chiefly in strange contortions of the Body, there were some of them that could however imitate the Seamen tolerable well both in Country dances and Hornpipes’.14 By this time the Tahitians in Matavai Bay had begun to grow accustomed to the Europeans, having been visited almost every year since 1767. Otoo at least had developed a taste for the bagpipes (‘of which musick he was very fond’15 ) and others were able to mimic the capering of the English sailors. The interesting question to be asked is in what mode this imitation was framed. A postcolonial reading would probably suggest a nascent form of parodic mimicry; yet there may have been a more general principle of performance at work here: for all the cultural misunderstandings that the visits entailed (the logbooks and ‘accounts’ are full of them), both sides recognized a ‘dance’ when they saw one, this time not framed within a system of ritual signification but rather in a mode of ludic disposition where there is a genuine curiosity to imitate and thus learn from the other. When practising performative reciprocity, however, Cook preferred more spectacular demonstrations than country dances or sailor’s hornpipes. He

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had on board ship a stock of fireworks, which, when combined with cannonades from the ship’s pieces, never failed to strike awe or even fear into the locals. On different occasions, Cook refers to how these demonstrations ‘astonished and entertained’ or even ‘entertained and frightened’ the indigenous audiences.16 The young German Georg Forster, accompanying his father Johann on Cook’s second voyage, is more analytical in his diagnosis of the impact such displays had on the Tahitians. While echoing Cook’s estimation of the principally positive effects produced, he suggests that the overall result was to raise the visitors even higher on to a semi-divine plane: ‘They looked upon us as extraordinary people, who had fires and stars at command, and gave our fire-works the name Heiva-Britannee, the British Festival.’17 When commenting on a similar festival staged for the Hawaiians during his third voyage, Cook is even more explicit about the cultural strategy he pursued: ‘Nothing could effectually excite the admiration of these islanders, or strike them with more exalted ideas of our superiority, than such a representation.’18 That such ideas of superiority could ultimately pall was demonstrated finally by Cook’s murder on the beach at Kealakekua Bay shortly after he wrote these words.

Landings and beaches As Cook discovered too late, beaches could be murderous as well as ludic places. For the first voyagers, beaches were the initial stage of encounter, ludic or otherwise. Dramatic scenes were played out when the Europeans attempted their first landings on the islands. These events, and the written and iconographical representations of them, reflect further variations of categories of perception we can term theatrical. The beach is a theatrical place, as Greg Dening has noted. It is the privileged arena of encounter in the Pacific, the site of first contacts and new perceptions. It is liminal in the sense of limen, a threshold, marking different spheres of experience and thus difference in the most palpable terms. The theatrical nature of the beach had already been grasped and utilized by indigenous peoples before the arrival of the Europeans, and, we could add, it became even more so after they arrived: In Tahiti, the island people made beaches the mythic meeting places between Natives and Strangers. Their beach became enclosed in the ritual space of their place of worship, consciously set between land and sea. These temples, called Taputapuatea    were theatres for the Tahitians’ deepest plays about the origins of their power and authority. They had had such theatres long before the arrival of the European strangers in 1767.19 The beach in Tahiti was thus prefigured and defined according to a cultural ‘grammar’ based on a series of oppositions: ‘violence and quiet, sea and

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land, stranger and native, politics and cosmology. No one met on the beach at Tahiti without bending to that grammar.’20 What Dening identifies as a structural principle of cross-cultural contact in Tahiti can be extended to embrace any first-encounter situation in the Pacific. The deep structural significance of the beach, and more specifically the first landings on it, the initial moment of going ashore, was so fundamental, so loaded with symbolic energy (ranging from the sexual to the political) that these events were given special attention by artists and engravers both during and after the voyages. Many such landing scenes can be found illustrated in the early travel accounts, nowhere more so than in Cook’s own published journal of his second voyage (1777).21 The official artist on board, William Hodges, easily the most accomplished of the painters and draughtsmen who accompanied Cook, produced some of the most famous images to emerge from the early voyages of Pacific exploration. A Voyage towards the South Pole contains no less than four different landing scenes, produced with all the complexity and import of history paintings. I wish to concentrate here on two – The Landing at Middleburgh (Tonga) (Figure 1) and Landing at Erramanga (Vanuatu) (Figure 2) – which stand in symmetrical opposition to one another. The one symbolizes peaceful contact between Native and Stranger, the other antagonism and violence. Both exemplify the conventions of history painting in the most fundamental sense in that they attempt to capture in one charged moment events from a narrative sequence. The narrative is in this case Cook’s accounts of the landings as described in the Voyage towards the South Pole. For The Landing at Middleburgh we find the following description: Soon after, a party of us embarked in two boats, in company with Tioony; who conducted us to a little creek formed by the rocks, right abreast of the ships, where landing was extremely easy, and the boats secure against the surf. Here we found an immense crowd of people, who welcomed us on shore with loud acclamations. Not one of them had so much as a stick, or any other weapon in their hands; an indubitable sign of their pacific intentions. They thronged so thick round the boats with cloth matting, &c. to exchange for nails, that it was some time before we could get room to land. They seemed to be more desirous to give than to receive; for many who could not get near the boats, threw into them, over the others heads, whole bales of cloth, and then retired without either asking, or waiting to get anything in return. At length the chief caused them to open to the right and left, and make room for us to land. He then conducted us up to his house, which was situated about three hundred yards from the sea, at the head of a fine lawn, and under the shade of some shaddock trees. The situation was most delightful. In front was the sea, and the ships at anchor; behind, and on each side, were plantations, in which were some of the richest productions of Nature.22

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Figure 1 The Landing at Middleburgh, One of the Friendly Islands Source: Engraving after Hodges by J. K. Sherwin, in James Cook, Voyage towards the South Pole, 3rd edn, i. plate no. 54. Collection of the author.

If the landing on the island of Eua, part of the Tongan archipelago, is related as an encounter with a locus amoenus, then the attempted arrival at Erramanga, one of the New Hebrides (now Vanuatu), was more like a locus terribilis. In contrast to the ‘pacific intentions’ of the ‘Friendly Islanders’ who bore only coconuts and ‘bales of cloth’, the islanders at Erramanga were armed with ‘clubs, spears, darts, and bows and arrows’. Despite ostensible signs of friendship – the offer of yams and coconuts – Cook remained on his guard. Once the landing boat was near the beach, the islanders tried to haul it ashore and snatch the oars from the boatsmen. In the ensuing scuffle Cook ordered that the islanders be fired on. Two were killed and several more wounded: ‘Happy it was for these people, that not half our musquets would go off, otherwise many more must have fallen.’23 The events related, and more especially the images depicting them, although different in time, place and nature (the one friendly, the other antagonistic), are linked by the structural principles of Dening’s theatrical grammar of the beach: the moment of dramatic encounter and conflict, the acting out of events of political and cosmological significance. The political significance of such landings from the European perspective is clear. The landing is the moment of implicit or explicit political control. The indigenous perspective is more difficult to reconstruct. Much research, and more speculation, has been carried out over the past years in an effort to translate these momentous events into the epistemologies of the peoples they encountered. The traditional interpretation has been cosmological, with the European strangers being seen as part of the cosmology of the local peoples – in Hawai‘i, Cook was ostensibly seen as the god Lono. This has a tradition stretching back to Columbus, but it nevertheless cannot be easily dismissed.24

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Figure 2 The Landing at Erramanga, One of the New Hebrides Source: Engraving after Hodges by J. K. Sherwin, in James Cook Voyage towards the South Pole, 3rd edn, i., plate no. 57. Collection of the author.

If we now turn our attention to the images, we can find theatricality of different kinds at work. On the most obvious level, the events depicted reveal the moment of focus and concentration identified as constitutive of one aspect of theatricality in eighteenth-century modes of perception. This element is in turn a prerequisite for history painting, a genre that throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was continually linked with drama and the theatre. The history painter was always in search of the ‘pregnant moment’, to cite Lessing’s felicitous term from the Laocoön (1767), in which past, present and future seem to be unified. The formal parallels between both pictures are obvious: the division into sections follows the same principles of composition: the bottom left section of both the pictures is reserved for the European landing party with the ship hovering in the background. The larger part of the picture is reserved for the massed crowd of natives who are framed by trees and bushes. The locus amoenus of the house in Middleburgh is replaced in Erramanga by the threatening presence of two naked and armed islanders who are given added emphasis by the dark, ill-boding foliage of a large tree. The Australian art historian and Pacific historiographer Bernard Smith has demonstrated that, although ascribed to him, neither engraving is based on actual drawings or sketches by the ship’s artist William Hodges. The engravings by J. K. Sherwin are in fact after drawings by G. B. Cipriani, who, while one of the foremost contemporary history painters in England, is known to have never set foot in the Pacific. Smith argues that both pictures are constructed after ‘art’ and not ‘nature’. He buttresses his argument by

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The plates which ornamented the history of captain Cook‘s former voyage, have been justly criticised, because they exhibited to our eyes the pleasing forms of antique figures and draperies, instead of those Indians of which we wished to form an idea. But it is greatly to be feared, that Mr Hodges has lost the sketches and drawings which he made from Nature in the course of the voyage, and supplied the deficiency in this case, from his own elegant ideas. The connoisseur will find Greek contours and features in this picture, which have never existed in the South Sea. He will admire an elegant flowing robe which involves the whole head and body, in an island where women very rarely cover the shoulders and breast; and he will be struck with awe and delight by the figure of a divine old man, with a long white beard, though all the people of Ea-oowhe shave themselves with muscle-shells.26 Empiricism triumphs over the conventionality of art in this critique; the actuality of ‘Indian forms’ downgrades whatever beauty Classical Greek models may have to offer. While Forster’s criticisms and Smith’s evidence of faulty ascription make the images less interesting as documentary records and as potential documents of visual anthropology, it increases their value as indicators of the categories of aesthetic perception brought to bear on cultural encounters in the Pacific. When viewed outside the parameters of the great nature versus art debate, the landing pictures develop an intrinsic complexity that derives from the very theatricality that Forster and Smith criticize. The Landing at Middleburgh is the picture that most clearly legitimizes the scene of colonial contact by its recourse to the theatrical conventions of history painting. Both Europeans and indigenous figures are represented in the flowing dress of neoclassicism. Smith refers to ‘sentimentalized neo-classical versions of the noble savage drawn in the manner of Angelica Kauffmann’,27 whereby the reference to Kauffmann is clearly not intended as a compliment. The almost complete homogenization of the figures results in a curious visual effect. The expected cultural contrast in terms of dress and physiognomy is eliminated in favour of a merging of the two sides of the dramatic encounter. The blurring of difference is not just a product of iconographical conventions, as can be seen when comparing Middleburgh with the other landing pictures. In the latter, there is considerable effort made to produce visual contrast between Native and Stranger, even if the result is not ethnographically accurate.

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referring to original drawings by Cipriani (for the Erramanga picture) and by quoting Georg Forster’s critique of The Landing at Middleburgh. 25 Forster was aboard ship and thus indirectly at least a kind of eyewitness. In his Voyage Round the World (1778–80), Forster levels harsh criticism at Hodges, to whom he logically ascribed authorship of The Landing at Middleburgh:

Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches and Women 29

Of all the myths surrounding the discovery of the South Sea islands, the stories of sexual promiscuity were those that most interested and inflamed the European audience back home. The apparent uncomplicated exchange of amorous favours for iron nails was a transaction that, for the male public at least, seemed to encapsulate a sexual economy in which even the poorest sailor could be a sultan. The spectacle of overt sexual overtures and their occasional public consummation gave the term ‘theatre of love’ a new meaning.28 The locus classicus of erotic spectacle can be found in Bougainville’s Voyage autour du monde. After describing how the Tahitians in their canoes communicated by universally understood signs that the French should come ashore and form connections with their women, Bougainville relates how one very resolute young girl climbed on to the ship: In spite of all our precautions, a young girl came on board, and placed herself upon the quarter-deck, near one of the hatchways, which was open, in order to give air to those who were heaving at the capstern below it. The girl carelessly droped a cloth, which covered her, and appeared to the eyes of all beholders, such as Venus shewed herself to the Phrygian shepherd, having, indeed, the celestial form of that goddess. Both sailors and soldiers endeavoured to come to the hatch-way; and the capstern was never hove with more alacrity than on this occasion.29 Most commentary of this scene has pointed to the classical allusions and metaphors Bougainville employs, particularly the figuring of Tahiti in terms of Greek mythology. Of interest is also the sheer theatricality of the scene. While the girl’s act of divesting herself of her last (or only) piece of clothing is itself spectacular enough, one should also focus on the spatial configuration evoked. There are many onlooker positions and they function to reinforce the intensity of the scene through focus and concentration. At least three different groups of spectators can be identified. When the girl clambers up on to the quarterdeck (a space usually reserved for officers), she is being viewed by those sailors and officers on deck (including obviously Bougainville); by the Tahitians waiting in the surrounding canoes; and lastly, and perhaps most importantly, she is seen from below, from the hatchway where the sailors are working and where they scramble to look up at the sight of ‘celestial’ splendour. By thus emphasizing a variety of intense, and clearly erotically driven gazes, Bougainville is practising a kind of ekphrasis, the verbal description of a picture, with his description deliberately echoing the theatricality of rococo history painting. There is another theatrical emphasis implicit in the scene if one adds to it the account of the young volunteer on board the Boudeuse, Charles-Félix-Pierre Fesche. He reports that the Tahitian Venus was not alone,

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Shocking spectacles

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came closer, looked, admired, touched; soon the veil was lifted, and truly much more thanks to the Indian goddess herself than by the French. She followed the customs of her country, customs that have been destroyed in France by the corruption of our morals. What brush could paint the splendors that we apprised on the happy fall of that veil? A sanctuary consecrated for cupid himself and which he would share with no other. An enchanted little wood that the god himself had doubtlessly planted. We were plunged into ecstasy; a strong and sweet warmth befell our senses, we burned    .30 Unfortunately, in Fesche’s view, decency prevents the French from converting thoughts to deeds. From her reactions, Fesche interprets that the Tahitian ‘Venus’ left the ship in disgust, annoyed with the visitors for their inability to overcome their inhibitions and make a sacrifice to the goddess. One could also gloss the scene in theatrical terms in the sense that the French preferred for obvious reasons to enjoy the spectacle as spectacle and not to cross the fourth wall to enter into direct intercourse with the scene being played out before their eyes.31 Although the large majority of sexual contacts were secret or open connections in native huts, sailors’ hammocks or under coconut palms, the great political, religious or ludic significance the Tahitians attached to sexual union with their strange visitors can be gauged from the repeated attempts that were made to ‘stage’ copulation between cultures as a (from the European point of view) theatrical entertainment. A number of these encounters were recorded in varying degrees of detail. The emphasis on viewing, on the spectator position, recurs throughout the early accounts of sexuality encountered on the early visits to Tahiti. It ranges from impromptu public copulation by an Irish marine from the Dolphin, to the famous ‘rites of Venus’ scene staged by ‘Queen’ Oberea and witnessed by Captain Cook. A scene which then gave rise to a ‘theatrical entertainment’ back in London. In the rest of this section I wish to examine in more detail the performance dynamics of the erotic encounters between Europeans and Tahitians, as they were played out in two different cultural frameworks. The scene witnessed by the French had already been well rehearsed by the Tahitians almost a year before during the visit of HMS Dolphin under the command of Captain Wallis. The initial contacts between the two cultures had been antagonistic rather than intimate, with stones being thrown and muskets fired. These skirmishes continued on and off during the first days. After being fired at by a party of sailors in a boat trying to collect water,

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but accompanied by an old man and several other Tahitians. He stresses the whiteness of her skin, ‘the envy of most Spanish women’; and instead of standing in splendid isolation, as Bougainville suggests, Fesche writes that the French:

Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches and Women 31

they soon found non of them was hurt and all returnd back to the Water side, and brought a good many fine young Girls down of different colours, some was a light coper collour oyrs a mullato and some almost if not altogeather White – this new sight Atract our mens fance a good dale, and the natives observed it, and made the Young Girls play a great many droll wanting [wanton] tricks.32 Although initially unsuccessful – the sailors did not allow themselves to be lured ashore – the Tahitians continued their ploy the next day when about several hundred canoes surrounded the Dolphin, ostensibly to trade: ‘the most of the trading canoes which lay round the ship, and dealt with our people, had a fair young Girl in each Canoe, who playd a great many droll wanton tricks, which drew all our people upon the Gunwells to see them.’33 Although the erotic display was soon followed by a hail of stones, which was responded to in turn by a devastating blast of cannon fire (the colonial structure of pleasure and pain manifested itself within minutes of each other), the fundamental theatrical situation is still unmistakable. The Tahitians provided the English with a repeat performance of ‘droll wanton tricks’ performed by fair-skinned young girls. By thus attracting all the English to the gunwales they were presented with better targets for their stones. Quite apart from the aspect of military tactics employed, the more important point is that the theatrical communication worked. ‘Droll wanton tricks’, whatever they actually were, constituted a signifying practice that functioned across cultures. While these initial displays remained within the framework of distanced spectatorship, the next stage involved a shift from the realm of ocular to haptic proof. After amicable relations had been established and the English had begun to move about onshore, the flourishing trade in hogs, pigs and fruit that had already commenced on the ship was rapidly expanded to include young girls once both sides realized that a demand existed. The ice was broken, again, by a significant and signifying exchange of glances: But our Young men seeing several very handsome Young girls, they could not help feasting their eyes with so agreeable a sight this was observed by some of the Elderly men, and several of the Young Girls was drawen out, some a light coper colour oythers a mulatto and some almost White. The old men made them stand in Rank, and made signs for our people to take which they lyked best, and as many as they lyked and for fear our men hade been Ignorant and not known how to use the poor young Girls, the old men made signs how we should behave to the Young women.34

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the Tahitians on shore changed their tactics, as George Robertson, the ship’s master, recorded in his journal:

Pacific Performances

Needless to say, this message was clearly understood on the other side of the cultural divide and the English sailors communicated back that they knew perfectly well what to do, which ‘seemd to please the Old men greatly when they saw our people merry, but the porr young Girls seemd a little afraid, but soon after turnd better aquanted’.35 It is worth noting how Robertson stresses the various figures of seeing on the part of both cultures, which is further emphasized (on this and later occasions) by the girls having to stand in rank in order to be better beholden. The primacy of seeing and being seen manifests itself not surprisingly in the first ‘observed’ sexual contact between European and Tahitian. While Robertson did not actually witness this first encounter himself, he hears a fairly detailed report on the same day: I was tould by one of the Young Gentlemen that a new sort of trade took up the most of their attention this day, but it might be more properly called the old trade, he says a Dear Irish boy one of our marines was the first that began the trade, for which he got a very severe cobing [thrashing] from the Liberty men for not beginning in a more decent manner, in some house or at the back of some bush or tree, Padys excuse was the fear of losing the Honour of having the first.36 The ‘Pady’ received his thrashing for exposing to European public view what even the seasoned soldiers and sailors deemed unfit for visual consumption. The young marine, for his part, sought to provide ‘ocular proof’ of his first contact. That it was an Irishman, himself an outsider on an English ship, might also suggest a subtle division within the monolithic ‘European’ view and its implied binary. In a sense the young Irishman had involuntarily ‘gone native’ by offending the fundamental cultural opposition between public and private, which, while by no means immutable in European culture, generally held sexual acts to be an activity exclusively reserved for the private sphere. By ‘performing’ it in public, the marine had unwittingly crossed an important cultural threshold for Europeans and Tahitians alike, which brought sexual performance into a theatrical perspective by rendering it spectacle. While both parties of the cross-cultural encounter seemed to have perceived it, the semanticization of the threshold was radically different. All the early explorers to Tahiti (as well as other islands) remarked on the repeated efforts of the indigenous people to make hosts and guests ‘connect’ in public. By the time Bougainville arrived, the Tahitians from Matavai Bay, the principle anchoring place for European ships, were well acquainted with the propensity of sailors for Tahitian girls. Soon after the spectacular tableau of the Tahitian ‘Venus’ before the Phrygian sailors, the French went ashore. Bougainville relates how the ship’s cook was stripped naked by the Tahitians and rendered a spectacle to their gaze. They also

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endeavoured to persuade him to ‘content those desires’ with a girl on the spot.37 Perhaps not surprisingly, the cook did not feel up to the task; certainly not in the theatrical situation the Tahitians favoured. Undaunted, over the next ten days the French spent on the island, the Tahitians made repeated attempts to have the visitors ‘sacrifice to the goddess of love’ in public. Some of these encounters were observed and recorded by Bougainville and others. Bougainville, for example, suggests that these overtures were not just isolated incidents but part of a social pattern of ‘friendliness’: Our people were daily walking in the isle without arms, either quite alone, or in little companies. They were invited to enter the houses, where the people gave them to eat; nor did the civility of the landlords stop at a slight collation, they offered them young girls; the hut was immediately filled with a curious crowd of men and women, who made a circle round the guest, and the young victim of hospitality. The ground was spread with leaves and flowers, and their musicians sung a hymeneal song to the tune of their flutes. Here Venus is the goddess of hospitality, her worship does not admit of any mysteries, and every tribute paid to her is ‘a feast’ for the whole nation. They were surprised at the confusion which our people appeared to be in, as our customs do not admit of these public proceedings.38 This predilection for public copulation was interpreted by the resident Rousseauist on board, the ship’s naturalist, Philibert Commerson, as an expression of religious practice. Although his interpretation stresses religion, his ethnographical description is couched in the metaphoric language of the stage: The act of procreation is a religious act; the prelude to it is stimulated by the desires and songs of the throng assembled for this purpose, and its completion is acquitted with general applause. Any stranger is admitted to participate in these happy mysteries; indeed, it is even one of the laws of hospitality to invite him, so that the good Utopian [Tahitian] enjoys endless delight – either the sensation of his own pleasure or the spectacle of the sensual joys of others.39 Preludes, music, applause, mysteries, spectacle: Commerson’s metaphors embed Tahitian sexual mores in a Rousseauian inflected utopia where the spectacle of people’s festivals rather than the theatre forms the basis of a moral society. The erotic details of Commerson’s general ‘laws’ were provided by the young gentleman Charles-Félix Fesche in a kind of ‘thick description’ of Tahitian ‘deep play’. He records at considerable length an encounter with a Tahitian family. A group of Frenchmen are invited into their house. The head of the family provides the Europeans with details of Tahitian material

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We saw then how each of them took up a leafy twig and formed a circle around us. One of those standing there took up a flute from which he produced sweet and pleasant sounds. A mat was spread out in the middle and the young girl [the daughter] sat down upon it. The sign language of all the Indians gave us clearly to understand what was required. As this custom was so entirely foreign to our own customs, and to ascertain that they really meant it, one of us approached the presented sacrifice, gave her a false pearl, which he fastened to the girl’s ear, and dared to proffer her a kiss which was immediately reciprocated. A bold hand, steered by love, slid over two budding, opposing apples, which, like those of Helen’s, were worthy to serve as a model for charming-shaped cups of incomparable beauty.40 The ‘bold hand’ continues its journey downwards until it encounters an impediment in the form of a loin cloth, which the wearer swiftly removes until she is in Eve’s costume ‘before her fall’. The girl then beats the breast of the French ‘warrior’ laying siege and communicates to him her willingness to ‘fall’ by ‘opening the barriers to the temple in which so many men offer sacrifice every day’.41 Although the warrior was too well versed in the ‘art of fencing’ not to have been able to take advantage of such an opportunity, the presence of fifty Indians cooled his ardour to such a degree that further combat or sacrifice was to no avail. The moral of the story: ‘Only he who fears the light does evil, or believes to do it. We conceal ourselves to carry out so natural an act; they do it openly and often.’42 Fesche goes on to describe, more ethnographically than erotically this time, a ‘typical’ Tahitian ‘wedding ceremony’, which corresponds in most details to the afore-mentioned encounter except that the ‘actors’ (as Fesche terms them) display few inhibitions and consummate the sacrifice. The genre of erotic ethnography elaborated by the young French volontaire, for all its mixed metaphors of military combat, religious sacrifice and theatrical performance, links two elements that continued to exert a fascination on and influence the European perspective of the South Seas. The Tahitians, in particular, appeared to combine sexuality, religious worship and theatrical display in one and the same performance.43 One can also adduce that women were objects of exchange in these transactions. The examples from the Dolphin suggest a great deal of coercion in the initial encounters as older men forced young girls to make contact with the sailors. They were perhaps part of a ‘gift’ economy in which women were the circulating commodities. In this respect the Polynesian culture would seem to offer confirmation of the feminist critique of a heterosexual cultural matrix predicated on women as objects of exchange.44 Anthropologists have offered alternative explanations based in part on early indigenous interpretations. With reference to similar encounters in

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culture until the possibility of performative culture is announced with the arrival of the host’s wife and 12-year old daughter. After a meal of coconuts and bananas, the Tahitians move into performance mode:

Hawai‘i, Anne Salmond, for example, cites Samuel Kamakau, an early Hawaiian historian, who suggested that the enforced sexual relations were a means to test the visitor’s possible divinity.45 Marshall Sahlins has also analysed the Hawaiian first contacts and argued that these ‘affairs’ were neither an expression of the overwhelming, culturally transcendent sex appeal of Europeans nor just a straightforward ‘business’. In his ‘Supplement to the Voyage of Cook, or: le calcul sauvage’, an ‘essay on the historical efficacy of love’, Sahlins attempts to place the amorous actions of the Hawaiians in an explanatory framework that contrasts ‘prescriptive’ and ‘performative’ structures within differing or even the same cultural systems: We could say that they [performative cultures] are differentially ‘open’ to history. The performative orders tend to assimilate themselves to contingent circumstances; whereas, the prescriptive rather assimilate the circumstances to themselves – by a kind of denial of their contingent evenemential character.46 The first contacts between Europeans and Pacific peoples were, if they were anything, contingent and ‘evenemential’ to the highest degree for both sides. Neither culture had the prescribed cultural systems in place to deal effortlessly with contingent situations that happened on a daily basis: whether they were breaches of tapu or offers to copulate in public. Sahlins argues that the so-called permissiveness or promiscuity of the Hawaiians (and the argument can be extended to the Tahitian situation as well) was in fact a reflection of a performative economy whereby new phenomena were incorporated into the semantic systems and patterns of the island societies. As Sahlins puts it: ‘[Hawaiian society] was performative: rather literally a “state of affairs,” created by the very acts that signified it.’47 The famous traffic in nails initiated by the English sailors of the Dolphin was perceived by them to be the introduction of the ‘oldest trade’ to the unsullied isles. Conversely, one could speak, following Sahlins, not of the implantation of a pernicious practice from the Polynesian point of view, but rather of the incorporation and assimilation of the foreigners into the structures and cultural transactions of the host society. It could be argued that Polynesians performed sex as an attempt to integrate the foreign beings into an existing cultural state of affairs. However speculative such theories may be, they at least proceed from the premise of indigenous agency as compared to the older Eurocentric paradigms, which figure the Pacific peoples in the passive role of victims of a ‘fatal impact’. Sexual exchanges constitute perhaps the most striking example of the intertwining of material and performance culture, where the payment of a nail for pleasure resulted for the one side in the procurement of sexual favours (to the great detriment of the ship’s woodwork and fastenings) and, for the other, in accruements of religious or social status.48

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Captain Cook recorded what was to become the most famous example of the striking compound of sexual with other performative activities during his first sojourn in Tahiti. It came to be known as the ‘Point Venus scene’, less on account of the type of activities observed than because the place in question was the vantage point from which the transit of the planet Venus was observed. On 14 May 1769, Cook, who was by all accounts not overly fond of religious activities, celebrated a divine service in the newly constructed fort. The theatrical and/or ethnographical potential of such a cultural performance did not escape the ship’s naturalist, Joseph Banks, who noted in his journal his desire that ‘our Indian freinds    should be present that they might see our behaviour and we might if possible explain to them (in some degree at least) the reasons for it.’49 This was presumably the first time (with the exception of sailors’ jigs and their musical accompaniment) that the Tahitians had seen Europeans in a formalized performance situation. Banks notes that the guests followed his movements slavishly, yet were not interested in explanations. Thus ended the first, albeit largely unconscious attempt at proselytizing among the Tahitians. It was not until 30 years later with the arrival of the first English missionaries that this activity was resumed. The staging of a divine service at a place called Point Venus turned out to be more than apt as Cook and his men soon discovered. Perhaps in a gesture of performative reciprocity, a group of Tahitians carried out their own religious ceremony outside the gate of the fort later on in the day. Cook reports the scene in his characteristic laconic way: This day closed with an odd Scene at the Gate of the Fort where a young fellow above 6 feet high lay with a little Girl about 10 to 12 years of age publickly before several of our people and a number of the Natives. What makes me mention this, is because, it appear’d to be done more from Custom than Lewdness, for there were several women present particularly Obarea and several others of the better sort and these were so far from shewing the least disapprobation that they instructed the girl how she should act her part, who young as she was, did not seem to want it.50 Cook’s journal in its original version remained unknown to his contemporaries. The scene itself became famous, or rather infamous, in Hawkesworth’s rendering. John Hawkesworth was entrusted with the task of editing an official account of the recent voyages of exploration. He had at his disposal the journals of Cook and Banks. Neil Rennie has glossed the way Hawkesworth links the two performances (divine service and public copulation) ‘by way of an amusing but irreverent metaphor’.51 Hawkesworth writes (in the person of Cook): ‘Such were our Matins; the Indians thought fit to perform Vespers

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Venus observ’d

of a very different kind’; and Cook’s biblical ‘lay with’ is transformed by his editor into the more Bougainvillean ‘performed the rites of Venus’.52 Although Hawkesworth softens the account slightly, its impact on the British reading public was nonetheless considerable.53 The pun on ‘perform’ did not go unnoticed; indeed, it was seized upon by wits and clerics alike. An anonymous ‘Christian’ conducted a ten-week long campaign against Hawkesworth, comparing his ‘account’ unfavourably with ‘that scandalous performance’ Fanny Hill.54 The transformation from metaphorical to actual performance was effected by the notorious brothel madam Charlotte Hayes, who, as Rennie notes, ‘recognized that Hawkesworth’s Voyages contained not only “entertaining matter” but matter for entertainment’.55 The source for this re-enactment is a book of somewhat doubtful veracity entitled Nocturnal Revels: or, The History of King’s-Place, and other Modern Nunneries containing their Mysteries, Devotions, and Sacrifices. Comprising also, the Ancient and Present State of Promiscuous Gallantry: with the Portraits of the most Celebrated Demi-reps and Courtesans of this Period: as well as Sketches of their Professional and Occasional Admirers. By a Monk of the Order of St. Francis. Ostensibly an account of a high-class club cum brothel, related by a ‘Monk of the Order of St. Francis,’ the activities of the members were exclusively devoted to pleasures of the flesh. The chief coordinator of activities was the said Mrs Charlotte Hayes, who arranged salacious entertainments based on literary or artistic models.56 Hawkesworth’s Account, evidently stimulated her imagination, for she issued to her guests the following invitation: Mrs. Hayes presents her most respectful compliments to Lord—, and takes the liberty to acquaint him, that to-morrow evening, precisely at seven, a dozen beautiful Nymphs, unsullied and untained, and who breathe health and nature, will perform the celebrated rites of Venus, as practised at Otaheite, under the instruction and tuition of Queen Oberea; in which character Mrs. Hayes will appear upon this occasion.57 Then follows a quotation from Hawkesworth in which the Point Venus scene is related together with his editorial commentary, where he attempts to provide a ‘philosophical’ discussion of the question whether ‘shame attending certain actions    is implanted in Nature, or superinduced by custom’.58 In the case of the London performance, Mrs Hayes had evidently studied Hawkesworth’s account attentively, as the anonymous writer of the Nocturnal Revels notes: Mrs Hayes had certainly consulted these pages with uncommon attention, and she concluded, that shame upon similar occasions ‘was only superinduced by custom,’ and being so much of a Natural Philosopher as to have surmounted all prejudices, she resolved not only to teach her Nuns all the

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Rites of Venus as practiced at Otaheite, but to improve upon them, with the invention, fancy and caprice of ARETIN; having taught them everyone of his postures, in their former rehearsals, and which they were already pretty expert. Upon this salacious Olympic she had no less than three-and-twenty Visitors, consisting chiefly of the first Nobility, some Baronets, and but five Commoners. What follows is a sexually suggestive account of staged copulation between the ‘unsullied nymphs’ and ‘the most athletic, best proportioned young men that could be procured’. That the performance is done ‘by the book’ is demonstrated by the fact that the Festino begins with the presentation of ‘a Nail of at least twelve inches in length, in imitation of the presents received by the ladies of Otaheite upon these occasions’ (Nocturnal Revels, 1779: 26). The festivities conclude with several of the spectators taking over the roles of the ‘male devotees’. Whatever the factual status of this account, and it is mixed to say the least, the processes of theatricality it purports to represent are significant. One can observe a circulation of mimetic capital, as the highly theatrical energy of the events recounted by the English explorers begins via Hawkesworth’s publication to find entry into the popular imagination. The Festino also represents a further variation of the theme of the reversal of the private and public nature of sexual activities. While the Tahitians seemed to insist on the public nature of sexual contact, thus theatricalizing it in the eyes of the European visitors, the performance enacted at the King’s Club blurred the clear opposition. The club itself was clearly ‘private’ in the sense of being highly select and only frequented by invited guests of the best pedigree, yet the act of staging sexual acts before an audience brought the European spectators far closer to a Tahitian cultural economy than they were conscious of. The already instituted flaunting of accepted sexual behaviour received a curious ‘ethnographic’ sanction in the form of Hawkesworth’s ‘empirical’ account.

Wanton dancing Even in formal performance situations, the Tahitians continued to practise a conflation of the sexual and the aesthetic in such a way as to confound European perceptual categories. All early visitors remarked on the ‘lascivious’ nature of the dances they saw performed. Particularly confusing was the dance by young girls that the English called Timorodee, which, according to Cook, consisted of ‘indecent songs and useing most indecent actions’. Whereas Cook remains characteristically reticent in the moral interpretation accorded to the dance, noting chiefly that the dancers are young, keep good

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Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches and Women 39

In these dances they keep time with an exactness which is scarcely excelled by the best performers upon the stages of Europe. But the practice which is allowed to the virgin, is prohibited to the woman from the moment that she has put these hopeful lessons in practice, and realized the symbols of the dance.61 The comparison with the ‘best performers upon the stages of Europe’ provides an unusual example of hyperbole in reference to Tahitian performance forms in that they are framed within the discursive orbit of European theatrical practice. More characteristic is the final comment, which draws the reader’s attention to the link between performance and practice. The fact that for Tahitian girls dance is a kind of propaedeutics of sexuality and that they ‘realize the symbols’ of their performances suggests a shift from the subjunctive to the indicative mode (to cite Victor Turner’s famous distinction) that stands in stark contrast to the European ontology of performance which locates signs chiefly in the realm of the subjunctive. Cook does not elaborate the exact nature of these signs. A more detailed description is provided by William Anderson, a surgeon on the third voyage, who described a dance involving ‘young women, who put themselves into several lascivious postures’ and repeated stanzas of a chant: At certain parts they put their garments aside and exposd with seemingly very little sense of shame those parts which most nations have thought it modest to conceal, but in particular a woman more advanc’d in years who stood in front & might properly be calld the tutoress or prompter of the rest, held her cloaths continually up with one hand and dancd with uncommon vigour and effrontery, as if to raise in the spectators the most libidinous desires and incite her pupils to emulation in such a wanton excercise. The men flockd eagerly round them in great numbers to see their performance and express’d the most anxious curiosity to see that part just mentioned, at which they seemed to feel a sort of rapture that could only be expressed by the extreme joy that appear’d in their countenances.62 What Anderson records is a graphic account of the reciprocal effects of performance. Gestures, movement and song are combined to elicit an emotive response entirely in keeping with eighteenth-century theories of the passions. The account characteristically oscillates between revulsion and fascination. Epithets such as ‘licentiousness’ and ‘lasciviousness’ alternate

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time and that the practice is suspended once they ‘have form’d a connection with a man’,59 the editor of his journal, Hawkesworth, seized on this passage to provide significant embellishments:60

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with adjectives that hint that the writer may have shared the ‘rapture’ that the indigenous spectators and performers evidently experienced. Less ambivalent was the reaction to the facial expressions that appeared to have accompanied the Timorodee and which were captured in sketches by Sydney Parkinson, the artist on board the Endeavour. Joseph Banks writes of the dancers ‘setting their mouths askew in a most extraordinary manner’,63 while Georg Forster was more offended by the facial than by the pelvic or gestural contortions of the Tahitian dancers he witnessed: Their attitudes and gestures were much varied, and sometimes might admit of being construed into wantonness; but they were entirely free from that positive degree of gross indecency which the chaste eyes of English ladies of fashion are forced to behold at the opera.    The only action which gives offence to all our ideas of gracefulness and harmony, is the frightful custom of writhing their mouths into the strangest distortions, which it was impossible for any of us to imitate. They screwed their mouth into a slanting direction, and at last threw the lips into a waving or undulated form, which seemed to us to be performed by means of an habitual and sudden convulsion.64 In a characteristic turn of thought, Forster arrives at a kind of reversed perspective, whereby European operatic dance is more guilty of ‘gross indecency’, for English ladies at least, than Tahitian dancing. Forster contrasts the ‘wantonness’ of Tahitian dancing as a projection of European imagination (‘being construed’) with the apparent unmitigated variety in Europe, although what he precisely means by ‘gross indecency’ in this context remains unclear.65 Far more disturbing is evidently the aesthetic revulsion produced by the facial distortions. Not only does the practice contravene established notions of harmony synonymous with dance but it also evokes pathological associations (‘sudden convulsion’) which place this kind of performance outside acceptable boundaries of aesthetic practice. Finally, Forster’s reference to the Europeans’ inability to imitate the expression designates it clearly as a mark of alterity that cannot be assimilated into Western corporeal repertoires. With the exception of such ‘distortions’, dance provided the most negotiable connection between purported or actual sexual encounters and the socially acceptable codes of the European reading or viewing audience. Of the rich iconographical record produced in conjunction with Cook’s voyages – much of which was the result of first hand observations – Polynesian dances were easily one of the most popular motifs. The visual material ranges from unpublished sketches, such as Parkinson’s drawings of grimacing Tahitian dancers, to fanciful and mass-produced engravings. Figure 3, published some three years after Cook’s death for a popular work on geography, harks back to the first discovery of Tahiti by Captain Wallis in 1767. The image

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Figure 3 ‘Captain Wallis on his arrival at O’Taheite in conversation with Oberea the Queen, while her attendants are performing the dance called the Timorodee’ Source: Engraving by Morris after a drawing by Hamilton. 1782. By permission of the Bishop Museum.

refers to Hawkesworth’s description of the scene (although not illustrated there) and is a composite impression of several encounters between Tahitians and Europeans related in his account of the early voyages. For some of its gestural details the picture draws on Bartolozzi’s engravings of Tahitian dance published in Hawkesworth, which are fanciful renderings of the written text rather than the transposition of drawings from artists on the voyage. The engraving of Wallis in Tahiti provides a characteristic summation of received ideas of the connections between Tahiti, eroticism, dance and conquest. Captain Wallis, the English commander who took ‘possession’ of the island during his sojourn there, is entertained by Queen Oberea and half-clad dancers performing the Timorodee. Almost generic for these kinds of images is the presence of the European spectator(s) for whose exclusive delectation the dance appears to be performed. In a performative gesture with its implied text of ‘behold’, Queen Oberea directs the gaze of Wallis to the spectacle of the topless dancers. Their highly Europeanized appearance (not uncharacteristic for these pictures) provides an identificatory image for the viewer, while at the same time markers of cultural alterity such as the drums and nose-flute player situate the scene clearly in a non-European

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context. Dance thus provides a complex nexus of performance activities, which allows the sexual-erotic level to be linked with other discourses.

The ‘rites of Venus’ staged by Mrs Hayes with herself in the starring role of Queen Oberea demonstrate another crucial feature of cross-cultural theatricality. The urge to rework described actions in another medium in the form of a masquerade or dance brings us closer to a phenomenon which is characteristic of cross-cultural encounter in general and can be termed, with reference to Michael Taussig, ‘the mimesis of alterity’. Citing Walter Benjamin’s claim that the mimetic faculty is the compulsion to become the other, Taussig explores what he calls ‘the two-way street    of EuroAmerican colonialism’ along which cultures in contact transact symbolic exchanges in a theatrical mode.66 The mimesis of alterity, the urge to become the other, even for a brief moment, manifests itself in moments of first contact where fear and repulsion are often counteracted by attraction and fascination. The mimetic responses range from a simple imitation of gestures or the exchange of clothes to complete adoption of, and absorption into, the other culture. These acts constitute, it can be argued, a first stage in the accumulation of mimetic capital. The mimetic urge – or the act of mimicry (as it is often pejoratively termed) – is an integral part of colonial history as postcolonial theory has frequently pointed out.67 In the two examples to be discussed, they are still outside colonial history proper and, in terms of the power relations involved, constitute a balanced exchange of theatrical signs. For the first example we must return to HMS Dolphin and the first encounters between Europeans and Tahitians as related by George Robertson in his journal. Once the initial violence had subsided and trade (both old and new) was in full swing, Robertson and his fellow officers befriended a Tahitian whom they christened Jonathan. He visited the ship frequently and was even initiated into the rituals and ceremonies of dining at an English officers’ table. The relationship ended when Robertson and another officer presented Jonathan with a suit of clothes: Mr Furneux and I rigged out Jonathan with a compleet Sute of Cloathes shoes etc. we hade plenty of devertion showing him how to put all the Cloathes on, espetially the Bretches they puseld [puzzled] him worst of all, but after he found out how to use them he seemd more fond of them than all the rest except the shoes, they pleasd him greatly and he walkt up and doun the Deck with great spirits. After dinner he went ashoar in his English dress and seemd Extreemly happy when our Boat Landed him, he called to some of the country people to carry him out for fear of weiting his shoes, and when he came to the river he made two of his servants

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Becoming the other

Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches and Women 43

Robertson’s anecdote recounts the basic situation of cross-cultural contact that Stephen Greenblatt has called ‘the assimilation of the other’.69 We have already encountered it earlier in the chapter when Tasman’s officers decked out a Tongan in sailors’ garb. The dressing of an ‘untutored savage’ in the raiment of civilization is a deeply ambivalent and multi-faceted act. At its most superficial, the situation stage-managed by the officers provided them with ‘plenty of devertion’ (present-day circus acts featuring apes in clothes or on bicycles appeal to the same impulse). From the European perspective, normal clothes are transformed into theatrical costume, as they are literally divested of their typical cultural functions when they adorn a strange body. Both the act of dressing and the ensuing parading of the clothes on deck demonstrate the transformative power of signs characteristic of cross-cultural theatricality. As the embodied objects move from one culture to another, they become charged with an excess of divergent meanings. On another level, however, the European clothes evidently endowed Jonathan with signs of power, perhaps mana, as he returned to the shore.70 His performative display, first on board ship and then to the Tahitians ashore, while totally disparate in terms of the messages being transmitted and received, was predicated on the fact that at this moment, for both cultures, clothing was no longer fulfilling practical but primarily symbolic and theatrical functions. For the Europeans, Jonathan had become a clown, for Tahitians he presumably was demonstrating some kind of control over the signs of the strangers. Although we can only speculate about the effect of Jonathan’s performance on his compatriots, there is no doubt that his assumption or usurpation of the signs of alterity was significant. Just as Europeans misread the semantics of Tahitian dress, so too did the Tahitians reinterpret Jonathan’s acquisitions. The latter certainly entered the local symbolic economy, for Jonathan has one final entrance in the long drama of European-Tahitian first encounters. When Cook arrived at Matavai Bay on the Endeavour two years later, Jonathan appeared in his English suit to welcome them. When two high-ranking individuals came on board the next day, they proceeded to dress Cook and Banks in their own clothes, as Banks relates in his logbook.71 Clearly, the exchange of clothing had a symbolic function for the Tahitians, which the Europeans had almost by chance stumbled on.72 If the Tahitian attempt at mimetic assimilation of the other involved the donning of English clothes, the performative response on the part of the

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carry him over, but before he always wade through the River without any kind of ceremony. When he got across the River a great many of his Country people came round him and he took great pleasure of showing himselfe – but what became of this Jolly young fellow afterwards we know not, as we neaver saw nor heard anything more of him.68

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Yesterday and today the Heiva no Meduah or funeral ceremony walkd. My curiosity was raisd by his most singular dress. I was desirous of knowing what he did during his walk; I askd Tubourai, at the same time desird leave to atend him tomorrow which upon my consenting to perform a character was readily granted. Tomorrow therefore I am to be smutted from head to foot and to do whatever they desire me to do.73 The ‘character’ Banks performed was that of a neneva, a spirit-cum-fool figure designed to harass and intimidate the local people so that they dispersed before the Heiva, the approaching chief mourner. Banks had no inhibitions about playing this role to the full as he confided in his logbook: Tubourai was the Heiva, the three others and myself were to Nineveh. He put on his dress, most Fantastical tho not unbecoming,    I was next prepard by stripping off my European cloths and putting me on a small strip of cloth round my waist, the only garment I was allowd to have, but I had no pretensions to be ashamd of my nakedness for neither of the women were a bit more coverd than myself. They then began to smut me and themselves with charcoal and water, the Indian boy was compleatly black, the women and myself as low as our shoulders. We then set out.74 If Jonathan’s deportment in English clothes was cast in the genre of farce or low comedy for the English spectators, then Banks’s performance was, for the Tahitians at least, part of an efficacious rite, designed to expedite the spirit of the deceased person. The presence of the English party meant, however, that it was perceived within two quite different frames, a situation typical of cross-cultural theatricality. The procession proceeded first to the English fort, where the sight of the daubed figures elicited surprise on the part of the English and ‘affright of the Indians    for they fly everywhere before the Heiva like sheep before a wolf’.75 Surprise and fright were the two quite disparate reactions that accompanied the appearance of four Tahitians and an Englishman in a loincloth ‘smutted’ down to the shoulders (the rest of his body presumably gleaming palely English in the moonlight). A further reaction might have been disgust on the part of the English, as Banks’s performance had brought him dangerously close to what later became known as ‘going native’, that most cardinal of sins in the British colonial system of values. That Banks did not really go native is clear from

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Right Honourable Joseph Banks Esq. required their removal. On learning of the death of a woman and the impending funeral ceremony, Banks managed to convince the Tahitians to let him not only attend but also to participate in the proceedings.

his journal; he only flirted with the exterior signs of the behaviour. Yet, one may be permitted to conjecture that under the protection of the subjunctive mood of theatrical performance, its culturally sanctioned authorization to dissemble, Banks was beginning to negotiate the dangerous ‘two-way street’ of colonial mimesis. His excursion into Tahitian performance culture evidently tickled his antic disposition. Subsequent rumour and gossip in England suggested that back home he re-enacted the ceremony with his servants. In his satirical poem reflecting on Cook’s first voyage, the wit and scandalmongerer Peter Pindar (the pen-name of John Wolcot, 1738–1819) intimated that Banks performed Tahitian rites at his seat at Hinchingbrook: ‘I grant you naked with your servants pranc’d,/ To shew how folks at Otaheité danc’d;/ And much the smiling audience you amus’d,/ Though decency indeed the dance abus’d.’76 Even allowing for satirical licence, the poem picks up on Banks’s frank admission that he stripped near naked and joined in with the Tahitians in what, from the English point of view, could only be regarded as near obscene behaviour. Becoming the other in Tahiti was problematic enough, but its re-enactment in England was clearly an act that occasioned profound unease. ∗

∗

∗

Of all the myths surrounding the discovery of the Pacific islands, the stories of sexual promiscuity were those that most inflamed the European audience back home. The apparent uncomplicated exchange of amorous favours for iron nails was a transaction that, for the male public at least, seemed to encapsulate a sexual economy in which even the meanest sailor had access to a seraglio. The spectacle of overt sexual overtures and their occasional public consummation gave the term ‘theatre of love’ a new meaning. The sexual trade was not, however, just an economic transaction, but a performative practice. It was spectacle for spectators in a situation of cross-cultural exchange: to the Europeans ‘very shocking’, for the Tahitians, as far as it is possible to reconstruct, very intriguing. These first encounters in the Pacific clearly did more than upset European notions of moral behaviour, they questioned perceptual practices. While there was an established mode of representing places and peoples in theatrical metaphors, even in conceptualizing parts of the world as stages for the delectation of the European viewer, the Polynesian practices of theatricalizing sex, not only of enacting sexuality in public but of framing it within a formalized performance situation – through dance, music and spatial arrangements – posed a genuine challenge for Western conceptual categories. The European sailors certainly entered into the ‘economy’ that developed around it, and in fact the first explorers could not conceptualize these activities in anything other than mercantile terms. What remained invisible were the performative structures and transactions enacted on the indigenous side

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Pacific Overtures: Trumpets, Beaches and Women 45

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of the cross-cultural encounters: the integration of the foreigners into a set of beliefs, practices and symbolic systems, the semantics of which remained closed to them. It appears also that these performative encounters provided both sides with more than just material and symbolic gains. There was pure pleasure involved, too.

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2

In the previous chapter we observed how the first encounters between Pacific Islanders and Europeans were marked by various manifestations of theatricality. In this chapter we will examine how these events, already framed within tropes of theatricality and the spectacular, were translated into theatrical genres on the European stage. The focus will be on the early period, roughly between 1785 and 1830, which sees a shift in discursive interest from representations claiming a high degree of authenticity to those maximizing exoticism. Roughly speaking we can follow a narrative whereby the theatrical representations, whatever their genre, seek in the immediate aftermath of the voyages and their published reports to present these experiences in the theatrical equivalent of the new ‘discourse of authenticity’ emerging in the second half of the eighteenth century. The apparent antithetical nature of the terms ‘authenticity’ and ‘theatrical’ produces a tension that is the subject of this chapter. Defining authenticity is notoriously difficult, as we noted in the introduction. On the one hand, it seems to defy identification according to any essentialist categories. On the other, it is a crucial discursive concept with far-reaching ramifications. It is a central concept for media representations, particularly those emanating from the mass media. The need to authenticate messages as factual information rather than as fictional entertainment is, however, by no means an invention of the massmedia age, but rather appeared when an epistemic shift occurred which made the distinction necessary. It is certainly a product of the Baconian and Humesian move to empiricism and the necessity to have observations verified in some way for their truth value. It explains the necessity too for the epithet ‘authentic’ which we find with increasing frequency in the titles and subtitles of travel accounts in the second half of the eighteenth century. Some of the earliest uses of the term ‘authentic’ as a title or subtitle of books are in fact in connection with voyages to the Pacific.1 These subtitles imply the possibility that such narratives could be written in a fictional mode 47

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(and indeed were). They also demonstrate that by the middle of the eighteenth century, this epistemic shift was basically achieved. Authenticity in this context means material that is based primarily on eyewitness accounts rather than other forms of textual authority.2 It is then perhaps no surprise that the first theatre productions set in the South Seas, which were almost invariably inspired in some way by Cook’s accounts, attempted to capitalize on the authenticity bonus. Performances with somewhat oxymoronic subtitles such as ‘A Fact told in action’ or ‘Historic pantomime’ testify to an attempt to generate signals of authenticity as the main points of attraction.3 They provided, in a sense, armchair tourism, the ostensible experience of authentic otherness without leaving London, Paris, Berlin or Milan.

Spectacles of emotion: Cook o sia Gl’inglesi in Othaiti Mrs Charlotte Hayes’s pornographic soirée at King’s House took place (if indeed it did) some time between 1773 and 1779 and represents the first ‘documented’ theatrical representation of European encounters in the Pacific. Generically speaking, the event can only be encompassed by an expanded concept of theatre – a cultural performance at best. The first theatrical performance in a stricter sense took place, not in France or England, the countries which had organized the major expeditions, but in Italy. In 1784, the Italian choreographer Antonio Muzzarelli staged a ‘dance pantomime’, that is, a ballet, entitled Gl’inglesi in Othaiti in Lucca. A year later it reappeared as an opera (dramma per musica) on the stage of the Teatro del Fondo di Separazione in Naples in an adaptation by Umilissimo Vassallo, the director of the theatre. Both opera and dance pantomime were performed throughout Italy and Germany over the next 20 years.4 Together with Omai and the Death of Captain Cook, it represented the most widely viewed theatrical treatment of the Pacific in the eighteenth century. In the following I will be concentrating on the operatic version. Although the sources for the libretti are not explicitly stated, Hawkesworth is clearly the main one. Muzzarelli’s and Vassallo’s recourse to this by now famed three-volume account was motivated not just by the English captain’s European renown, but also by the publication’s ‘documentary’ qualities. Never before had a description of exploration and travel been apparently so exhaustively researched and scientifically presented with its combination of official logbooks and detailed illustrations ‘after nature’. That this publication was also attacked by contemporaries and later scholars alike for its poetic embellishments has already been noted.5 The dramatic action conflates two episodes from Hawkesworth. The first revolves around the encounter between Captain Wallis of the Dolphin, and the Tahitian ‘Queen’ Oberea. The latter, actually Purea, was the wife of a high-ranking chief of the Papara district near Matavai Bay. She provided Wallis and his ship with a warm welcome compared to the hostility they had

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initially encountered. She attended to Wallis when he came ashore to recover from scurvy and wept bitterly when the English departed. Wallis had given her a pennant as a parting gift, which she immediately incorporated into the local treasure house of sacred objects, the maro ura. She reappears again when Cook arrived on the Endeavour and took a special fancy to Joseph Banks, who took great pains to resist her amorous advances while not offending her dignity. Oberea became, as Greg Dening puts it, an ‘invented character’ in several ways.6 She became, for the British, a Queen when she was not one, and a kind of semi-comic figure for the satirists back home. Corpulent and overly attentive to the British visitors, Oberea oscillates between the grandeur of monarchy, and the ‘fat lady’ of popular farce. For Vassallo, she retains the former qualities as befitting the serious genre he was working in, but she receives all the embellishments necessary to make the genre work. The second episode pertains to events that unfolded between Wallis’s visit in 1767 and Cook’s first visit to Tahiti in 1769. Hawkesworth relates how Cook’s party found evidence of warfare and a diminishment of power on the part of Oberea.7 In the cast of characters, Cook is designated the commander of the ‘Resolution’, a reference to his second voyage. Whether Vassallo had access to an account of the second voyage, it is not clear. The dramatized events appear to be drawn exclusively, if loosely, from Hawkesworth. Fact must always be embellished by fictional imagination, or in the case of Vassallo’s libretto, by the stock-in-trade elements of operatic convention. Yet, in its first appearance on the European stage, the Pacific is packaged as ‘history’ in the new sense of the word. In Italy Giambattista Vico had prepared the way for a more scientific, post-theological view of history. Vico postulated that human action was incomprehensible outside of history because man, not God, makes it.8 It is also contemporary history, as at least one of the mentioned figures, Captain Gore, was still alive, and Cook only recently dead. Storia, was attaining that double meaning it now has, since Vassallo’s storia is also a story, an episode gleaned from the accounts of Cook’s voyages. Hawkesworth provides enough dynastic detail for Vassallo to fashion his dramatic action, which can be briefly summarized as follows: Queen Oberea and King Oamo, rulers over the people of Eparra, are at war with Mathabo, chief of the Tiarrabou tribe. As the opera opens, Oamo has been killed and Mathabo demands Oberea’s hand in marriage. She refuses whereupon Mathabo kidnaps her son, Tirido. The queen despairs for the life of her son and hopes that Captain Cook will return to help her, as he did once before. Cook returns on board the Resolution: English sea captain and Tahitian queen pledge eternal love to one another and they resolve to rescue Tiribo. Thanks to a combination of subterfuge and superior European fire-power the Tiarrabou are defeated. A second drama unfolds as Cook, torn between love for the Tahitian queen and his duty,

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Of the many liberties with ‘history’ taken by the Italian, the construction of a love affair between Cook and a Tahitian was the most blatant. In comparison to many of his officers, and certainly most of his sailors, Cook refrained from intimate relations with the indigenous people. Of interest here are, however, less the imaginative embellishments on the level of action, which Vassallo justifies in his preface as necessary to ensure dramatic focus. I wish to argue that in comparison to English treatments of the Pacific discoveries, which found expression exclusively on the popular stage, the Italians approached the theme in the stilus sublimus of opera. In Gl’Inglesi in Othaiti we find the question of authenticity explored through two interlocking perspectives. On a thematic level we find it dealt with within the framework of Enlightenment anthropology, on a formal level as a way of addressing certain theatre reform questions pertaining to both opera and ballet. Each perspective will be dealt with in turn. From the mid-eighteenth century onwards, the term ‘anthropology’ was understood as an all-embracing ‘science of mankind’. The discipline or perhaps better, ‘project’, united physiology, psychology, medicine and incipient comparative ethnology. The latter served primarily to answer the fundamental questions regarding the ‘essence of mankind’, as the Italian historian Sergio Moravia has termed it, and was not conducted out of genuine interest in the specific cultures.9 Until the voyages of Bougainville and Cook, most comparative ethnographic material discussed was derived from the New World, which the médecins-philosophes found increasingly questionable as cultural contact there between Europeans and indigenous peoples had been going on for up to two centuries. Leaving aside the physiological questions and experiments (skulls of Eskimos, Hottentots, ‘negroes’ and chimpanzees were being forever measured, compared and placed in changing taxonomic categories), philosophers and scientists were also preoccupied with the old problem of man’s (and woman’s) emotional make-up. By making a Tahitian woman the central figure of his dramma per musica Vassallo was able to explore several interconnected late-Enlightenment anthropological discourses: women, emotions and savages. By 1785 Rousseau’s notion of the ‘noble savage’ was a common-place in the salons and learned circles of Europe. It has been frequently remarked that his idea received new nourishment with Bougainville’s reports. Less discussed in the literature on the Pacific is the anthropological category ‘woman’. In his essay ‘Sur les femmes’ (1772), Diderot had argued that women in general were subject to ‘epidemic savagery    they may appear more civilized than we on the outside, but inside they remain true savages, or at least completely Machiavellian’.10 Even allowing for Diderot’s typical irony, he does engage with his topic from an anthropological perspective. The question of emotions is of course linked to both categories. The problem that

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resolves to set sail again. The opera concludes, as Oberea stricken with grief, swoons on the shore.

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so vexed Rousseau – to what extent can emotions be faked, especially by women – was also studied from an ethnographic point of view.11 Do the savages have the same emotional make-up as Europeans, and if so, are they capable of the same techniques of dissembling, hypocrisy and emotional management that civilization has seemingly developed? The Rousseauian line is one that aims for maximum authenticity in intercourse, the mark of ideal bourgeois selfhood as opposed to courtly social relations. Taking emotional authenticity or sincerity as our point of departure, we can see that Oberea is characterized as a woman of extreme emotional expressiveness. If the eighteenth century can be characterized as the ‘Weeping Saeculum’,12 then Oberea in Gli’Inglesi in Othaiti is a worthy representative. The opera opens with Oberea, confidante Aldiva, and her soon to be kidnapped son, Tirido, in tears, mourning the deceased Omao. The opening stage directions describe them as being ‘moved and distressed’ and – after the first chorus – as ‘overcome with tears’ (13).13 Oberea’s first words are: ‘Weep, weep, o Tirido: Your sorrow/ I cannot condemn. While your eyes/ I try to dry, mine are flooded/ by a torrent of tears’ (14). While tears are by no means a seldom occurrence in opera, the extent and volume are here truly remarkable. As already mentioned, the source is in the first instance Hawkesworth’s report based on Captain Wallis’s logbook, where the latter expresses surprise as such an outpouring of emotion: When she [Oberea] was told that the boat was ready, she threw herself down upon the arm-chest, and wept a long time with an excess of passion that could not be pacified    the queen, once more bade us farewell, with such tenderness of affection and grief, as filled both my heart and my eyes.14 Robertson, whose logbook was also consulted by Hawkesworth, remarked, she wept ‘with as much tenderness and Affection as any Wife or Mother, could do, at the parting with their Husbands or children’.15 Clearly European wives and mothers are meant here. Hawkesworth’s account of Cook’s visit contains many references to the Tahitian’s propensity for tears. Dramaturgically, the opera is structured around three situations of grief, which enable Oberea to show her prowess in all of them: as a wife (to Omao), a mother (of her kidnapped son Tirido) and a lover (of Cook). The weeping has hardly subsided beside Omao’s funeral pyre when the rival chief Mathabo enters and demands Oberea’s hand, which she refuses. In the meantime Cook has returned, providing Oberea with emotional and military support. Mathabo’s response is to take young Tirido hostage, a situation to be exploited for its emotional effect. Apart from generating more tears on Oberea’s part, it also raises the affective stakes by presenting on stage the image of a threatened child. Oberea’s appeals to Mathabo’s sense of pity is directed equally at the audience: ‘What blame has the innocent

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child? His frightened face/ will move you to pity/    Look how he stretches out his soft arms humble and entreating’ (29). Male savages are, however, made of sterner stuff, especially when confronted by English marines bearing muskets. Mathabo presents Cook with an ultimatum: depart or the boy will die. For Oberea this means a choice between two loved ones: ‘Ah, what a cruel moment/ I feel how my heart is torn/ between my son and my lover’ (20). All appeals to Mathobo’s sense of pity, that other important mideighteenth-century mark of bourgeois sensibility, are to no avail. Eventually, Lieutenant Gore manages to rescue the waif and Mathabo and the Tiarrabi warriors are placed in chains. At this point the emotional drama switches to the Oberea–Cook relationship. Mathabo’s only pleasure is to torment Oberea with the news that she will be abandoned by her English seafarer once again: ‘It is enough/ To see my proud foe weep, then I/ can die satisfied’ (46). In this regard, Oberea provides him with ample satisfaction: her response is predictable and violent. Her grief is so absolute that she desires to stage a theatre of emotions in the literal sense of the word. Cook must see her suffer: Confused, oppressed Unresolved    lost. At least he shall see me disconsolate on the shore amidst sighs and tears  Ungrateful as he is He must see me die. (47) For all its affective excess, Vassallo constructs dramaturgically a moral conundrum. Now it is Cook who has to weigh up ethical choices, as he says himself: ‘What barbarous torment/ In this cruel ordeal/ My values falter’ (49). It is left to the confidants, Aldiva and Gore, to actually discuss the problem in a kind of cross-cultural ethical debate: Aldiva: What right do you have To say we are the savages? Why did you bring us Pity and virtue? Are those Signs of humanity? Gore: Tender Aldiva You condemn us wrongly. You know No other duties but love. You deem Barbaric and cruel what we owe To fame and honour; but from this Springs what you see in us As great and radiant. (49)

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Quite apart from the unselfconscious lack of modesty, the message is clear. All that is admirable in Europeans stems from their ability – if an anachronistic concept be permitted – to sublimate love to honour. For, as Gore goes on to explain, honour is Cook’s primary duty. Aldiva’s response is to exhort the English to leave ‘our shores and disturb no longer our former peace’ (50). Her assessment is one that corresponded to a widely held opinion in Enlightenment circles. If Tahiti was a new Eden, then the arrival of the Europeans signalled the beginning of the expulsion from Paradise. We find this sentiment already in the navigators’ logbooks, who, from the beginning, began to question the effects of the European presence (although mainly on account of the rapid spread of venereal disease). This idea finds its most complex discussion in Diderot’s posthumously published Supplément au voyage de Bougainville where the loss of innocence theme leads into a wider debate on the nature of ‘laws’, natural, civil and religious. Diderot’s essay remained largely unknown to his contemporaries but the ideas debated were widely disseminated. Concepts such as fame and honour are abstract, with the result that the opera cannot end until Cook is plunged into a genuine dilemma. In a remarkable trio featuring Oberea, Cook and Mathabo, severe emotional pressure is brought to bear on the English navigator. In an unlikely alliance, Mathabo, seething with anger at his capture, and Oberea, slowly dying with grief, join forces indirectly to excoriate Cook. All three are torn apart for different reasons but join voices in common chorus:

All three: Ah, what cruel pain! What unhappy love! Stars, pitiless stars! Barbaric unjust love! Amidst a hundred desires I feel my heart torn apart. (54)

Cook nonetheless heeds the call of duty, promising a hasty return and exhorts the Tahitians to do what they do best: dance a cheerful and lively dance with the English soldiers. The image remains somewhat ambivalent. After the ‘joyful folk-dance’ watched by Cook, Oberea and Gore, the English embark, while Oberea remains behind on the beach in a swoon. The operatic convention of lieto fine, the compulsory happy end, prevents presumably a worse fate, but within the dramaturgical requirements of opera at this time she has been ‘sacrificed’ for the English captain: the demands of honour and fame triumph over more basic desires. If we return briefly to Hawkesworth, the intertext of Vassallo’s libretto, we can better contextualize the image of the weeping Oberea. After

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It is not indeed strange that the sorrows of these artless people should be transient, any more than that their passions should be suddenly and strongly expressed: what they feel they have never been taught either to disguise or suppress, and having no habits of thinking which perpetually recall the past, and anticipate the future, they are affected by all the changes of the passing hour, and reflect the colour of the time, however frequently it may vary.16 The message is clear. Oberea won’t remain disconsolate for long. In terms of emotional expression, their total lack of dissembling brings them into line with Rousseauian ideals. This is supported by the thesis that they dwell in some way outside history, living in a perpetual present. The exploration of Tahitian affective life remains, in the light of such statements, ambivalent. On the one hand, the propensity to tears brings them into a kind of sympathetic communion with the Europeans, generating feelings of pity. On the other, the rapid shifts in emotional states underline their savage nature. Transient sorrows are not authentic sorrows it would seem. While the spectacle of emotional turmoil acted out by Oberea (and to a lesser extent Cook) remains the dominant drama, other Enlightenment discourses are also played out in this unlikely inter-cultural encounter. As already mentioned, Hawkesworth’s description suggested that an internecine political struggle had taken place on the peaceful isles. Translated into the idiom of pre-revolutionary Europe, it becomes a debate on the question of tyranny on the one hand, and on the benefits of Enlightenment catchwords on the other. Cook’s timely return to Tahiti prevents the ‘tyrant’ Mathabo exerting his cruel will over the rightful heir to the kingdom of Eparra, Oberea. As Cook phrases it: ‘We hasten to help my Queen./ Love, pity, reason be my beacons, and may their triple radiance/ inspire this heart with courage’ (28). He justifies his attack on Mathabo because the latter has transgressed, in Gore’s words, not just against this ‘triple radiance’ but also against the ‘sacred laws of humanity/ Which nature has planted in the heart/ of the most distant inhabitant of this earth’ (27). We are close here to the inalienable rights of man, which had already been enshrined in the American constitution. This is ultimately Cook’s justification in interfering in the political affairs of the Tahitians. Mathabo confronts him in the second act with this very question: ‘But you, who are you?/ Who has made you judge/ over the disputes of a distant and unknown land?’ Cook’s answer is simple and ‘enlightened’: ‘Reason, justice, and duty’ (39). Ridding foreign countries of tyrants by means of military force has become familiar again in our own times. The repeated use of the word in the libretto testifies to its emotive appeal and of course

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relating several instances of Tahitian’s propensity for sudden outbursts of emotion followed by equally quick recoveries, Hawkesworth, writing as Cook, concludes:

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to its possible redirection on the part of an Italian audience to ‘tyrants’, that is, absolute monarchies, closer to home. Turning now to the formal aspects of the work, we can discern an emphatic and programmatic concern with questions of authenticity. Vassallo presented his libretto as a kind of reform opera. He states programmatically in the preface that Italian opera has been too much preoccupied with stories from classical antiquity. In their place he emphatically demands: drama of universal validity and novelty. Costumes of a nation unknown until the middle of our century, a scenario that would present new views of landscapes, houses, fortifications and burial places, forms unknown in Europe. (3) Vassallo asks that opera turn its sights to the exciting recent discoveries and present them in a form corresponding to the actual practices and customs of the strange culture. He demands a mise en scène based on principles of cultural authenticity restricted only by the conventions of the operatic form itself. He admits that his adaptation is only loosely based on historical veracity: I admit that I have based my drama on historical facts and that I have included a number of anachronisms. There are characters who are historical persons: Mathabo, Cook, Gore, Tirido and Oberea. The love affair of that queen for an English captain is also true as is the latter’s affection for that people. Another historical fact is the war that Mathabo conducted against Oberea and the illegal annexation of the kingdom Eparra. These events I have woven into the action and combined them with episodes that make it more interesting. (4) In this sense the theatrical practices of late-eighteenth-century opera are little different from those of early twenty-first-century Hollywood which still follow the same basic strategy of ‘interesting episodes’ on the level of plot and character, but fetishistic attention to historical detail for set and costumes. Vassallo’s libretto features numerous footnotes attesting to the ethnographic accuracy of the customs and costumes presented. The notes elucidate Tahitian words, dance steps and elements of ritual and mythology, which draw extensively on Hawkesworth. Of particular interest are customs that could be construed as inhuman or cruel, such as the practice whereby women in mourning lacerate themselves with sharks’ teeth. The ending of the opera makes it clear that Cook’s humanizing influence will ultimately put an end to such barbarism. Characteristic for the early works is the central place given to dance, the cultural practice that had been so intensely observed, described and illustrated, as we saw in the previous chapter. The opera opens with a dance by the inhabitants of Eppara, and Vassallo comments: ‘The dance in

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Othaiti is an energetic language of feeling. All great expressions of feeling, whether they be pain or joy are communicated in dance’ (13). Such a phrase could have been lifted almost verbatim from the writings of the great mid-eighteenth-century ballet reformers and exponents of the ballet d’action, Jean-Jacques Noverre, or his rival Gasparo Angiolini. Both advocated reforming theatrical dance by introducing plausible stories that could be accommodated to the Aristotelian unities. Both stressed the importance of pantomimic rather than conventionalized movements to convey action and emotion. Two points are at issue here. One is the relationship between dance within opera, a vexed question which continued to be debated well into the nineteenth century. How could balletic interludes be included within the operatic line of action in a plausible manner? The subject of Europeans in Tahiti seemed to supply at last a suitable subject matter. As the published accounts stressed, for Tahitians dance appeared indeed to be ‘an energetic language of feeling’ and not an artificial convention. The second point refers to the new theories of naturalness in the performing arts that took hold in Europe during the Enlightenment. Dance and opera were always at a disadvantage when it came to justifying their aesthetic devices and conventions within the dominant discourse of naturalness. Again the South Seas provided a setting where, at this early date of reception at least, important questions of theatre aesthetics could be justified. To put it bluntly: Tahitians seemed to sing and dance at the drop of a hat, thus providing a kind of true-life behaviour not too far removed from the demands of opera itself. The subject of Captain Cook in Tahiti continued to circulate in Europe. However, it was the ballet and not the operatic version that found acclaim. Muzzarelli performed his dance pantomime throughout Italy, but it failed to amuse spectators at the court theatre in Vienna in 1791. As late as carnival 1801 we find an adaptation of Muzzarelli’s libretto being performed by the dancer and choreographer Lauchlin Dusquesney at Berlin’s Royal Court Theatre under his own authorship.17 As the story is basically the same as that of the opera, but less detailed of course (ballet librettos consist naturally just of descriptions of action), it will not be examined in any detail here. Of note is perhaps the genre. Dusquesney terms it a ‘ballo storico-pantomimo’, a designation that becomes rare in the following decades as the romantic ballet with its fantastical plots begins to gain dominance. Around 1800 it was, however, still possible to treat a historical theme such as Cook in Tahiti within the conventions of ballet.

Restaging first encounters: La Mort du Capitaine Cook While Italy may have been the first country to stage the Pacific explorations, the honour of the commercially most successful theatricalization must go to the English in the form of a pantomime, produced by a team including a Frenchman. The pantomime Omai, or A Trip round the World opened at

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Covent Garden in December 1785.18 It contained all the essential elements of popular South Seas theatrical reception, linking discourses of authenticity with exoticist modes of representation. Autochthonous performance forms (songs, dances, costumes) culminating in a spectacular procession of newly discovered Pacific peoples are replicated on stage in a quasiethnographic manner within the unlikely dramaturgical framework of a harlequinade. The final scene presented a ‘Great Painting’, entitled the Apotheosis of Captain Cook, which, beyond its dramaturgical function within the performance, was an image of considerable significance. The audience had been confronted throughout the evening with an unbroken succession of images, mostly exotic, some familiar. Tahitian burial places by moonlight alternated with views of Kensington Gardens, ‘Margate from the Pier’ shifted via Kamtschatka to the inside of a Siberian yurt, and Arctic icebergs were contrasted with a village scene in Tonga. This final image represented the deification of Cook in all the grandeur of a baroque history painting. The final scene of Omai, the Apotheosis of Captain Cook, provided material for the next major treatment of European heroism in the South Seas that was enacted three years later. The place this time was Paris, which shows that Cook had become not just an English but also a hero of European stature. Jean François Arnould-Mussot was the author of a four-act pantomime performed in 1788 at the Théâtre de l’Ambigu-Comique on the eve of the French Revolution. Like its English counterpart, the pantomime in France was a genre created to circumvent the licensing laws, which prevented all but two or three theatres from performing spoken drama. The French pantomime is a genre characterized by mime, dance and music so that the published text provides neither dialogue nor songs but only a detailed outline of the action. The place of performance, the Theatre de l’AmbiguComique on the famed Boulevard du Temple where vaudeville and puppet shows were presented, was the most renowned of the pantomime theatres in pre-revolutionary France. Arnould found himself in the same situation as his predecessors in that he was forced to navigate between the constraints of theatrical convention and the desire to present historical truth. He outlines his quandary in an ‘Avertissement’ which prefaces the published scenario. He stresses his desire to present this ‘mort tragique’ in a manner which is dignified and befitting the stature of a hero known throughout Europe, yet ‘the conventions of theatre have not always allowed us to follow truth exactly. We have rendered it as best as possible with respect to the costumes, manners, dances of the savages of the South Seas.’19 As usual, ‘truth’ or authenticity could only be approximated on the level of exterior signs and in the realm of performance, that is, dance. The author had put himself in a particularly difficult situation. By elevating the main character to tragic status, he was in fact creating from the outset an internal contradiction between subject matter and genre. The

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action, the ‘mort tragique’, required the genre of tragedy, which is reliant on the spoken word, the very medium the genre of pantomime had to eschew. The detailed descriptions of the scenario make clear that the performance did its utmost to achieve a sombre and dignified tone befitting the tragic subject matter. An English version of La Mort du Capitaine Cook was billed at Covent Garden in the following year. While playing in London, separate productions were presented at Dublin, Hull, Limerick, and perhaps other provincial centres as well. The programme summary published in Limerick for the performance at the New Theatre Royal there, advertised the play ‘as now exhibiting in London, Dublin and Paris, with universal applause’.20 Its somewhat oxymoronic title gave a clear indication that the story would emphasize scenographic effect rather than psychological subtlety: The Death of Captain Cook: A Grand Serious-Pantomimic-Ballet, In Three Parts. As now exhibiting in Paris with uncommon Applause with the original French Music, New Scenery, Machinery, and other Decorations.21 In comparison to the light operatic nature of the English pantomime with its satirical songs, the French variation of the genre, relied more heavily on non-verbal communication: music, dance and mimed action, even puppetry were its mainstays, buttressed of course by elaborate costumes and scenographic spectacle. Leaving aside the completely fictional treatment of Cook’s death – in Arnould-Mussot’s treatment he is caught in the middle of a jealous triangle and is the victim of savage treachery rather than ritual sacrifice – the pantomime is of interest from another perspective. As we have seen, all the theatrical versions of the Europeans in the South Seas examined so far shared a genuine interest in representing on stage the cultures encountered and described in a fashion that approximated to the scientific nature of the official accounts. La Mort du Capitaine Cook is the work that attempts to realize most exactly the dynamics of performative encounter examined in the previous chapter. Its non-verbal nature with much trumpeting, drumming, dexterous sign-making and elaborate ceremonies finds a precise theatrical equivalent in the dumbshow and musical emphasis of pantomime. The French text is more elaborate in its descriptive detail and the English version has only three instead of four acts. The names of the male native protagonists, Étoé and Oki, are changed to Koah and Pareea in the English translation, while the nameless ‘roi de l’isle’ in Paris becomes Terreeoboo in England. All three names derive from actual persons Cook encountered in Hawai‘i as recounted in the official account, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean (1784). This change in nomenclature in the English version creates a curious displacement between fiction and history. Terreeoboo [Kalani’opu’u] was the Hawaiian king who welcomed and hosted Cook. Koah [Ko’a’a] was an old priest, who initially conducted the elaborate ceremonies leading to Cook’s deification as Lono, but was attached to the king, as was Parea [Palea], another lower ranking chief. Opposed to Koah were the actual Lono priests

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who repeatedly warned the English of the latter’s treachery. The duplicitous Koah of the pantomime thus has some origin in the official accounts.22 An interesting textual feature of the French version is the use of italicized passages, which refer almost certainly to direct citations from the travel accounts. These passages document the creators’ concern with ethnographic detail. For example, in an elaborately staged wedding scene in Part 1 the English version specifies laconically that a ‘troop of female natives, preceded by four islanders, come down two and two dancing’ (7), whereas the French text is verbally and presumably scenographically much more explicit: ‘A troop of young natives [Sauvages]half-naked, their hair billowing, plaited and dyed in different colours, their heads decorated with bits of glass, red feathers and very pretty mussel shells    They are followed by several young girls who are also almost naked, their hair and head decorated with a bridal bouquet made of flowers.’23 Part 2 consists largely of a ceremonial encounter, which is enacted following almost slavishly the details found in the official accounts. Scene 1 opens on a beach, the stage of most first encounters. A ship actually appears in full view with Cook on the forecastle, a spy-glass in hand ‘with which he seems discovering the country’ (9) He waves a white flag to which the king responds by brandishing a green branch, actions which Cook enacted many times on encountering a new island. In the next scene military music is heard slowly approaching until ‘a detachment of marines appear marching two and two’ (9) followed by Cook and his officers who march up to the king. The white flag and green branch are waved once again in a reciprocal gesture: ‘The King orders his warriors to ground their arms; Captain Cook does the same; they advance and embrace, the King joining his nose to the Captain’s, as is customary among the Islanders’ (10) The exchange of gifts occupies the bulk of Scene 1 with the authors making specific reference to the ‘wonder and pleasure’ which beads, mirrors and other objects afford the natives. This is followed by a formal Heiva (in the French original the Tahitian term is used), ‘kieva, or feast’, in the English version. In terms of performance detail the French original is more elaborate with regard to the dance that follows. It specifies 16 dancers (male and female) and two musicians, one playing a drum the other, the nose-flute, and even glosses the style of movement employed: These dances are very lively; they move their feet with surprising agility. The dancers demonstrate considerable grace and dexterity in the way they move their hands and their fingers, which they clap following the rhythm of the drum. A singer also follows this same movement with vocal sounds or by clapping his hands.24 What the French or English dancers actually did, we cannot tell. It will be over a century before Richard Walton Tully includes indigenous Hawaiian

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dancers and singers in his Broadway production, The Bird of Paradise, as we shall see in Chapter 6. Nevertheless, the description is drawn, albeit in a composite form, from the published accounts. Whatever was performed, spectators were presented with something that attempted at least to imitate Tahitian or Hawaiian dance and music (such as the nose-flute). The next scene shows Cook and the King on board ship in the background. The action depicts trading from canoes and the growing familiarity between native girls and English sailors. This is a scene familiar in countless Hollywood movies but which finds its first theatricalization in an eighteenth-century French pantomime. The rest of this act is pure invention and culminates in the murder of Cook by Étoé (Koah in the English version). The final act, Cook’s funeral, relies once again on ethnographic detail. It stages in fact two funeral ceremonies in a kind of cross-cultural counterpoint. It opens with the European version. To the strains of a funeral march, marines enter carrying Cook’s body, which they deposit in the middle of the stage. They erect a pole bearing the following inscription: ‘To the Memory of Captain James Cook, 14th February 1779    the Islanders being spectators of the ceremony’ (17). When the British have completed their ceremony by firing their muskets in a final salute, they retire to the back of the stage. The natives then reciprocate with an elaborate ceremony, which seems to be a composite of Tahitian and Hawaiian rituals. The ceremony enacted in the pantomime is based to some extent on a funeral of an old English sailor, Will Watman, who died during Cook’s first sojourn on the island of Hawai‘i. The king had requested that he be buried on the marae: ‘At the request of Terreeoboo, the remains of this honest seaman were buried on the morai; the ceremony being performed with great solemnity. Kaoo and his brothers were present at the funeral, who behaved with great decorum, and paid due attention while the service was performing.’25 In contrast, Cook’s actual burial was anything but solemn. His body was dragged away from the beach and up to a temple where it was dismembered and distributed around the island. Like a wedding cake, the English got their ‘bit’, an upper thigh, 48 hours later. Together with some other charred remains they managed to consign it to a watery grave in Kealakekua Bay.26 The pantomime concludes with a natural rather than cultural sign. The active volcano in the background finally erupts with smoke and lava issuing forth. The suggestion is that the natives will be consumed by this natural calamity. In fact this ending begins a dramatic tradition that continued to erupt for the next 150 years. Voluntary or enforced immolation in active volcanoes became a standard device of South Seas popular culture in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Volcanic eruptions aside, Cook’s death was easily the most dramatic event that had eventuated so far in the Pacific. Others were to follow – such as the Mutiny on the Bounty – but even the adventures of Captain Bligh and Fletcher Christian never reached the stature of Cook’s murder on the beach of Hawai‘i.27 Dramatic and tragic events

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demand appropriate aesthetic treatment: apart from history paintings this could be best provided in the unlikely genre of the pantomime. The Death of Captain Cook ends the first phase of theatrical representation of the Pacific.28 The tension between authenticity and exoticism could not be sustained indefinitely. As the Pacific islands became better known, so did the modes of theatrical representation change. The central importance of the indigenous peoples and their customs begins to fade until the islands and the cultures themselves become little more than a backdrop for purely European dramas. The first phase of the circulation of mimetic capital was marked by the interaction between European explorers and indigenous peoples. The richly documented and illustrated reports led to a fascination with, and interest in, presenting ‘authenticity’ on stage. We have seen that the rise of new forms of stage spectacle coincided with the development of this new discourse formulated particularly in relation to Pacific explorations. If the first performances were marked by specificity of locale and culture, with utmost care being lavished on presenting Tahiti, the Friendly Islands, and Owhyhee ‘authentically’, then the next phase is characterized by a move to a generalized picture of the ‘South Seas’.

La Perouse and the imaginary Pacific Two years before Captain Bligh was forced to paddle across the Pacific in a leaky boat, a French explorer Jean François Galaup de la Pérouse had disappeared without a trace. In 1785 he had embarked with two frigates on a Pacific voyage which was later to be recognized as one of the most important in the eighteenth century, rivalled only by those of Cook. Planned as a French answer to Cook’s discoveries (and territorial acquisitions), he made important contributions to charting the northern reaches of the Pacific. En route to Kamschatka, La Pérouse was the first to safely navigate and chart the Japan Sea. From there he went to Australia, arriving at Botany Bay just hours after the arrival of the British with their first batch of convicts in the (in)famous First Fleet. On the way he had explored Samoa, discovering new islands. After leaving Australia, the expedition was never seen or heard of again. Forty years later an English trader, Peter Dillon, visiting the Solomon islands, discovered a piece of glass in a native’s nose which turned out to be from the ship’s thermometer. It was presumed that the expedition had been shipwrecked and killed by the natives. The disappearance was reported throughout Europe. The French despatched a search mission under the command of Count Bruny d’Entrecasteaux. His unsuccessful voyage between 1791 and 1794 (among other things he died before its completion) was also widely reported. On 20 April 1795, the widely acclaimed and frequently maligned German dramatist Augustus von Kotzebue (1761–1819) read in the Intelligenzblatt der Allgemeinen Literatur-Zeitung the following notice: ‘This much is known, that

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throughout the whole voyage not the slightest trace or piece of news of Monsieur Pérouse’s two ships was found. So it is now most probable that he perished somewhere in the South Seas.’29 From the point of view of boxoffice receipts, Kotzebue was by this time undoubtedly the most successful living German playwright. His sentimental drama of adultery Misanthropy and Repentance (1789) made him famous overnight and established the basic formula he would vary across genres approximately 200 times. Skilfully constructed dramatic tension is combined with comic relief, sentimental endings and moral didacticism. He particularly favoured exotic settings which provide the backdrop for romantic interests in plays such as The Indian Exiles, and Pizzaro: The Death of Rolla; or the conquest of Peru (adapted by Richard Sheridan). Kotzebue was acutely aware of social issues, not afraid of controversy, and part of his success as a dramatist lay in his ability to present current social questions on stage. The overwhelming success of his plays made them a mainstay of European theatre for over 30 years. His successful dramaturgical formula was also a seminal influence on the development of Anglo-American melodrama. His plays featured prominently throughout Europe and America until the mid-nineteenth century. By the time he read the newspaper report, Kotzebue had already visited the South Seas in his imagination and with his prolific pen. His drama Brother Moritz, the Eccentric, or the Colony for the Palau Islands (1791) ends with a utopian perspective that had its equivalents throughout romantic circles in Europe. The characters resolve to establish a colony on the newly discovered Palau islands in the South Seas. Brother Moritz is set, however, entirely in Europe so that the Pacific perspectives of the subtitle – the Palau islands (later to become a German colony) – are a construct of the imaginary Pacific which would continue to exert its hold on the European imagination. The Pacific of La Perouse is equally fanciful – the only ‘authentic’ aspect is the name of the title character. Kotzebue’s flight of fancy situated his eponymous hero on an island occupied only by La Perouse, his native wife Malvina, and their 8-year-old son, Charles. It transpires that the ‘young savage’ (Kotzebue’s appellation for Malvina) had rescued the shipwrecked captain from the waves, the only survivor of his ill-fated expedition, and then saved him anew from the murderous intentions of her father and brother. Left alone on the island for seven to eight years – the age of their son Charles – they had evidently enjoyed not only near perfect weather but also a relationship untroubled by the vagaries of normal social intercourse. The idyll is disturbed, however, by the arrival of a ship bearing an ominous cargo – relatives. In a teichoscopic opening scene, La Perouse stands on a cliff top and enjoys the ‘spectacle’ of a South Seas sunrise: La Perouse is standing on the highest point of a rock, and looking at the horizon. The mist disperses – yet still it seems in contention with the sun, and still its vapours cloud the surface of the sea. Thus does calumny

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The spectacle of nature is ruffled by the appearance of a white spot on the horizon. The sailor’s eyes strain to distinguish a cloud?, a seagull?, a swan?, before making out finally a ship’s sail. His excitement is understandable after eight years on the island. Elation and despair alternate until several exclamation marks later a cannon shot signals that the ship has anchored in the bay. La Perouse clambers down from his rock and charges across the stage without pausing to exchange even the simplest niceties with his devoted paramour Malvina. Shouting, ‘A ship! a ship! There, there!’ (4), he disappears, leaving her to ponder on the import of the arrival. It quickly becomes clear that Malvina is a marvel of the civilising process – an Eliza Doolittle of colonization. A fluent French speaker and devout Christian, Malvina is also equipped with the emotional make-up of a late eighteenth-century uppermiddle class society lady. Thanks to La Perouse’s influence, she has severed all ties with her family who dwell on a neighbouring island. Her only regret seems to be dissatisfaction with the name of her son, Charles, whom she would rather have called ‘Tomai, for that is his grandfather’s name’ (4). Malvina is evidently caught in the classic culture clash – wistfully maudlin at the severed dynastic ties, less than enthused at the prospect of company, but resolute in her dedication to the new nuclear family and her wifely duties: ‘We want no ship. Yet my good friend seemed to be glad, therefore I must be glad, for we never yet were happy singly’ (5). Her unease is well-founded, for the ship has already disgorged Perouse’s first wife, Adelaide, their son Henry, and Adelaide’s brother Clairville. More threatening and unsettling for the beachcomber than the direct confrontation with his first wife and child, however, is the emotional threat posed by his absent mother-in-law. In numerous entreaties by his European wife Adelaide, her memory (i.e. of the mother-in-law) is invoked as an emotional bludgeon to batter down the shipwrecked sailor’s affective defences. In a play punctuated primarily by exclamation marks there is very little room for emotional subtlety. The story begins in a register of ardent fervour (the unblighted love between La Perouse and his native girl) and moves quickly into even more intense outpourings of sentiment, oscillating between friendship (Adelaide–Malvina), romantic attraction (Perouse–Adelaide–Malvina), appeals to duty and visions of distraught mothers-in-law. The dramatic conflict is for the most part less one of European civilisation versus savagery and alterity than a moral debate of choice. Perouse, a paragon of uxoriousness, is caught between two wives. To whom should the greater loyalty be owed? To Malvina, mother of his child, saviour of his life, but not legally his wife? Or Adelaide, the loyal wife, also mother of his children, and legal spouse? In normal circumstances, such a situation requires

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overshadow virtue, and create imaginary forms, till it is at length absorbed by truth. Ha! what a spectacle!    30

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Adelaide: Sisters? [Seems for a moment buried in reflection] Sisters! – Good girl! you awake in me a consoling thought. Yes. Sisters let us be, if this man will be our brother. As we cannot share him, neither of us must possess him. [enraptured] We, as sisters, will dwell in one hut – he, as our brother, in another. He will assist us in educating our children. During the day we will form one happy family, and the evening shall part us. The mothers shall remain with their children – the father in his hut – Do you consent to this, Malvina? – and you, Perouse? Malvina: Willingly, if I may but see him. Perouse: With all my heart, if you be thereby satisfied. Clairville: Brother, I wish you joy. The treaty is concluded. Take each other’s hands, and ratify it by a warm embrace! Adelaide: [Goes towards La Perouse with outstretched arms.] A sister’s embrace! Clairville: As you please. I don’t dispute about expressions! Malvina: My friend! My brother! Perouse: [holding them both in his arms] My sisters! Charles: [Creeping to Malvina ] My mother is happy. Henry: [Hanging on Adelaide] My mother smiles again. Clairville: The paradise of innocence! [The curtain falls.] (40) Motivated no doubt by the setting of a Pacific island, Kotzebue constructs a heterotopia, a space of difference where new forms of social intercourse can be played out. The social model was not, however, a direct result of the Pacific setting. Other dramatists had already experimented with the menage-à-trois, most famously Goethe in his ‘Play for Lovers’, Stella (1776). Where the young Goethe ends his play with the famous line of the female character, ‘One house, one bed, one grave’, that is, a genuine menage-à-trois, Kotzebue’s domestic arrangement is definitely separate huts, with protofeminist tendencies as the women form a kind of gynocentric arrangement. The ‘Paradise of Innocence’ that brings down the curtain was not deemed so innocent by Kotzebue’s contemporaries. The Hamburg premiere, although in the hands of Friedrich Ludwig Schröder, one of the leading actor-managers in Germany, was not a success with only three performances.31 In Vienna it was banned altogether. Perhaps inspired by Goethe’s own problems with Stella, who revised his play into a tragedy (it too had met with a lukewarm reception), Kotzebue fashioned a new ending 20 years later. His friend and mentor Schröder had complained about the ending after the first reading. Writing to Kotzebue on

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in theatre the timely demise of one of the characters, usually a female one. It is perhaps the most innovative aspect of the play that Kotzebue proposes an unconventional solution:

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When reading through Perouse my friends and I wept a great deal – but the ending! The play as a whole creates the picture of an extraordinary youth, who is determined at the risk of his own life to climb an insurmountable cliff, overcomes the danger, has almost attained his goal, and then turns back.32 Clearly, the ending either scandalized or disappointed. Plays end traditionally in death or marriage and since the title character was already married, death was the only alternative. The second version ends over Malvina’s dead body. She takes her own life, sacrificing herself so that La Perouse and Adelaide may live a scandal-free bourgeois existence: ‘Malvina: I have now recognized – and felt it – we three cannot be happy – neither here nor in your fatherland. Three victims bleed when fate demands but one.’33 Her justification is based however on shaky theology: Malvina: [To Perouse] I have prayed to your god as you taught me, prayed with hot fervour, there where the bush with its bright fruit tempts your boy. – See, there God awoke pious thoughts in me – and I stretched out my hand for the fruit –.34 That the pious thought is suicide suggests that Perouse’s religious instruction has been less than thorough. Clearly, however, the ending is emotionally more satisfying. Somebody had to go and the death of the little native girl, even with a child, would set the pattern for a succession of Orientalist dramas and operas, in which native women would make the ultimate sacrifice for their European lovers. As we will see in Chapter 6, the settings could be Japan or equally Hawai‘i.35 Another point to be considered is the resolve to remain on the island and begin a colony. The image of Europe is characterized by both decadence (‘I am an European [sic!] and subject to hateful passions’ (32) says Adelaide to Malvina) and moral chaos (Clairville mentions an encounter with an Englishman, ‘who was taking petty thieves to Botany Bay, and had left the greater in Europe’ (37)). Clairville, a mouthpiece of the politically conservative author here, espouses anti-revolutionary sentiments, a point which went largely unnoticed. The political resonances are overshadowed by the provocative marital utopia of the first version which seemed paradoxically to both confirm and refute the popular image of sexual promiscuity in the South Seas. Like Gl’Inglesi in Othaiti, La Perouse entered the circulation of mimetic capital and underwent substantial transformations of both plot and genre.

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9 December 1795, he attested to the play’s considerable sentimental effect, which was, however, counteracted by what he considered its anticlimatic conclusion:

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Despite its inauspicious beginnings on stage, it embarked on a 50-year voyage through European theatrical culture – its vicissitudes comparable with those of its real-life hero. It was adapted into a pantomime (London, 1801), a ballet (Naples, 1822) and back into a drama (Paris, 1859). While the drama was promptly translated into English (including Dutch and Italian versions), the performance in London met with the same reception as in Germany. The ending was doubly unacceptable: it was considered either immoral, or simply incomprehensible that a European male, and a French one at that, should spend the rest of his days in the South Seas in a state of sexual abstinence, especially considering the well-publicized temptations that the public knew awaited seafarers to the Pacific. Kotzebue’s Pacific island was in this sense indeed a u-topia, in the etymological sense of ‘no place’. Failure as a drama does not mean failure in the theatre (at least not on the London stage). Two years later the plot and subject matter were put through the grinder of pantomimic adaptation and emerged as La Pérouse: or, the desolate island. Despite vigorous objection to the play’s ‘immoral’ thrust, another section of the London theatre establishment had a keen eye and ear for public taste. On the 28 February 1801 the pantomime opened at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, as the second half of a double bill with Ben Jonson’s Every Man and his Humour. The team included the author John Fawcett who had made a name for himself the year previously with the pantomime Obi, or Three-finger’d Jack, a spectacle set in Jamaica revolving around the practices of Obeah (the Jamaican equivalent of Voodoo), and the composers John Moorehead and John Davy,36 as well as a large group of set designers and decorators. An announcement in The Times a few days later revealed that the demands of public taste had been met: ‘The ground-work and principal incidents of the superb Exhibition, are borrowed by Mr. Fawsett, the Artist, from Kotzebue’s acting Drama of La Pérouse; but the immorality of the denouement in the original has been judiciously omitted.’37 However, the changes constituted more than just expurgation or refinement: It is avowedly an alteration from a piece of Kotzebue, but we are glad to find that much of the immorality which disgraces the German original, as well as many of the incidents that render it absurd, are omitted. If Kotzebue did not write so fast; if he were obliged to consult sound morals and good taste, the genius he possesses might enable him to produce something worthy to last, but present favour has ruined his claims to the attention of posterity.38 The question of what represents absurdity in the construction of a dramatic plot is clearly historically contingent, as closer examination of the adaptation reveals. What in Kotzebue is clearly a human drama here metamorphoses into a feral one. The title character saves the life of a chimpanzee twice:

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once by shooting a hungry bear, and the second time from the predations of (presumably equally ravenous) natives from a neighbouring island. When Pérouse is wounded by a poisoned arrow, the chimp sucks the venom from the wound. He is thus saved, not by a native woman, but by an animal. He does become enamoured of a native girl called Umba, or rather she becomes enamoured of him, whereupon he saves her from another bear. With the arrival of Pérouse’s wife and son, Umba’s love turns to jealousy. Far from entertaining utopian notions of abstinence and feminist solidarity, she instructs her countryman Kanko to dispose of the faithless Frenchman. What the action now gains in tempo it loses in verisimilitude: Kanko steals into Pérouse’s hut; the chimpanzee saves Pérouse’s son, but his master and family are taken prisoner; Pérouse is lashed to a cliff and is about to be burned when the chimp frees and arms him with a pistol. Pérouse promptly shoots Kanko just before he kills Madame Pérouse. Their son is pushed off a cliff by the other natives but Pérouse in a circensian trick catches him in the nick of time. French soldiers arrive and put the savages ‘to the rout’.39 Needless to say the critics were not amused: ‘In judicious hands, Perouse might have been rendered a very interesting subject, instead of being what it is now, a mere vehicle for pageantry, frippery, and puerile exhibition’, noted censoriously the critic from The dramatic censor.40 This did not prevent him from devoting to this ‘Pantomimical olio’ an extended disquisition on the subject of verisimilitude. Finally, though, he finds words of approval for the scenery which commands within the conventions of the genre its own legitimation, ‘which is avowedly intended as an appeal to the eye, not to the judgement.’41 To this dichotomy we shall return in the next section. The public, however, seemed to enjoy the mixture of circensian and exotistic entertainment because La Pérouse: or, the desolate island sustained itself on the London stage for almost 50 years in various adaptations. It also spawned an Italian ballet Il naufragio di La Perouse. The pantomime reveals the distance travelled in 15 years since Omai and the Death of Captain Cook. Fawcett’s adaptation was set somewhere ‘north of Japan’, where bears, chimpanzees and natives commingled. The waning interest in ‘verisimilitude’ or ‘authenticity’ cannot be adduced to the choice of genre alone as the ‘dramatic censor’ argued. It would seem rather that the mimetic capital of the first voyages of exploration was becoming exhausted, at least on the level of theatrical representation. In the language of the contemporary media, the next move was to ‘reality TV’, a confrontation with the real not the represented thing.

A royal revue: their Sandwich Majesties In 1824 the British public was able to encounter the authentic Pacific in the flesh and in the theatre. Since 1790 the Hawaiian or Sandwich islands, as they

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were still known, had been ruled over by an indigenous monarch. Through conquest Kamehameha I (c.1738–1819) had become ruler of all the Hawaiian islands, which had been previously governed by warring chiefs. Although he was cordial to the traders who visited the islands and encouraged the introduction of their technology, he also insisted on the preservation of the ancient customs and religious beliefs of Hawai‘i. This changed dramatically when his son, Liholiho (Kamehameha II), succeeded to the throne in 1819. During his short reign, American missionaries were admitted to the islands for the first time and the tapu system was abolished. For a combination of diplomatic and social reasons Kamehameha II and his Queen Ka’ahuamanu sailed for England aboard the English whaling ship L’Aigle in November 1823, accompanied by a small royal retinue. The British press tracked their progress before and during their visit, which ended tragically with the death of both king and queen from measles after little more than a month in London. English protocol has always found it difficult to accommodate aristocratic personages of uncertain cultural pedigree, but has traditionally tended to err on the side of propriety, preferring to give native guests the benefit of the doubt. That there existed some ‘saucy doubt’ as to their place on the great ladder of protocol, that is, whether they should be accorded a Royal audience for example, is discussed in a number of editorials. A leading article in the Evening Paper argues that a ‘King is a King’ and that ‘accidents of civilization can surely make no difference in dignity.’42 King George reportedly declared that he was not going to meet a ‘pair of d—d cannibals’.43 The Hawaiian royal couple was compared favourably to dilapidated and impoverished German sovereign houses for example, who would most certainly be accorded the appropriate protocol. The Times had difficulty finding the correct register with which to describe the Hawaiian royal party, especially their apparel which appeared on the one hand European, but also mixed with indigenous elements. The writer is also unsure whether he is describing a human or zoological curiosity: ‘The two males appeared in European costumes’ and were deemed ‘exceedingly stout. The females are equally fat and coarse made.’44 Another commentator found a precedent in the visit to court in 1734 of a delegation of Creek Indians and cites at some length the perorations of both parties.45 One of the first articles to announce their visit is able to assuage most anxieties: His Majesty is of very gentlemanly appearance, and but for the darkness of his complexion, which is of very deep copper colour, might pass for an Englishman, having in every respect correctly adopted our costume. The Queen is not so tall nor of so robust an appearance as had been represented. Her Majesty is certainly a fine full grown lady, but very little above the middle stature; she is remarkably well made, possesses an open and very agreeable countenance, not devoid even of sweetness and sensibility,

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With ‘good eyes and teeth’ offsetting a deep copper colour and their partially correct adoption of English dress modes, it appeared that their Sandwich majesties could almost ‘pass’. Another report had described her Majesty as a ‘large woman’ fond of smoking cigars. It was little wonder they immediately attracted attention and became, like their Native American precedents in the eighteenth century, a kind of travelling amusement show. One paper notes: ‘These personages are still remaining at the Adelphi Hotel, and continue to attract attention by exhibiting themselves at the windows.’

Figure 4 King Rheo Rhio [Liholiho] and Queen Kamehameha [Ka’ahumanu] delighted at the performances of Punch (1824), lithograph, hand col., 29 × 37 cm Source: By permission of the National Library of Australia.

The first public performance they attended was the Fantoccini, the puppet theatre. This attendance, rather than the performance itself, was of such interest that it occasioned a colour illustration, a number of which were produced in connection with the stay (Figure 4) and a number of reports in the press: ‘Yesterday morning they had another treat in witnessing the performances of Ramo Samee, Black Billy, Harlequin, Columbine and Clown, in the Fantoccini.’ Another reports: ‘A gratifying treat was yesterday afforded

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with good eyes and teeth, and is by no means deficient in gracefulness of manner or elegance of demeanour. Already, with the exception of headdress, which is very plain, has she, like her Royal Husband, conformed in a great degree to the English mode of dress.46

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them by the performances of Mr Punch and his family, whose merits they acknowledged by an ample reward; they were also highly delighted by an exhibition of the Fantoccini.’47 The illustration, a hand-coloured lithograph, was probably first printed in the The Lady’s Magazine. Whatever its provenience, it commemorates a street performance of a puppet theatre outside the Adelphi hotel where their majesties were staying. While the caption states explicitly - ‘King Rheo Rhio and Queen Kamehameha delighted at the performances of Punch’ – the turbulent collection of figures makes it difficult to locate the royal visitors. They are visible on the balconies of the hotel. The type of performance they were persuaded to watch must give us pause to think. Although puppet theatre in the early nineteenth century was by no means ‘just’ children’s theatre, it was becoming increasingly that. In addition the choice of figures such as Ramo Samee (a form of black sambo) and Black Billy suggest this royal command performance was motivated by the same sentiments of condescension that flow through many of the articles. The press reported regularly on their public appearances, which seemed to centre almost entirely on performances of different kinds. Apart from frequent visits to the theatre they were seen at the horse races, military parades, at a ‘grand fete’ hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, and they even attended a trial at the Old Bailey, one of England’s most famous arenas of performative encounter.48 As one London paper put it, they were ‘extremely anxious to view the curiosities of this great metropolis’.49 The pleasure was, however, all London’s, as the articles make clear: the Hawaiians were themselves the curiosities. The major theatrical entertainments they attended were indeed designed especially for them. At the beginning of June they visited the Covent Garden and Drury Lane theatres in one week. Their attendance at Covent Garden was itself clearly a performance to rival the play, as the reporter notes: ‘They were hailed on their entrance with plaudits, which the King acknowledged by bowing repeatedly to the audience, and the curtain being drawn up immediately, the whole of the vocal corps came forward and sang “God save the King”.’50 The major disappointment was, however, the well publicized fact that the ‘Royal party were not dressed in their native costume    It having been publicly understood that the Royal Strangers did not intend to appear in their peculiar costume, many persons probably absented themselves on that account.’ That the theatre was by no means full may also have been due to the play ‘selected for the occasion’. It was none other than August von Kotzebue’s hugely popular treatment of the Spanish conquest of Peru, Pizzaro, which had been performed more or less regularly for the past 20 years, followed by an afterpiece The Spirits of the Moon; or, the Innundation of the Nile. The reasons for the choices of play? ‘[A]s it [Kotzebue] afforded an extensive display of scenery, procession, and decorations, it was well calculated to attract the attention of those for whose immediate entertainment it was brought forward.’ It is clear that the writer has a clear position in the

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great pantomime–melodrama debate and the problem of spectacular theatre forms. Discussion had been raging for some time over the dominance of spectacular and melodramatic forms. A few years later, in 1832, a parliamentary select committee brought out a report on ‘Laws Affecting Dramatic Literature’. In ‘legitimate drama’ the report argued, the ‘interest of the piece is mental’.51 In consequence, ‘illegitimate drama’ emphasized scenic display, the visualization of central action points, particularly moments of affective arousal. Kotzebue’s Pizarro, as in all his plays, did not stint in such ‘realizations’, as Martin Meisel has termed them.52 The most famous was probably the moment where the Indian chief Rolla protects a child from the Spaniards, so it is not surprising that the writer chooses it for special comment: The Royal Party seemed to pay considerable attention to the business of the stage, especially in the latter part. Cora’s child was an object of interest with them; and when Rolla rushed upon the stage, in the last scene, with the infant on his arm, and the wounds received in protecting it, exhibited on his forehead, the Queen was strongly affected. Indeed throughout the Piece, she manifested a degree of sensibility which rendered her an object of peculiar attention to the audience.

Figure 5 The king and queen of the Sandwich Islands, and suite, at Covent Garden Theatre (1824), engraving, hand col.; 91 × 13 cm Source: By permission of the National Library of Australia.

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He refrains from making any comment about the play or production, which he notes, ‘has been so often performed and criticized’. The impression is gained that the reactions in the Royal box were of greater interest to the spectators than the familiar antics on stage. While it is not uncommon for visitors to the theatre to be of greater amusement than the play, what is unusual is the form of theatricality where the spectators’ reactions are tracked in relationship to the action on stage. In the engraving reproduced (Figure 5) we can see how European spectators on the far left of the picture struggle to catch a glimpse of their ‘Sandwich Majesties’ being entertained. Unfortunately the afterpiece, The Spirits of the Moon, was also suitable for the special guests, ‘a brilliant spectacle which could not fail to attract minds most likely to be affected by shew.’ What categories of ‘minds’ these were, did not need to be spelled out. The final ‘brilliant spectacle’ that their Sandwich Majesties afforded London and Londoners was tragically their own death. Both contracted measles: the Queen died on 8 July, the King on 14 July. The funerals of both occasioned considerable comment, mainly because the Hawaiian royal party decreed that indigenous ‘sepulchral rites’ be performed. Indeed, what had been staged 35 years earlier in the The Death of Captain Cook was going to be carried out, if not in full view, at least for real in St Martin’s Church. In fact, the couple were given a double burial as in the French pantomime. The Times reported: ‘On Saturday morning the remains of the Queen of the Sandwich Islands (after having been embalmed by Mrs McGregor) were laid out according to the English custom, and placed in a leaden coffin    The native attendants, after performing the funeral services of the Sandwich people proceeded to lay the Queen in state according to the manner of their island.’53 There followed an elaborate account of this practice, which involved the placing of sacred objects with the corpse. Such details attracted more than passing curiosity. It was reported that body snatchers had attempted to abduct, if not the bodies, at least the treasured objects so a guard was placed on the church.54 ∗

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The funeral of the Hawaiian royal couple was the last major theatrical event depicting the South Seas for quite some time. While the geographical area continued to be explored, missionized and colonized, its artistic representation shifted away from the stage. Prose fiction became the dominant aesthetic form with writers such as Melville, Stevenson, London and Loti producing a rich literary tradition.55 The Pacific appeared intermittently on the Parisian stage with various versions of the Perouse story and a romantic ballet by Jean Coralli, Ozai (1847), featuring a love story between a Tahitian princess and Bougainville, who finally makes an appearance as a stage character.56 During the first half of the nineteenth century, the

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most sustained and dramatic conflicts were being enacted on the islands themselves between the islanders and the English missionaries who arrived in the late 1790s to convert and save the savages. To do this, though, they had to do battle with indigenous belief systems, which were based on an intricate performance culture. This struggle between missionaries who were suspicious of theatricality in any form whatsoever and the by now proverbial Polynesian love of performance in its all its manifestations is the subject of the next chapter.

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Comedians and Crusaders: Anti-Theatrical Prejudice in the South Seas

When the English ship Duff put down anchor at Matavai Bay in March 1797, the local people had clear expectations of what was awaiting them. European, and particularly English, ships had been visiting there for the past 30 years. As we saw in the first chapter, such visits were framed by predictable performance procedures. The local chiefs went aboard bearing gifts, to which the visitors reciprocated in kind, who were then invited ashore and entertained by a heiva. Indeed, the Duff was honoured by a visit from the paramount chiefs of the district, including Tu (Otoo), now known as Pomare, who had already made acquaintance with Captain Cook. In fact, Pomare had, as Georg Forster related, developed a keen interest in bagpipes and sailors’ hornpipes. After the formalities had been settled, which included a gift of land to accommodate the new visitors, the ship’s commander, Captain Wilson, related that Pomare desired some amusement: the chief thought it was time to inquire after entertainments; and first sky-rockets, next the violin and dancing, and lastly the bagpipe, which he humorously described by putting a bundle of cloth under his arm, and twisting his body like a Highland piper. When we told them that we had none of these, they seemed rather dejected; therefore, to revive them, a few tunes were played.1 Little did the Tahitians know, the vessel carried a very special cargo. About to disembark was the first group of missionaries sent out by the Missionary Society of London (later to be renamed the London Missionary Society, LMS) to the Pacific comprising 26 artisans, four missionaries, six women and three children. The Tahitians were soon to learn that these Europeans had little time for sky-rockets, dancing or bagpipes. The pantomimic antics of Pomare probably elicited hardly a smile from these first colonists. But most portentously, the arrival of this small group presaged the beginning of the 74

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end of the Tahitian religion and its related performance practices, which were, as we shall see, inextricably entwined. With the arrival of European missionaries in the Pacific, the relationship between colonization and Polynesian performance took on a new dimension. While it is well known, indeed part of Pacific-European mythology, that missionaries did all they could to ban ‘licentious dancing’, this propagandistic catchword obscures more complex and less clear-cut relationships between the missionaries and their converts, and religion and performance. What was declared to be ‘licentiousness’ was in part an official epithet for a more complex problem of imposing Christian doctrine. While the missionaries certainly witnessed performances that even by today’s standards would be considered pornographic, this was by no means the norm. More importantly, the missionaries recognized quickly that performance and worship were part of the same system. By banning performance they effectively cut off the life-blood of the religion without having to address it on a doctrinal level. While this battle was a protracted one, they ultimately won the war and destroyed performance traditions that were never to be revived in their original form. It is important to note that in the following remarks, the focus will be primarily on the LMS missionaries and the first mission in the Pacific they established in Tahiti. In the course of the nineteenth century other Protestant denominations, most importantly the Anglicans and Wesleyans, also became involved as did the Catholic Church, represented principally by the French Marist brotherhood. There were significant differences in the approaches followed, and in some islands such as Samoa, downright rivalry emerged between the different groups. Whereas the Catholic brothers were often more accommodating of indigenous practices and even allowed these to be syncretized in some cases with Catholic ecclesiastical ceremonies, the first Protestant missions, especially the LMS and its American spiritual counterpart in Hawai‘i, the New England-based American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, tended to be uncompromising in their opposition to native religion.2 The first mission was established in Tahiti and there the LMS missionaries were confronted with the arioi, a religious cult and society whose members were performance specialists. They moved around the islands feasting and performing in a way that reminded early visitors and missionaries alike of strolling or vagabond players. The latter had of course been a bone of contention in Europe since the Renaissance and the object of massive opposition by Church authorities. By the mid-eighteenth century, the battle against the theatre, which had been waged primarily by Protestants throughout Europe, had been lost. As we shall see, this deeply rooted ‘anti-theatrical prejudice’ was then exported to the South Seas. Much missionary discourse against performance (and this applies to most areas where they were active) seems to rehearse the same, often very sophisticated, arguments put forward by

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the anti-theatrical fraternity. The South Seas become for the missionaries a new testing ground for a doctrinal battle now being carried out in a new theatre of war. The first section of the chapter will look in detail at the arioi, the ‘comedians of the land’ as they were known, and the anti-theatrical prejudice the missionaries propagated. It is one of the unhappy ironies of Pacific colonization that an extremist fringe of Europe came to have such an influence, becoming effectively synecdochal of Western culture. The theatrical transactions between Europeans and Polynesians examined in the opening chapter should be borne in mind when examining how such relationships were varied in the new and highly labile power relations characteristic of missionization. In terms of the wider question of theatricality outlined in the introduction, we shall see that missionary actions and discourse were framed within two almost contradictory variants. Primarily they were motivated by the widespread suspicion of all things that smacked of duplicity, deceit and, in more instrumental terms, of represented actions that could elicit mimetic imitations. They were staunch advocates of the anti-theatrical prejudice as we shall see. Within the broader discussion of theatricality and visuality they of course, advocated the primacy of the written word, both divine and otherwise. Yet, as we shall see, they made use of performance procedures themselves. For all their opposition to theatrical amusements, the missionaries made extensive use of such devices for their own purposes. On the islands this penchant for the spectacular manifested itself in elaborately staged baptisms; back home in England, it found expression in propagandistic tableaux vivants and in visual demonstrations of the efficacy of conversion. Indeed it would be unwise to see missionization as a purely theological undertaking, effected mainly by sermons and bible study. From the outset the missions linked spreading the word of God with the introduction of Western technology and made use of Western media such as the printing press and the magic lantern. As was so often the case with cross-cultural encounters in the Pacific, the neat conceptual and behavioural categories elaborated at home could not be sustained on the islands.

Plato’s legacy A contemporary historian of South Pacific missionary endeavours, Niel Gunson, has described the first missionaries, although interdenominational and not members of one particular sect or church, as ‘spiritual descendants of the Puritans’.3 The latter’s long history of opposition to theatre and dancing needs little exemplification and the Evangelical movement, to which all the missionaries were in some form attached, continued this opposition well into the twentieth century. The Evangelical movement, which can be traced back to Calvin and his various descendants, spawned many offshoots in different countries. The basis of the movement is the concept of revivalism, where an individual is reborn through a spiritual experience, usually

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the personal recognition and affirmation of Christ having died for one’s sins. The intense focus on individual experience of religion rather than by collective upbringing is a distinguishing characteristic of the Evangelists. As Gunson puts it: ‘The missionaries who went out to convert the heathens were as much concerned with their own souls as with those of their coloured brethren.’4 One of the most influential disciples in Britain was John Wesley, the founder of Methodism. Like his Puritan ancestors, Wesley stated that he could not see a serious tragedy ‘with a clear conscience; at least not in an English theatre, the sink of all profaneness and debauchery’.5 The Evangelical opposition to performances of most kinds had two main motivations. On a more superficial level, dancing and dramatic play were considered to be fundamentally non-utilitarian; a waste of (God’s) time. The opposition had also more deeply rooted motivations as Gunson notes: ‘Many of the Evangelicals also believed that dramatic representation was bad, not only for the traditional reasons, but because of the Platonic notion that imitation is bad in itself.’6 This deeply rooted and ancient distrust of the stage has been termed by Jonas Barish the ‘anti-theatrical prejudice’, who locates its origins and persistence in a fear of theatricality in its various guises: ‘the insidious theatricality of life and the exhilarating theatricality of art’.7 While Platonic ontology renders all objects of perception basically suspect, the arts of representation, by mimetically doubling an illusory world of appearances, exacerbate an already less than satisfactory state of affairs. Indeed Plato’s Republic, along with early Christian opponents to Roman theatre, provides the starting point for all diatribes against the theatre. The English anti-theatrical tradition (which has its counterparts in most European countries with flourishing theatre cultures) culminated in Jeremy Collier’s famous Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage (1698), in which Collier not only revives the Puritan arguments of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries but develops elements of theatrical theory while at the same time damning the medium. His arguments reached a new level of sophistication, which even the most ardent supporters of the stage found hard to refute. Although the anti-theatrical discussion had a famous revival in the mideighteenth century with Rousseau’s Lettre à d’Alembert, as a serious social debate it had, despite Collier’s rhetorical victory, run its course. It did not disappear, however, but rather went underground and was sustained by the Evangelical movement in countless sermons and tracts. A summary of contemporary Evangelical opposition to the theatre can be found in a sermon published in 1805 by George Burder, a director of the LMS and ‘extremely influential with the missionaries in the Pacific’.8 Although entitled ‘Lawful Amusements’, the bulk of the tract is devoted to the, from the Evangelical perspective, ‘unlawful’ variety.9 Apart from a few predictable remarks on amusements on Sunday and cruel or profane sports

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such as bear-baiting, two forms of entertainment occupy Burder’s attention. These are the playhouse and dancing. The former is excoriated on all counts and in all aspects: audience, actors and plays. For Burder the playhouse and brothel are scarcely distinguishable, mere sliding points on a continuum of depravity. The ‘Flesh-market of the metropolis’ has a magnetic attraction for sinners and Burder poses the rhetorical question: ‘Is there a loose, debauched, depraved, ungodly man or woman, who, generally speaking, does not frequent the Theatre?’ (6–7). The players are predictably of the same ilk whose company should be avoided at all cost. Most dangerous, however, are the plays themselves, as they consist of, quoting a fellow Evangelist, ‘love intrigues, blasphemous passions, profane discourses, lewd descriptions, filthy jests, and all the most extravagant rant of wanton, profligate persons of both sexes, heating and inflaming one another with all the wantonness of address, the immodesty of gesture, and lewdness of thought that art can invent’ (8) Burder discounts as specious the traditional eighteenth-century argument that folly and vice must be first represented in order to be exposed and corrected. This is tantamount to taking poison to ‘cure a pimple’. In the unlikely event that the tragedy or comedy performed be in fact morally sincere, its beneficial effects are rendered useless by the ‘Interludes, the Dances, the Scenery and the Music’, that is, the afterpieces, which can be relied on to dissipate the mind and ‘to render    the rules of virtue and religion irksome and disgusting’ (9) Burder cites extensively from Jeremy Collier to locate his own arguments in a discursive history of opposition to the stage, while at the same time providing associative annotations to Collier’s ‘authorities’. One such association is a bold leap from Tacitus on ‘German ladies’ to a broadside against the ‘seducing dramas of Germany’, meaning the plays of Kotzebue. These come in for more sustained and explicit criticism later on when plays such as Pizarro and The Stranger are singled out for special mention on account of their positive portrayal of strumpets and adulteresses. In a long appendix, Burder returns to Kotzebue or the ‘German School’ yet again and analyses in some detail Pizarro and Virgin of the Sun because both plays ‘place Paganism on a level with [Christianity]’. Equally unlawful, but more difficult to condemn unequivocally is dancing in almost all its forms. Burder concedes that it is ‘a natural expression of joy, common to all nations’ and that David danced before the ‘Ark of God to express the exultation of his soul’ (18). What cannot be condoned is mixed dancing with its tendency to ‘awaken immoral passions’ (19). Needless to say, theatrical dancing focuses all the potential dangers of dance, as it unites both sexes and in its pantomimic tendencies lends itself to conveying and inciting wanton thoughts in the spectators. Music, on the other hand, had a more complex position within the missionary aesthetic economy. As the vehicle of hymn singing and basically non-mimetic it was, on the one hand, beyond reproach. Yet, in connection with dancing or even worse, theatre, it had little or no legitimacy. Italian opera was considered the very epitome

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of depravity. As late as the mid-nineteenth century a missionary periodical could denounce ‘operas and theatres’ as the ‘very essence of carnality’.10 Judging the world, or at least England, by Burder’s sermon, we can see that the missionaries were leaving a very sinful place. Although they would never admit it in so many words, the battle against theatrically induced corruption at home was, however, basically lost. With the exception of anomalies such as Rousseau’s Geneva, the institutions of theatre were well established and flourishing. To create a world free of the theatricality of life and art, it would be necessary to start afresh, in places far from the depravity and the ubiquity of theatre-related amusements. Such a place might in fact be found in the South Seas, where, the founders of the LMS had decided, many souls could be saved and new forms of social and spiritual intercourse could be introduced. It needs to be stressed, however, that even by the standards of late eighteenth-century British religious culture, the LMS missionaries who set out for Tahiti (and many other places throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries) represented a minority group with extreme views. While their abomination of ‘savage’ practices such as infanticide would have been shared by the mainstream of British society back at home, this was not the case for their opposition to dancing, whether in Tahitian or English style.

Arioi te fenua: comedians of the land When the Duff arrived in Tahiti in 1797, the missionaries were under no illusions as to the hard labour awaiting them. Some had, of course, read Hawkesworth and Cook, and perhaps even Bougainville. They knew therefore that licentiousness was ubiquitous and by no means a preserve of the stage or brothel but apparently a fact of public life. What they could not immediately grasp were the complex interrelationships between performance and religious culture, both of which they had to contend with and ultimately remove if they were to finally prevail in their self-appointed task of bringing civilization and salvation to the Polynesian islands. No institution of Tahitian society better encapsulated the need for salvation and civilization than the arioi. A hierarchically organized cult, the arioi paid homage to the god Oro by means of elaborate festivities combining dancing, singing and dramatic pantomimes. Members could be of either sex and they enjoyed considerable freedom in an otherwise highly stratified society. They also embodied what the missionary John Williams termed the ‘great’ and the ‘smaller evils’. The great evils were indisputably warfare, cannibalism and infanticide. To these were added the minor although still objectionable forms: ‘going in a State of Nudity or nearly so, cutting & scratching themselves in seasons of grief – tatooing their bodies. Eating raw fish, their lewd dances &c but the great Evils will requite your first attacks & then the smaller.’11 With the exception of cannibalism, the arioi were guilty on all counts. Infanticide, perhaps the most heinous of the ‘great’ evils, was

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linked primarily to the fact that the members were forbidden to have children. Yet, it was not a practice restricted exclusively to the arioi but carried out throughout the Tahitian and indeed other Pacific islands as a form of population control. Ethnographers have reconstructed retrospectively the chief elements of the cult, which did not, and could not, survive missionization. Since the arioi were no longer active after the 1820s, this reconstruction was heavily reliant on the early explorers and the missionaries themselves.12 The origins of the cult were relatively recent. According to oral testimony and traditions, it probably had its genesis on the island of Raiatea in the sixteenth century and was linked to a fertility cult associated with the god Oro, or more precisely his two brothers, who were worshipped through the maro’ura, a cult object in the form of red feather girdle.13 By the time Cook arrived, the sect had spread throughout the Society group. Entry into the cult was by means of an initiation ceremony. Before admittance, novices were trained in performance practices such as singing, dancing, the art of genealogical recitation and pantomime. The initiation ceremony was an elaborate rite of passage in which the novices were costumed, anointed, given new names and, finally, tattooed. Within the sect there were eight ranks recognizable by tattoo marks and dress codes. Advancement through the ranks was possible and marked by a public ceremony and new tattoo marks. Life within the society appeared to be, at least to outsiders, a prolonged round of festivities and performances as they moved from district to district. When performing, the arioi were recognizable by highly distinctive clothing and make-up that all observers remarked upon. They dyed their faces red and blackened their bodies with candle-nut soot. A visit by an arioi troupe meant a major religious ceremony for the host village or district. Offerings were made to the god Oro, gifts were exchanged and the local chief was expected to feast the visitors. They reciprocated with extended performances that frequently lasted the whole night. The performances were often framed by a subtle politics of opposition to the power of the chiefs to whom the arioi stood in a relationship of covert, and occasionally overt, opposition. The opening speech of the leading arioi contained, as Jonathan Lamb has noted, ‘a veiled threat’ to the power of the chiefs:14 ‘I stand comedian of the land that vibrates to the sound of the gun.’15 Within the formulaic strictures of Polynesian rhetorical forms, the latter shows how recent history, that is, the arrival of the Europeans, could be integrated and instrumentalized by subtly alluding to the recent visitors as a new force in local power struggles. The missionary William Ellis, who observed their activities firsthand in the early nineteenth century, provides an account mixing his characteristic blend of ethnographic exactitude and moral disgust: Their public entertainments frequently consisted in delivering speeches, accompanied by every variety of gesture and action; and their representations, on these occasions, assumed something of the histrionic character.

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The priests, and others, were fearlessly ridiculed in these performances, in which allusion was ludicrously made to public events.    Dancing, however, appears to have been their favourite and most frequent performance. In this they were always led by the manager or chief. Their bodies, blackened with charcoal, and stained with mati, rendered the exhibition of their persons on these occasions most disgusting. They often maintained their dance through the greater part of the night, accompanied by their voices, and the music of the flute and the drum. These amusements frequently continued for a number of days and nights successively at the same place. The upaupa [performance] was then hui, or closed, and they journeyed to the next district, or principal chieftain‘s abode, where the same train of dances, wrestling, and pantomimic exhibitions was repeated.16 The activities of the arioi cannot have come to the missionaries as a complete surprise, for they had already attracted the attention of the first explorers. The Arreoy (sic!) find mention in the Endeavour journals of Cook and Banks who stress the elements of promiscuity, infanticide and indecent performances.17 The earliest observers had, however, considerable difficulty in accommodating them to any familiar categories of social organisation or function. Therefore we find terms as disparate as ‘libertines’, ‘freemasons’, ‘strolling players’ and ‘devotees of debauchery’, as well as several combinations thereof.18 In their respective publications of Cook’s second voyage, both Cook himself, the Forsters and other log-keeping crew members describe the arioi performances. Apart from the singing and indecent dances (the infamous Timorodee) it was the aspect of comic satire that particularly attracted the attention of the visitors. Because of their clear narrative structure and mimetic performance style, these comic interludes were almost completely ‘legible’ to the English. Not only that, but they could occasionally even recognize themselves and Tahitians they knew as the objects of satirical buffoonery. One of these plays thematized theft, the problem that so plagued Cook and other visitors on his visits to Tahiti. Georg Forster relates: ‘We could plainly understand the name of captain Cook, and several of our shipmates, mentioned in the songs, and they seemed to represent a theft committed by their people.’19 The same plot was encountered in other performances as well, with slightly different variations in as much as the thief sometimes escaped, or on other occasions was punished. Adultery and elopement were common themes, too. In one play witnessed by the Forsters, a father attempts to forestall the union of his daughter with a young man of whom he disapproves. Despite the father’s nocturnal vigilance the couple run off together and a child is born. The main action was the childbirth, which was acted out at length and, in Georg Forster’s words, ‘provoked immoderate peals of laughter from the multitude’.20 The comic climax was the actual birth in which a grown man playing the role of the newly born

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infant charged about the stage dragging the placenta and trying to evade capture by the midwife. Another interlude witnessed at Huahine featured a girl from Raiatea who was actually in the audience. She had eloped to Tahiti in the company of an arioi – who had subsequently left her – and was now returning to her parents on board Cook’s ship. The satire was evidently so effective that the girl was reduced to tears and could only with difficulty be restrained from leaving the performance. This piece and the lachrymose effect it engendered on the young girl prompted Johann Forster to an extended speculation on the place of ‘drama’ in Tahitian society: Upon the whole, this circumstance gives us a very good idea of the nation in every respect: If we consider the poor girl, who was thus exposed, her bashful behaviour and her tears are certainly irrefragable proofs of her modesty and repentance.    She became the object of indelicate, but sharp and salutary satire, and gave by her tears ample testimony of the immorality of her behaviour, and that she felt herself aggrieved under self-condemnation, and was not unwilling to become a fair warning to a whole croud of young persons of her own sex.    Lastly the whole audience deserved in my opinion, likewise to be commended;    If we reflect upon the want of feeling in the frequenters of our theatres, their indolence and inattention, and I may add their shameless effrontery, we must give the palm to the O-Taheiteans, who, like the true children of nature, have a sympathizing tear, and unrestrained feelings, the tribute and glory of humanity, in readiness on all proper occasions.21 Forster is clearly an exponent of mainstream enlightenment thinking regarding the function of drama and theatre as a moral corrective within society. In this respect, Tahitians are a match for European civilization or in some respect even surpass it, because, beyond their willingness to shed empathetic tears, all inhabitants of the islands of every class practise the performing arts as well as watch them: ‘When the polite arts become the promoters of so great and so universally beneficial advantages, even the most morose and gloomy philosophers must allow them a place among the objects which ought to be communicated in a system of useful and moral education.’22 Thirty years later, the arioi and their edifying sketches were to be confronted by a small but determined band of decidedly ‘morose and gloomy philosophers’ who could not discern the slightest beneficial advantage from the polite arts at home or abroad. As we read missionary accounts of the arioi performances, we should bear in mind that the disgust and repugnance they elicited is framed by a more generalized opposition to the very sentiments expressed by Forster and the Enlightenment position he represented. If we add to the picture the aforementioned elements of religious function and

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political power-broking, it becomes clear that for the missionaries the arioi were a, if not the, force to be broken if control over Tahitian souls was to be attained. One of the earliest missionary responses to the arioi was published in the periodical Transactions of the Missionary Society, under the heading ‘Otaheitean Journals’. In the entry for 10 February 1801 we find the following description: Arrived at Edéa’s [Iddeah, Pomare’s wife and herself an arioi] house a company of travelling players, who go from one district to another to exhibit their truly savage performances. They generally travel in large companies, with a manager at their head. Their manner of performing is thus: The actors place themselves in a ring on the ground, the manager stands in the middle, and begins with a prologue, which he delivers with much vehemency, and wild gesticulations of his arms, fingers and feet; then a signal is given to the actors, who all break out into a most singular and barbarous noise, which can be compared to nothing better than a herd of swine, grunting in concert, at the same time they keep working their hands and thighs as they sit cross-legged, like so many lunatics.23 It is clear from this report that these English spectators derived little if any aesthetic pleasure or moral edification from the performances. Considering that the missionaries had been in residence for some four years and were reasonably proficient in Tahitian, their perception of the performers as ‘a herd of swine, grunting in concert’ cannot be ascribed to linguistic incomprehension, but rather to fundamental opposition to the performances as such. In a curious alliance between lower-middle-class missionary and aristocratic arioi, the anonymous writer cannot help adding that ‘the higher class profess to despise the actors, and speak of them and their performances in a contemptuous manner.’ Indeed, this attitude of contempt was soon assumed by the missionaries themselves. After the initial shock had worn off, missionary reports quickly fall silent and contain very few descriptions of performances of any kind. This silence was less a sign of actual eradication than a strategy to document success for the home readership. In actual fact, conversion proved to be a long and arduous process that was beset with numerous setbacks. Recognizing the highly stratified nature of Tahitian society, the missionaries focused their attention first on converting the chiefs, many of whom were arioi. They first attacked the practice of infanticide and then the performances. Forbidding these activities effectively deprived the arioi of their raison d’être and Tahitian society of one of its central pillars of belief. Without suitable performances, the god Oro was rendered effectively obsolete and could be replaced by the Christian competition. With the conversion of Pomare II in 1819 and the automatic Christianization of

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all his subjects, the dissolution of the society was rapid. The missionaries also noted frequently that the arioi proved to be willing and able converts. There is some evidence to suggest that they in turn aided the rapid spread of Christianity in the Society group.24 The interrelationship between performance and religious culture characteristic of the arioi in Tahiti was, however, by no means unique to the Society Islands. A similar situation pertained on the islands of the Hawaiian group, where the performance culture of hula manifested a similar mutual dependence between the two spheres. Missionization did not begin there until 1820 with the arrival of Hiram Bingham, who was sent out to the islands by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions in 1819. Bingham, a New England Calvinist, had very similar views on Polynesians and performance as his LMS brethren. The former were by definition savages and sinners, their depravity made only worse by four decades of exposure to Europeans; the latter tolerable only in strictly circumscribed circumstances, and the combination of the two, a dire amalgamation to be opposed at any opportunity. Bingham very quickly perceived hula as competition to Christian activities. Writing retrospectively in 1847, almost three decades after his arrival and six years after the end of his residence, Bingham depicts hula as a major obstacle to the growth of the fledgeling Christian community. Looking back on the year 1821, by which time the mission had been established for a year, he observed: ‘While some of the people who sat in darkness were beginning to turn their eyes to the light, and were disposed to attend our schools and public lectures, others with greater enthusiasm, were wasting their time in learning, practising, or witnessing the hula, or heathen song and dance.’25 Like many of his colleagues, Bingham was also a keen observer and something of a reluctant ethnographer. His description of hula performance is detailed and one of the earliest accounts we have. The context is King Liholiho’s transferral of his court from Kailua to Honolulu, an event that provoked weeks of anticipatory hula performances. Bingham even provides a rough notation of the chants and descriptions of the instruments, costumes and physical arrangement of the dancers. Finally, however, the practice has to be condemned: The whole arrangement and process of their old hulas were designed to promote lasciviousness, and of course the practice of them could not flourish in modest communities. They had been interwoven too with their superstitions, and made subservient to the honor of their gods, and their rulers, either living or departed and deified.26 The charge of lasciviousness is predictable, but more important is Bingham’s recognition of the hula’s religious function (‘superstition’). His persistent opposition to, and finally almost total abolition of, hula was an important

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stage in the conversion of Hawaiians to Christianity. The baptism of the queen regent Ka’ahumanu, who effectively succeeded the ill-fated Liholiho to the throne in 1825 (although technically the king was the latter’s 12-year old brother), represented an important victory for Bingham, as she banned all public performances in 1830. While this edict was ignored or rescinded after her death in 1832, hula never regained its cultural and religious preeminence.27 Bingham’s quick success in Hawai‘i was in fact uncharacteristic of missionary endeavours in the Pacific, where it often took two decades or more before the missions made any real inroads into replacing native with Christian religion. However, the factors contributing to the adoption of Christianity were the same on most islands. At best barely tolerated, at worst simply killed, the first missions had to convince the ruling chiefs of their usefulness. This insight invariably dawned as the islands became increasingly exposed to European visitors and the calamities they engendered. A combination of epidemics and weaponry plunged one island after another into a state of serious and sustained crisis as population levels fell and traditional power structures became destabilized. The missionaries embodied a link between superior technology and eschatology, and came to be seen as honourable brokers between island and European cultures. Although they had neither the training nor the inclination, the missionaries were frequently co-opted into drafting constitutions and laws in order to provide a legal foundation for intercourse between cultures. Once a chief or king (as in the case of Hawai‘i, could be converted and publicly baptized, then it was assumed that his people would follow. While this synecdochal relationship was theologically dubious from a strict Evangelical perspective, which emphasized each individual’s relationship to God, it became expedient to allow it to work.

Ocular proof: baptisms and idols Baptisms of royal or aristocratic personages were crucial events for the success or failure of the early missions, for God’s work did not just have to be done; it had to be seen to be done. Nowhere was this more spectacularly demonstrated than in the ritual of baptism. The passage from heathenism to faith was one that could be shown; and was not just a private affair between the believer and his or her God. Ocular proof of God’s progress was also needed back home to keep the sponsors satisfied. To provide evidence of their success, the missionaries staged large-scale idol-burning ceremonies in front of the new converts as well as the undecided, or they had the idols ceremoniously packaged for removal back to England, with unintentional echoes of Roman trionfi where vanquished enemies and their spoils were exhibited. In both cases, we can discern clear reliance on theatricality on

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the part of clerics who were doctrinally opposed to the concept in all its manifestations. Baptism as a form of mise en scène had a history, particularly within the context of colonialism. The Spanish missionaries in Mexico had perfected the theatricalization of baptism in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries with large-scale passion plays culminating in the mass baptism of the indigenous peoples to Catholicism. In these performances the dividing line between ritual and theatre was completely obliterated. The first Protestant missionaries to the Pacific had of course not only more scruples than their Catholic predecessors, but, as we have seen, they had little or no interest in genuine theatre. Nevertheless, the act of baptism was too good an opportunity to miss. The demonstrative conversion of a chief or even king (as in the case of Tahiti and Hawai‘i), when marked by the ritual of baptism had the desired effect of converting the whole group of whom the illustrious convert was leader. One of the most spectacular of these political baptisms was that of the Tahitian king Pomare II on May 16, 1819. This ceremony provided a spectacular breakthrough for the Tahitian mission, which had made little progress since 1797. It was not until the paramount chief and aspiring King Pomare had been defeated by his rivals and forced into exile on the island of Mo’orea that he began seriously to entertain missionary teachings. He returned to Tahiti in 1815 and won a resounding military victory over his opponents whom he treated with uncharacteristic mercy. Although he had been under missionary tutelage for some time, the LMS missionaries were uncertain as to how genuine his Christian sentiments were. Material proof was provided by the building of a huge chapel for missionary meetings at Paparoa in the district of Pare. It was approximately 200 metres long and 18 metres wide with 133 windows and 29 doors. It boasted three separate pulpits, each over 80 metres apart from one another.28 Pomare had also toured his dominions praying, singing hymns and distributing a newly published Tahitian translation of Luke’s gospel. The missionary Henry Bicknell noted: He has lately expressed an earnest desire for baptism, engaging to devote himself to the lord, and to put away every sin, and every appearance of evil.    [He] has also written a letter to us, expressing a deep sense of his sinfulness and unworthiness, a firm dependence on the blood of Christ for pardon, and an earnest desire to give himself to the lord in baptism. As it appeared to be the voice of the whole nation, and particularly of the most pious chiefs; and as his conduct has been so constant and persevering in teaching and promoting good things, we resolved in humble dependence upon Divine Grace, to baptize him.29 Noteworthy is particularly the import of baptizing the king. ‘As it appeared to be the voice of the whole nation’, the synecdochal relationship between

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the King and his subjects did not go unnoticed and was of crucial importance for the whole missionary undertaking. Although strictly at variance with Protestant teaching which sees the Christian religion as a relationship between the individual and God, the LMS missionaries were in such a case expedient enough to be somewhat more Catholic in their attitude to conversion. While the ‘whole nation’ did not gather on 16 May 1819, a great many of its citizens did. In fact, the proceedings stretched over six days, endowing the event with the temporal structure of a Polynesian ceremonial gathering. The ‘brethren’, some 5000, assembled already on May 10 and set up an encampment, which stretched for four miles. On the first day Pomare made a gift of eight hogs to the missionary society and signed his names and those of his ‘governors’ (chiefs). The next day was dedicated to opening the new chapel, while on the day after, Pomare promulgated a set of Christian laws by which the people were to regulate their conduct. These included the banning of infanticide, which marked the beginning of the end of the arioi. The proceedings culminated on the following Sunday with the actual baptism. Bicknell estimated that about five to six thousand Tahitians crowded into the chapel. The service was conducted not unlike a medieval passion play as the missionaries preached simultaneously from the three pulpits. Bicknell relates: ‘The scene was striking beyond all description: no confusion ensued from three speakers preaching all at once.    Pomare was observed to lift up his eyes to heaven and move his lips in prayer. The sight was very moving, especially to our older brethren who had been watching over him for so many years.’30 This scene was repeated many times – certainly not on the same scale but with the same attention to public spectacle and effect: The conversion of the chief meant effectively the conversion of the whole tribe or subtribe. Shortly before Pomare’s ‘spectacular’ baptism, whose carefully staged theatricality seemed to be at odds with the missionaries’ otherwise strict opposition to spectacular amusements, a front-page article was published in the LMS organ, Missionary Sketches. It was entitled ‘The Family Idols of Pomare’ and was framed by a wood-cut of the said idols. The article contains a letter from Pomare in which he explains his desire that the idols be sent to the Missionary Society in Britain ‘that they may know the likeness of the gods that Tahiti worshipped’. He explains further that these were special family gods, but now he has come to know the ‘true God’ they must either be destroyed or used to demonstrate the foolhardiness of the old ways.31 Each ‘idol’ has a number and the bulk of the article provides for the most part dispassionate ethnographic commentary on the gods and their functions within Tahitian religion. Although the gods can be identified and to some extent glossed, what the author of the article cannot grasp is the power they evidently had and assumes the reading public will be disappointed ‘on the view of these despicable idols’. The reason for this disappointment lies in their lack of iconicity which the author assumes is the

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usual characteristic of idols: ‘In general the idols of the heathen, however rude, have been designed to bear a resemblance to something    but these convey no idea whatsoever of an animated being, and we are totally at a loss to account for their form.’ The only satisfaction he can provide is through a citation from a fellow missionary, Samuel Marsden, (who later gained prominence in New Zealand). In a letter to the directors of the Missionary Society on 31 October 1816, Marsden wrote: ‘THE GLORIOUS SPOILS OF IDOLATRY – they are now (continues Mr M.) lying prostrate on the table before me, and were we not certain of the fact, we could not believe that any human beings could place their salvation in these wretched images, and offer up human sacrifices to avert their anger.’ The decisive phrase is the theatrical evocation of the vanquished gods – ‘lying prostrate on the table before me’ – which mirrors the viewing position of the reader who also has the image of the idols before him or her. While the other culture remains explicitly incommensurable, this resistance to European comprehension takes second place to the performative demonstration of defeat. This necessity for spectacular acts as proof of conversion is made explicit at the end of the article, when the author cites another of his brethren, the Rev. Mr Wardlaw who had preached a sermon before the Society on this very theme. The title of this ‘admirable discourse’ was: ‘The Contemplation of Heathen Idolatry an Excitement to Missionary Zeal’. Although his scriptural authority is St Paul before the Athenians (Acts xvii, 16), his example is Pomare’s gift of ‘foolish gods’. Again, it is the semantic field of visual demonstration that guides Wardlaw’s argument and indeed the whole practice of publicizing such evangelical spoils: ‘surely a view of these Otaheitean gods will fill every

Figure 6 Destruction of the idols at Otaheite Source: Missionary Sketches, no. VI, July 1819. Collection of the author.

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spectator with “amazement at the weakness and folly of human nature”.’ While the interpolated quotation is scriptural the context is contemporary. A year later, the same periodical published another title vignette in which the theatrical demolition of the Tahitian belief system is depicted in the conventions of a crudely manufactured history ‘painting’ (Figure 6). Rather than focusing, however, on one pregnant moment within the dramatic unities, the artist opts for a more medieval iconography of temporal progression across the image. On the left hand side, the Tahitians labour to pull down a ‘Pagan Altar’, in the middle they consign their idols to a conflagration presided over by converted kinspeople clad in toga-like apparel, while to the right others work to build a church. As usual the message is unequivocal: after 20 years, the missionaries have finally accomplished their set task of defeating paganism.

Plays and heroes By the mid-nineteenth century the various mission societies could claim major successes in Polynesia and progress in other parts of the Pacific as well. This success had not been without cost, however. The missionaries, like other breeds of explorers dedicated to opening up the uncharted parts of the world, had their heroes and martyrs. Missionaries had been killed, starved, drowned, had died of disease, and been tested in many other ways over which they preferred to draw a veil of silence. One figure stands out among all others in the Pacific: John Williams (1796–1839), the David Livingstone of the South Seas. Active mainly in Samoa and Raratonga, Williams combined and prosecuted preaching and mercantile activities with similar degrees of vigour and success. In Vanessa Smith’s succinct phrase: ‘John Williams’s career as a missionary was an ascent of the rungs of capital.’32 Smith demonstrates that he was a forceful advocate of missionary involvement in trading activities, which led finally to a career as shipbuilder and owner, in the course of which he bought, constructed and sold several vessels.33 Although this was done ostensibly to obtain independence and mobility for his missionary endeavours, the ships had to be financed by trading activities. He even established his son as the first resident trader in Samoa. Quite apart from the financial benefits, this combination of functions was one way of overcoming an established rivalry on many islands between the missionaries on the one hand and the European traders on the other, both of whom pursued different approaches in their dealings with the native peoples. The enterprises of John Williams were, however, by no means characteristic of missionary endeavours in the Pacific. In fact other missionaries complained about what they perceived to be an overt conflict between commercial and spiritual interests.34

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Competition extended beyond purely mercantile activities and included interdenominational rivalry. In contrast to the anti-theatrically minded first generation of missionaries, Williams was ruthlessly pragmatic rather than narrowly doctrinal in his choice of instruments for spreading the gospel. He had, for example, no qualms about bringing a magic lantern, the donation of a well-wisher, to strike awe into new and potential converts. His biographer Ebenezer Prout records that when asked what gift would be of service to his project: Mr Williams replied, that as the Romish priests were on their way to the islands with electrifying machines, and other philosophical apparatus, by which they expected to impress the natives with their preternatural power, he thought he might legitimately, if it were necessary, turn their weapons against themselves; and as he intended, on the voyage, to translate Fox’s Martyrology, he should like to illustrate it by the magic lantern.35 The choice of a magic lantern to prosecute missionary work was in fact a delicate one. Since its invention in the seventeenth century, the laterna magica had effectively divided Christians over whether it was an instrument of the devil or of edification. Its ability to create optical illusions suggested the former, its use for scientific demonstrations the latter. Until well into the nineteenth century it remained suspended in an ambivalent field of moral valency, oscillating between fear and fascination encapsulated in its sobriquet ‘the devil’s eye’.36 The generous benefactor ordered a series of slides to be produced, illustrating ‘Scripture, English, and natural history’ as well as ‘the best plates in the Martyrologist’s work, representing the tortures and deaths of the faithful confessors of Protestant Christianity.’37 From Williams’s pragmatic rather than doctrinal approach to missionization, the very same apparatus that may be witchcraft and certainly a weapon in Catholic hands is to become legitimate and useful in his own. The topic of martyrdom threatens a confusion with Catholic doctrine, so that ‘Protestant’ must be introduced as a term of distinction. Williams’s interest in martyrs was tragically portentous in the light of his death and later career as a martyr of the LMS. Other missionary groups were more cautious about distancing themselves from what were perceived to be secular technologies. Otto von Kotzebue, who visited Hawai‘i in the 1820s, reported the response of the American Mission in Hawai‘i to the prospect of a magic lantern exhibition: ‘Lord Byron had brought with him from England a variety of magic lanterns, puppetshows, and such like toys, and was making preparations to exhibit them in public, for the entertainment of the people, when an order arrived from Bengham (sic) to prevent the representation, because it did not become Godfearing Christians to take pleasure in such vain amusements.’38 Williams,

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I may here inform you of the prodigious interest the exhibition of the magic lantern produces. At the natural history slides they are delighted; the kings of England afforded them still greater pleasure; but the Scripture pieces are those which excite the deepest interest    when the plate of the crucifixion was exhibited, there was a general sobbing, their feelings were overcame, and they gave vent to them in tears.39 A ‘general sobbing’ was also the reaction of the missionaries and their supporters back in England when news arrived of Williams’s death. In 1839 he and another missionary were clubbed to death and then probably eaten in Erramanga, today Vanuatu, and, as shown in Chapter 1, the scene of an already unhappy landing attempt on Cook’s second voyage. The legacy of John Williams, the entrepreneurial messenger of God, however, lived on. By the late nineteenth century the LMS used his memory for fund-raising, particularly to finance a succession of missionary ships named after their illustrious and peripatetic hero. LMS records show that children in Sunday School were targeted to donate money and fund-raise for the organisation using the name and story of their idol. To this end the society gradually began to employ dramatic and theatrical means to publicize their activities. Despite the general Evangelical suspicion of the theatrical medium, it could also be put to effective use within carefully circumscribed limits. One genre was the so-called ‘demonstration’. The ‘Demonstration for Boys’ Ship Ahoy!: The Story of the Missionary Ships John Williams I. to IV, published around 1895, has a rudimentary dramatic form, in as much as dramatis personae make appearances.40 However, even here the LMS remained true to Platonic rather than Aristotelian principles, for diegesis dominates over mimesis. The action consists mainly of a succession of characters who narrate the history of missionary undertakings in the Pacific and, in particular, the efforts to raise money to build the different ships. The playlet ends with an injunction to the audience: ‘And may the children of the Sunday Schools still continue the noble work of providing the means by which this great labour of love can still be carried on.’41 Why the genre was termed a ‘demonstration for boys’ remains unclear – perhaps the graphic description of John Williams being clubbed to death and then eaten was considered too strong for impressionable young girls. The term ‘demonstration’ is, however, clearly designed to demarcate a distinction between it and normal dramatic forms. Such demonstrations continued well into the 1930s and 1940s as the LMS archives demonstrate. Apart from hagiographic depictions of Williams and his exploits, popular topics included the first expedition of the Duff, and the story of its cabin boy. In fact the LMS offered a series of ‘media packages’

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however, had no such scruples, He used the magic lantern to great effect in Samoa, as he reported in a letter to his son:

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on the topic of John Williams and his eponymous ships. These included a ‘South Seas Week-End: A fascinating week-end for a whole Church to include a Cruise, Film, Tableaux, Games etc.’, as well as dramatized dialogues and lantern lectures.42 The material could be hired from the LMS for a fee. The most complex of these offerings was a theatrical presentation utilizing the form of a living picture or tableau vivant entitled ‘The John Williams Tableaux: Pioneer Missionary to the South Seas 1817–1839’. The tableau vivant in which performers are arranged to depict significant images usually familiar to the audience is a hybrid form combining narration, visual effect and music, but no dramatic dialogue. The choice of form is not surprising considering the traditional links between the tableau vivant and liturgical drama. Although tableaux vivants tended from the eighteenth century onwards to reproduce famous paintings, scenes from literature and later even served as an excuse for socially legitimate theatrical nudism, the origins of the genre are in fact religious. Tableaux were integrated into different types of medieval theatre and have survived for example in the Oberammergau Passion Play. The ‘John Williams Tableaux’ consisted of 15 scenes, each of which was subdivided into two or three ‘exposures’. The list of properties and costumes provided by the LMS included ‘native costumes’. For men (or boys) these consisted of brown jerseys and tights, loincloths and wigs. For women, the same brown jerseys and tights plus grass skirts and shell necklaces. For male native teachers, the LMS prescribed ‘white coats and loincloths, for their wives long print frocks’.43 Apart from such ‘subtly’ allusive costumes and suggestions for props, the booklet also included ideas for music. This quite catholic assortment suggested ‘negro spirituals’ for a scene at a slave market and ‘Death of Ase’ from Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite for the final scene depicting Williams’s ‘Martyrdom’; the Song of the Volga Boatmen provided a rousing accompaniment to Tableau 13, ‘Launching the Messenger of Peace’. A variation of the genuine tableaux vivants were the so-called Moving Tableaux. These consisted of story-telling and music, but instead of frozen attitudes, pantomime and action on stage culminated in a moral or didactic point. An example is Tableau 12, entitled ‘The Chip that Talked’. The stage direction reads: Very busy scene, hammering, sawing, carrying wood. Women plaiting cord. J.W. going round directing. Comes to man sawing, he is followed by a Chief to whom all this bustle is very strange. J.W. picks up a piece of wood and writes a few words, looks round for messenger and sees the Chief, gives it to him and points to Mrs. Williams, who for the sake of being visible, can be seated at the foot of the steps leading to the stage. The Chief takes the chip, looks at it and slowly walks over to Mrs. W. She takes it reads the message and throws the piece of wood on the floor,

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‘Stay, daughter’ he said, ‘how do you know Viriamu wanted this’? ‘The chip told me’ replied Mrs. Williams. ‘I did not hear it say anything’ said the chief. ‘But I did – do now go and take it without more words.’ Chief hurries back holding the square in one hand and the ‘chip’ in the other, hands the square to J.W. and holding up the ‘chip’ he points to it round his neck and struts about with an air of great importance.44 The origin of this scene is an anecdote in Williams’s widely read account A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South Seas. For Williams, it illustrates ‘a striking idea of the feelings of an untaught people, when observing for the first time the effects of written communication.’45 As the later theatricalization of the scene underscores, the medium of the written word was not just all-powerful: its power could be staged with the indigenous peoples as the unwitting players in comedies for the amusement of a metropolitan audience. ∗

∗

∗

From the outset, the activities of the missionaries produced considerable opposition from Europeans, many of whom regarded God’s messengers as an extremist minority who interfered with the affairs of the native peoples. The ‘war’, from the missionary point of view, was won on the islands by the end of the nineteenth century. It is beyond dispute that the missionaries managed to wipe out or suppress most forms of dancing, and many other customs besides, such as tattooing. They succeeded in producing a kind of theatrical tabula rasa by establishing and instituting the anti-theatrical prejudice, the project that had so evidently failed in Europe and America. Despite this ‘success’ on the islands, the conflictual tensions produced by it had ramifications on the missionaries’ home territory. Far from disappearing, the conflict re-emerges in the 1920s as an internal one in the play, Rain, based on Somerset Maugham’s famous short story. American Samoa becomes the setting for a moral conflict between a fundamentalist missionary and an American nightclub performer cum prostitute. The indigenous inhabitants are little more than supernumeraries in a Western conflict they were all too familiar with. The success of Rain – apart from a long run on Broadway, it was made into a musical and filmed four times under the title, Sadie Thompson, – suggests that a century-long conflict had been displaced back to the country of origin. As will be argued in Chapter 6, in Rain, America takes on its own puritan heritage, which it had exported to the islands.

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goes off to get the square. Chief picks up the wood and keeps looking it over. Mrs. W. comes back, hands the square to the Chief, then follows in ‘dumb’ show, gesture suggesting the following dialogue.

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As we shall see in the next chapter, missionary opposition to Polynesian performance forms also resulted in new strategies of adaptation on the part of the indigenous people. As part of the wider colonial project, missionization, motivated by staunch adherence to the outmoded ideology of anti-theatricality repressed performance, but ultimately enabled it too, albeit in new forms and with altered functions. The changes effected on hula in Hawai‘i and the haka in New Zealand will be examined as two examples of performative redefinition within colonial societies.

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Dressing the Hula and Taming the Haka: Performing Identity in Hawai‘i and New Zealand

As we have seen in the previous chapter, missionary opposition to indigenous performance forms could be implacable and was very often efficacious. The first missionary in Hawai‘i, the American Congregationalist Hiram Bingham, opposed hula in all its forms and with the help of the powerful queen regent Ka’ahumanu managed to ban all public performances in 1830. Despite such opposition hula did not disappear, but continued to be practised covertly and eventually overtly after Ka’ ahumanu’s death in 1832. By this time, however, Hawai‘i was being gradually Christianized so that the religious aspects of the performance form became obsolete. Rather than withering away or fossilizing into touristic folklore hula returned with a vengeance in the second half of the nineteenth century, where it came to occupy important cultural and political functions that continue until the present day. Every year, the foremost hula troupes of the various islands compete for prizes in a variety of disciplines, traditional and modern, in the Merrie Monarch Festival, a cultural event of considerable magnitude. In New Zealand, Maori performance forms underwent similar processes of transformation. The famous haka, an intimidating dance involving chanting, foot-stamping and aggressive gesturing, traditionally preceded and in some cases surrogated actual hostilities. The first explorers to reach New Zealand were continually greeted by hakas, both as preludes to attacks and in the context of peaceful ceremonies. By the late nineteenth century, the haka had become synonymous with European perceptions of the Maori as a belligerent Polynesian people. Today the haka represents not just the Maori people, but also on occasions bicultural New Zealand when it is performed as a prelude to All Black rugby games. In this chapter I shall explore what could perhaps be termed the roots of these new performance phenomena. They can be seen as parallel developments in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Against a 95

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background of growing colonialist domination both cultures resorted to a revitalization and redefinition of their performance traditions. In Hawai‘i the hula revival dating from the late 1870s, and in New Zealand the new idea of cultural performance festivals after 1900, resulted in a significant recoding of performance forms. ‘Traditional’ Hawaiian or Maori performance forms can in fact be located at a particular point in time, a moment of historical crisis, where the remedial strategies were performative as much as political, or indeed where the two merge.

Performative metonymy Representation in the colonial context is anything but ‘neutral’. On the contrary, in the conjunction ‘colonial representation’ it belongs to the most maligned and at the same time expansive and therefore ill-defined of concepts. The writings of Homi Bhabha and Edward Said, which can be subsumed under the heading ‘colonial discourse analysis’, have identified a set of discursive practices and reading strategies that have now solidified into established critical practice. This field of interdisciplinary research is intrinsically open to all textual genres as Peter Hulme noted already in the 1980s: Underlying the idea of colonial discourse, in other words, is the assumption that during the colonial period large parts of the non-European world were produced for Europe through a discourse that imbricated sets of questions and assumptions, methods of procedure and analysis, and kinds of writing and imagery normally separated out into the discrete areas of military strategy, political order, social reform, imaginative literature, personal memoir and so on.1 Colonial discourse becomes in this Foucauldian (or Saidian) reading a kind of meta-perspective by means of which hitherto separate domains of knowledge and action are reorganized into an interconnected field. Whether scholars follow Edward Said’s technique of ‘contrapuntal reading’ or Bhabha’s deconstructive analyses of the ‘colonial unconscious’, their frame is, however, almost exclusively textual, only occasionally iconographic and almost never performative. Colonialism, however, acted on bodies more directly than it did on texts, and bodies responded to these impositions more often in performance than they did in writing. Self- or imposed representation by corporeal means in a colonial situation leads to a form of theatricality that can be defined as metonymic representation, understood here in the sense of synecdoche, where a part stands for the whole. The implications of metonymic representation have been much discussed in recent years.2 What I wish to investigate, in particular, is the situation where performance gradually becomes almost synonymous with

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an indigenous people, where a particular dance or ritual comes to have the metonymic gesture of standing in for the whole of these respective cultures. The interrelationship between performance and metonymy or perhaps more precisely performance as metonymy of culture needs to be prefaced by a few remarks on the concept of metonymy itself. As a figure of speech, metonymy is suspended in an interesting paradox between connotations of authenticity on the one hand and incompleteness on the other. Viewed in this context, metonymy as a trope of cultural discourse carries with it more than just the signature of abbreviation typical of most figures of speech. It has inscribed in it already a discursive strategy symptomatic of colonial discourse: the penchant to circumscribe and contain. When Hawaiians or Tahitians perform for the (usually colonial) other, they are rendering themselves observable and definable. The whole tradition of folkloristic performance, which begins in the nineteenth century in Europe and is then exported to the colonies for adaptation by the indigenous peoples, is framed within the metonymic notion that performance(s) can stand in for the culture as a whole. Cultural performances, whether folkloric dances or ethnographic showcases, tourist nightclub acts or nationalistic demonstrations, frame themselves, as Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett has noted, more as ‘presentation than as representation markers’ in order to convey the impression of immediacy, the ‘illusion of cultural transparency in the face of undeciphered complexity’:3 Semiotically, live displays make the status of the performer problematic, for people become signs of themselves. We experience a representation, even when the representers are the peoples themselves. Self-representation is representation nonetheless. Whether the representation essentializes    or totalizes (you are seeing the whole through the part), the ethnographic fragment returns with all the problems of capturing, inferring, constituting, and presenting the whole through parts.4 The locus classicus of the connex between metonymy, theatricality and colonialism is Edward Said‘s Orientalism. In a much quoted passage Said defines orientalism as a mode of representation: The idea of representation is a theatrical one: the Orient is the stage on which the whole East is confined. On this stage will appear figures whose role it is to represent the larger whole from which they emanate. The Orient seems to be, not an unlimited extension beyond the familiar European world, but rather a closed field, a theatrical stage affixed to Europe.5

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The discourse of orientalism, according to Said, ‘theatricalizes’ the East in the sense that it reduces and defines it, rendering it observable as though the East or Orient were a stage on which the basically finite set of dramatic figures peopling the Orient made their exits and entrances for the delectation and edification of the Western beholder. Said’s concept of theatricality is both metaphoric and metonymic. It is metaphoric in the sense that he invokes the old theatrum mundi simile. It is metonymic to the extent that the process he terms ‘theatrical’ or ‘theatricalization’ embraces more that the old trope. It is a pars pro toto concept and designates a particularly Western style of thought that ultimately was brought to bear on most of the colonized world. Taking Said’s use of the term one step further, we can postulate that metonymic theatricality and colonialism are related phenomena. Theatricality in this synecdochal sense carries with it a number of concomitant processes involving fixture and closure. The staging of a culture, country or ethnic group implies that they can be represented by a finite set of mostly recurrent props, costumes and corporeal signs. Within this limited repertoire, dance is perhaps the form of expression the West most often used and adapted for the purpose of theatricalizing other cultures. In the context of Hawai‘i, for example, the cultural phenomenon of hula, which embraced dance, poetry and religious functions, was reduced to its dance component, which in turn came to stand for the indigenous people of the country. Thus, an essential part of the process of colonization involved the theatricalization of the colonized people themselves. Yet, at that same time the indigenous peoples quickly began to adapt these theatrical processes to assist in creating new models of cultural identity.

Reinventing the hula In 1897 the German medical officer, and later Polynesian ethnographer and physical anthropologist, Augustin Krämer undertook an extended tour of the island of Maui, one of the larger Hawaiian islands. Although he and his travelling companion had their minds set on ‘bones’ (the skeletal remains of the ancient Hawaiian dead, concealed in caves), the urge to see a ‘real’ Hawaiian hula was equally strong, the opportunities, however, apparently rare. Krämer records the following encounter: We were namely desirous of seeing a genuine Hawaiian dance for once. Because of its remoteness, I considered Wailuku to be particularly favourable for this plan and Mahelone was of the same opinion. He was most enthusiastic at the thought of this rare diversion, even though, as he said, dancing was prohibited. Like an experienced Cicerone he promised

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to arrange everything perfectly for a few dollars, and we were in eager anticipation. We proceeded down from the Heiau [temple] to our cart and in a short time we had reached a grove of Kukui trees, in which we caught a furtive glimpse of a small wooden hut. The dancing party could certainly not be large, that was for sure; but in Samoa I had seen the natives perform the most delightful dances in quite unbelievably confined spaces. At the door we were welcomed by an elderly Hawaiian woman, and in the room there stood a large bed, a table and two chairs, on which two young girls were sitting, who rose as we entered and greeted us. There seemed to be no sign of dancing, but that could still come. They invited us to take a seat, but in view of the luxurious seating arrangements, we preferred to stand and ensure that the people were acquainted with the reason for our visit. ‘An old Hawaiian dance,’ I repeated. Yes, certainly, the old woman said, just be patient for a moment, we are still waiting for some girls. Soon enough, two slim shapes appeared, clad in straw hats and long, loose Mother Hubbard dresses, in which they then began to sway to and fro, in the style of a tarantella, to the accompaniment of a guitar. This was in itself quite nice, and a globetrotter would no doubt have been satisfied by it, if he could have added to it a somewhat piquant setting. We were not interested in that and I indicated to Mahelone that we desired to see a hula in old Hawaiian attire. However, the girls and Mahelone had as much idea of such things as an infant of the stock market and they probably thought that for us old Hawaiian meant nudity. As Mahelone continued his negotiations, some of the girls removed their dresses intending to continue the dance in their indecent underclothes. We quickly indicated to them that they had misunderstood us and should get dressed immediately, to do which they did not need to be asked twice. We looked at each other like two duped Europeans and declared that we were satisfied and proffered payment. I considered two dollars for the whole performance to be sufficient, but there I was mistaken. Each of the four girls wanted a dollar at least and the old woman too, so we were lucky to get away with paying five. Mahelone put on an expression of neediness, whereupon I offered him a clip on the ear. I was so furious with these Kanakas, who always cost me money for nothing in return. But anger is no use with the Polynesians; you always have to smile: cry smiling, punish smiling; it is ridiculous! When we were back in the cart, with Mahelone seated proudly on the box, the two dancers came rushing out and asked to be given a lift, because they lived in town. We were kind enough to offer them a ride in our landau. Useless as they were, laughing mischievously, they sat beside us as we rolled towards Wailuku in the bright moonlight. Again and again they sang the song that had accompanied the dance, so often that I can still hear it in my ears: an example of that effusive, shallow but strange new Hawaiian music.6

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Krämer’s account of this ‘command performance’, riddled though it is with ethnocentrisms, cultural condescension and sexual innuendo, touches on a number of key issues regarding Hawaiian hula and its place in cross-cultural interaction between Hawaiians and haole (foreigners). While it would be very easy and ‘rewarding’ to read this text as an example of the exoticizing/eroticizing gaze, which conflates the touristic and the ethnographic perspective to the point where they are almost indistinguishable, it is also fruitful to focus on another aspect of it. The ethnographers’ (Krämer is keen to distinguish himself from common ‘globetrotters’) attempt to arrange (and pay) to have a ‘traditional’ performance staged for their personal delectation is met with the obvious counter-move on the part of the Hawaiians to cater to what they perceive as European expectations. Yet, the cultural exchange transacted here – money for performance – is interesting precisely because it fails. The two travellers cum ethnographers pay to see an old Hawaiian dance in appropriate costume. The Hawaiians, both the dancers and the interpreterguide, equate this request, erroneously as it turns out, with (near) nakedness. What Krämer actually expects to see in terms of traditional hula costume is never made entirely clear. It is apparently neither lascivious nakedness nor certainly the ankle-length Mother Hubbard dresses. Despite the evident cultural confusions, the narrative is underpinned by a number of assumptions on both sides that point to very clear perceptions concerning the place and function of hula as a metonym. And within the larger cultural complex of hula, it is neither the movements nor the music, both of which also evidently do not fully meet expectations, that provide defining characteristics. The question of its dress codes is the crucial criterion on which this performative encounter hinges. This assumption is based, it will be argued, on a performative genealogy that is only understandable within a broader historical context. The second major assumption pertains to the ‘place of performance’. Krämer’s narrative is constructed as an ethnographic hunting trip with romantic overtones. There is the journey into the wilderness (‘remote Wailuku’) for the purposes of the ethnographic search. The further removed from the city, the greater the chance of finding unadulterated forms, so the apparent assumption goes. Krämer’s description of the

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place of the performance, the remote little house secluded yet beckoning in a grove of Kukui trees, has strong connotations of the romantic haven, far from the madding crowd. Yet, it turns out that the performers themselves are not from the little haven in the forest, but from the nearby town and have also made the journey out to the wilderness to meet the expectations of the, so they assume, affluent European spectators. This kind of situation, rife as it is with cross-cultural misunderstandings, expectations of authenticity on the part of the Europeans, and genuine attempts on the part of the ‘natives’ to cater to these expectations, which they in turn misread, is endemic to the history of cross-cultural performance situations. Failures of the kind recorded by Krämer provide, however, illuminating examples for performance research engaged in the history of such performative encounters. For such situations have a history: when they function they go unnoticed, when they break down, however, the cross-cultural performative code is probably involved in a process of renegotiation. This process of renegotiation towards the end of the nineteenth century is linked to a complex process of redefining the hula on the part of the indigenous people, both for themselves and for the European colonists and visitors. The framework of this redefinition is itself defined, however, in the main by two interconnected European paradigms: folklorization and the creation of a national cultural identity on the part of Hawaiians. The failure of the performance recorded here can thus be attributed to a problem of choice on the part of the performers (they chose the wrong option) and expectation on the part of the ethnographers. A further important factor to be considered is the status of Hawai‘i as a colony of the United States. In 1893, American settlers, in connivance with the US government, had staged a coup d’état and effectively deposed the ruling Hawaiian queen, Liliuokalani. The so-called ‘revolutionary government’ aggressively petitioned the US government to annex the Hawaiian islands. This was formally done in 1898, shortly after Krämer’s visit. Having ruled the islands since the unification under Kamehameha I in the 1790s, indigenous Hawaiians were, after a period of political autonomy, by the end of the century effectively disempowered. However, the indigenous culture had been under cultural pressure a lot longer, as we shall see. Despite the existence of a Hawaiian monarchy until 1893, we can speak of a semi-colonial situation in a cultural sense. Also, the legal status of indigenous Hawaiians was then, as it is today, unclear. No treaties of cession were ever signed, as they were with Native Americans on the mainland.7 The following analysis will proceed in three main steps. In a short introductory section some of the main features of traditional hula (hula kahiko) will be outlined. This thumbnail sketch attempts to synthesize something approaching an ethnographic conceptualization.8 This will be followed by a commentary on two sets of images. The first group represents the earliest

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iconographical documents relating to the hula, which reveal already considerable variation concerning movement and dress. The second group consists of photographs dating from the mid-1880s until around 1900. On the basis of the costumes depicted here, I shall demonstrate the multiple functions hula was performing in the colonial situation of late nineteenth-century Hawai‘i.

Hula kahiko (ancient hula) By the time Krämer made his journey into the Hawaiian countryside, hula as it had been practised in pre-contact times was a thing of the past. It had already in fact become an object of research and revival on the part of European folklorists on the one hand and Hawaiian artists and politicians on the other. While the two groups pursued different agendas in terms of their interest, both were united by the common goal of reconstructing the form as it had ‘once been’. The foremost scholar among the Europeans, the Hawaiian-born doctor and folklorist Nathaniel Emerson, published a major work on the subject in 1909 under the significant title Unwritten Literature of Hawai‘i. Hula in pre-contact Hawai‘i he defined as: a religious service, in which poetry, music, pantomime, and the dance lent themselves, under the forms of dramatic art, to the refreshment of men’s minds. Its view of life was idyllic, and it gave itself to the celebration of those mythical times when gods and goddesses moved on the earth as men and women and when men and women were gods.    material, in fact, which in another nation and under different circumstances would have gone to the making of its poetry, its drama, its opera, its literature.9 Emerson’s account of the hula is structured around its texts and chants. As the title suggests, it is an attempt to ennoble the oral tradition by rendering it in written form, complete with the scholarly paraphernalia of philological commentary, a strategy made even more apparent by the frequent analogies with classical Greek tradition and nationalist, romantic ideals. This attempt to litarize hula leads Emerson to a very clear hierarchization of the various expressive modes employed in the pre-contact form. For him hula attains its aesthetic status on the basis of its poetry rather than its kinaesthetic forms: ‘For the purpose of this book the rating of any variety of hula must depend not so much on the grace and rhythm of its action on stage as on the imaginative power and dignity of its poetry.’10 When Emerson says ‘poetry’, he is referring to the chants (mele) that are an integral part of hula. The texts are highly metaphoric, often couched in arcane language, and treat a variety of subjects ranging from celebrations of nature and love-making to self-reflexive comments on hula itself.

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Although all accounts of the hula, both past and present, are deeply embedded in various discursive agendas, certain elements of the aesthetic and institutional place that hula occupied in Hawai‘i’s highly stratified precontact society can be reconstructed with a fair degree of accuracy.11 The first important point to note is the high degree of institutionalization hula enjoyed. It was practised by trained performers who received instruction and performed in specially designed buildings, halau (dance-houses). Although troupes aimed to receive aristocratic patronage, most were self-supporting and paid by gifts from audiences. Major performances were highly elaborate affairs bound by strict etiquette, rules of tapu and were dedicated usually to a deity or chief. A public performance consisted of ‘a series of dances chosen from a not very varied repertory, the significance depending upon the grace or passion of the rhythmical rendering and upon the novelties hit upon by the hula-master.’12 The troupe was divided into two groups: those who recited and played instruments (drums, rattles, nose-flute) and those who danced. Dances could be performed individually or in groups of up to 100 dancers. Aesthetic excellence was judged according to the subtle footwork and richly symbolic gestures. A hula (chant and dance) could be of a sacred, religious character, have erotic and amorous themes or even include parody and clowning. The interplay of chant (on both textual and musical level) and dance depended on what Beckwith terms ‘double symbolism’. The richly metaphorical language is rendered by allusive steps and gestures, which are both subtly mimetic but also metaphoric. So complex and indirect was the communicative and aesthetic code of hula that by the end of the nineteenth century very few Hawaiians were capable of appreciating the textual richness of the chants.13 Outside of such highly formalized performance situations, hula was also practised on a more everyday, informal level by the ‘common people’. Early European visitors who witnessed hula kahiko often found it difficult to describe the movements and gestures because the conventions deviated so radically from Western conceptions of dance. It could be performed either standing or kneeling and invariably involved subtle, undulating hand and arm movements. The standing forms usually included vigorous genuflection while keeping the torso relatively rigid. Weight was shifted rhythmically from one foot to the other, which can give the impression of wave-like motions. Hands and arms were often extended upright in supplicatory, even mimetic gestures, which European observers construed, sometimes correctly, as being of a lascivious nature. One hula often observed was the hula ma’i, composed for the genitals of a chief and which ‘comprised the traditional conclusion of a formal presentation of dances honouring that chief’.14 Dances described range from individual young girls performing to a small number of spectators to massed choruses numbering up to 600 dancers and audiences of over 1000. When the missionaries arrived in force in the second decade of the nineteenth century, there is no doubt that they encountered an institution of

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considerable religious, cultural and aesthetic significance. As we have seen in the previous chapter, their concerted and successful attack on it was therefore a tactically astute move, as hula provided an easy target in their strategy of conversion. The abolition or suppression of hula effectively meant the removal of a part of Hawaiian religious culture. Missionary opposition to hula and the suppression of hula from 1820 until about 1870 resulted in an almost total enculturative breakdown. As hula depended entirely on the direct transmission of performative knowledge from teacher to pupil, it was hard put to sustain the loss of two generations of performance practice. When hula came to be revived under King Kalakaua in the 1880s, it was within a substantially altered cultural and political context and, as we shall see, in new visual forms. The period has left us, however, with an interesting and sometimes contradictory iconographical record, which provides an index of its redefinition within Hawaiian performance and political culture.

Iconography of the hula Even a cursory survey of the iconographical evidence – in the main photographs postdating the hula revival under King Kalakaua in the 1880s – reveals a proliferation of costume forms. Judging by the outward attire, hula had become different things for different people, a floating signifier of Hawaiian identity(ies). The following comments are framed by the basic requirement of all iconographical analysis, that is, that all pictorial images operate simultaneously on two communicative levels: a level of representation, the thing(s) depicted; and second, a level of conventionality determined by the pictorial media themselves, which is independent of the particular image depicted, but nevertheless impinges on it.15 That the following comments focus on costume as an index of cultural and performative change has two main justifications. First, costume is subject to a low degree of mediation through artistic perception and iconographical conventions. While the correlation between the depiction of costume in images and that worn in performance situations is relatively high, it is still not total and, in fact, the following arguments are not predicated on a historicist attempt to ‘reconstruct’ hula, ‘as it really was’. Rather the images to be considered will be approached in terms of their visual discourses and the way in which they constitute a mise en scène of the artist’s perceptions of the phenomenon. Second, costume, both in everyday life and in performance contexts, can be regarded as a gauge of cultural self-fashioning. As Roland Barthes notes, clothing is both a social and a theatrical sign, ‘a kind of writing’ with ‘the ambiguity of writing    , an instrument in the service of a purpose which transcends it.’16 This semiotic double function allows for a complexity of sign use that reveals a high degree of reflexivity, and thus forms a privileged and productive site for cultural and aesthetic analysis.

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We can preface our consideration of the iconographical evidence relating to hula by returning to Krämer’s desire to see ‘genuine Hawaiian dancing’, which meant presumably the pre-contact or early post-contact phase of hula. John Webber, who accompanied James Cook on his third (and fatal) voyage, rendered the dance and its performance context in a number of images. His ‘Man of the Sandwich Islands, dancing’ (see jacket illustration) depicts a near naked, heavily tattooed male dancer, adorned with leggings and holding a feathered rattle. For this image we also have a rare example of direct verbal corroboration. In the official account of the voyage we can read that this dance, described as ‘buffooneries’, was witnessed by the ship’s company on the beach. The description of the costume entirely supports Webber’s image and an attempt is made to characterize the dance: ‘His style of dancing was entirely burlesque, and accompanied with strange grimaces, and pantomimical distortions of the face; which though at times inexpressibly ridiculous, yet on the whole, was without much meaning, or expression. Mr. Webber thought it worth his while to make a drawing of this person, as exhibiting a tolerable specimen of the natives.’17 Unfortunately, this dance cannot really be considered hula in its institutional sense, although it doubtless has some relation to it. Hula was primarily a dance performed on a large scale for various religious and ceremonial occasions.18 The verbal description in fact suggests some kind of parodic taunting and clowning rather than the measured solemnity characteristic of much hula. It is intriguing to consider just what this ‘tolerable specimen’ was engaged in. Although the problem cannot be pursued here, the short encounter raises a whole series of questions regarding cross-cultural performance and perceptions. Such questions would include the discrepancies between the verbal and visual renderings, for example. King’s stressing of the grotesque, the distortion of movement and face, finds no expression in Webber’s drawing, which renders graceful movement and rather finely drawn features. The perspective from the other side must also be considered. If the performance was indeed a parodic taunting, what was the point of it? This is perhaps interesting in the context of the tragedy to come: Cook’s death. If Webber’s ‘Man of the Sandwich Isles, dancing’ is a somewhat ambivalent image in terms of its relationship to hula (although it is frequently reproduced as an early visual document of it), this is no doubt due to the lack of direct observation of the performance as it was practised on formal occasions.19 The same, however, cannot be said of several drawings executed by the French artist Jacques Arago, who visited Hawai‘i in 1819 as the official draughtsman to the scientific expedition commanded by Louis Freycinet (1817–19). Entitled ‘Iles Sandwich: Femme de l’ile Mowi dansant’ (Figure 7), the woman is depicted performing what modern scholars have recognized as the essential features of the hula noha (seated hula). Naked from the waist up, her costume consists of a full skirt, body paint as well as her heavily tattooed breasts, chest and arms. The scene was reproduced by Arago in three

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Figure 7 Jacques Arago: Les Isles Sandwich: Femme de l’isle Mowi dansant Source: Engraving by Avgrand. Detail. Note the row of goats around the breasts By permission of the Bishop Museum.

different versions with each one showing variations in hand movements, costume and position.20 Together they provide a composite picture of the essential features of this one dance and illustrate at the same time the principle of variation in performance. Arago’s attention was attracted more by the tattooed bodies of the hula dancers he drew than by the dance itself. During his sojourn on the islands he produced several sketches of female hula dancers, which quickly became part of the mimetic capital of Pacific iconography. Arago was fascinated by the way Hawaiians had incorporated the outward signs of European presence onto their bodies. In place of traditional patterns they decorated themselves with motifs depicting foreign animals and objects. In his travel account, Souvenirs d’un aveugle: Voyage autour du monde (1839), Arago reports on tattooing using foreign motifs among Hawaiians across sex and rank, but particularly pronounced among women. He writes: ‘If the men evidence a general taste for decorating their bodies, then among women of all ages it is a passion, a rage, a frenzy.’ Tattooing is carried out, he continues, ‘in all dwellings, in all public places, on the beach, under the trees and neither artist nor subject seem to tire of it.’21

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Do not tell me that these images are hieroglyphics, with which the individual and family history are conserved; in this regard I can refute the ingenious fairy-tale dreamed up by travellers, for in Kaykakooah, as well as Koiai, I worked without interruption applying designs to the legs, thighs, shoulders, heads and breasts of women of the people, wives of the governor and even princesses, and I can assure you that my inspiration was derived solely from my imagination and from my studies at the Collège. Today Ganimede und Mercury adorn more than twenty loins of the Sandwich islanders, the gladiator graces approximately forty young girls of Owhyee, and since my return to Paris I have encountered seafarers who have assured me that the success of my Venus, my Apollo and my other invented creations have inspired a great number of local artists. They have also told me, which flattered me a great deal, that since our voyage the old checkerboards, goats and wheels, have forfeited their former popularity.22 Arago’s illustration and self-congratulatory commentary illustrate in different ways processes of cross-cultural encounter whereby signs of alterity are absorbed. The tattooed goats, as well as the motifs he mentions such as fans, checkerboards and wheels, point to an attempt to assimilate performatively the experience of the other culture. Read with the discourse of ‘fatal impact’, according to which Pacific island cultures were exposed to successive waves of destructive foreign influences, this change to the corporeal iconography of hula could be seen as the first sign of the demise of the performance form, its visual pollution so to speak. Change does not signify, however, by definition destruction or demise. At this early point in colonial contact, one should be more circumspect in applying such readings. As we noted in Chapter 1, Marshall Sahlins has defined pre-contact Hawaiian culture as performatively assimilative, that is, ready to change rules and signs in response to an altered cultural situation.23 Following Sahlins, the practice could be read differently, namely as a productive adoption of foreign elements into an existing cultural system. These citations of alterity are less an index of colonial power than a sign of indigenous strategies to harness foreign elements for their own devices. A further step along the continuum of performative assimilation of new cultural signs within the framework of hula is captured in the dance scene rendered by the French marine painter Bathélemy Lauvergne, who visited the Hawaiian islands in 1836 on board the French ship La Bonite. The artist shows a complex performance situation with a solo female dancer accompanied

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Amongst the women there exists, he believes, a clear hierarchy of motifs. At the top are goats (introduced by Captain Cook in 1778), followed by checkerboards, fans and birds, with which the women decorate their cheeks, forehead and breasts. As far as the iconographical significance is concerned, Arago is dismissive of established scholarly opinion:

Figure 8 Bathélemy Lauvergne: Scène de danse, aux Iles Sandwich. Hula dancing with a solo female dancer Source: Lithograph, sepia toned. Detail, c1836. By permission of the Bishop Museum (CP 76816).

by seated drummers and watched by a mixed audience of Hawaiians and Europeans (Figure 8). The image includes European spectators, a feature not uncommon in the performance iconography of Pacific voyages. It also signals the beginning of a context for hula in which the dance is mediated through European representations, whether iconographical or written. Rather than attempting to conceal the context of the performance, these early representations make little effort to disguise the fact that the dances performed were probably staged for them; in fact the European visitors are the occasion for the hula. This performance had been especially arranged for the European visitors by King Kamehameha III at his country residence. Roger Rose notes that by this time, hula ‘had already entered a period of decline’ owing to missionary interference. In this scene the European influence on costuming is already apparent. Not only the Hawaiian spectators but also the dancers are clad in elements of Western clothing. The French consul for Manila, Théodore-Adolphe Barrot, who witnessed the performance, described the costume as a skirt made of calico, composed of ‘pieces of cloth, suspended from the hips, and hanging in graceful folds, [which] imparted a sort of originality to their movements.’24 The female dancer is almost fully clad, in comparison to the drummers, who were, as another witness noted, ‘naked to the waist; their arms and breast were tattooed, and loose folds of tapa of various colours covered the lower part of their bodies.’25 Sixteen or seventeen years after Arago’s depiction, hula is already revealing clear signs of assimilation on the level of costume and performance

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Dressing the Hula and Taming the Haka 109

Figure 9 Two Hula dancers. Ambrotype, 1858 Source: Photo, by permission of the Bishop Museum.

These earliest images of hula provide a framework in which to regard the proliferation of contexts for hula towards the end of the nineteenth century. The period following the establishment of the American mission under Hiram S. Bingham in 1820 saw a severe curtailment in the religious function of the hula in particular.26 As far as the iconographical record is concerned, the next major changes in the middle of the nineteenth century coincide with the development of photography. The earliest photograph of hula (Figure 9), an ambrotype dating from 1858, already prefigures the

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context into an altered, European paradigm. By 1836 formal performances of hula were considered a part of Hawaiian hospitality to high-ranking visitors. A process of secularization was setting in which would ultimately lead to the touristic hula as a symbol of Hawaiian aloha.

tradition of studio-produced studies for the tourist market.27 The floor has been retouched to give the appearance of sand. The costumes depicted here are also characteristic of one image of hula that was to persist throughout the nineteenth century. The wide cloth skirts, tightly buttoned blouses, fibre anklets bear little resemblance to the image of scantily clad hula maidens that would soon dominate the popular imagination. This picture was taken one year before the passage of legislation regulating public performances of hula. The dance was permitted provided it was ‘not of an immoral character, to which admission is obtainable by the payment of money.’28 Against this background the image seems to be conveying a double message: on the one hand an image of tightly buttoned respectability – anything less likely to arouse ‘immoral passions’ is scarcely imaginable. This certainly holds true for the photographic image and it is only this particular function we can study. The effect of the dancers in motion, their kinaesthetic appeal, is, it would seem, deliberately effaced in this static pose. The other implicit message is a commercial one. Here we have to take cognizance of the context and purpose of representation. Already hula was being manoeuvred into a context of commercial exploitation as the tourist industry in Hawai‘i began to grow in the second half of the nineteenth century. Further legislation was passed in 1865 and 1870 to remove most restrictions, thus ‘opening the way for wide participation in hula performances throughout the islands’.29 Within this context photography had already begun to establish itself as a purveyor of commercial interests, particularly in the realm of theatre and performance. The final one and a half decades leading up to the close of the century see an upsurge in the importance of hula within Hawaiian society and a multiplication of its functions. The photographs to be analysed in the following section were taken within approximately ten years of each other (between 1885 and 1895) and are roughly contemporaneous with Krämer’s visit to Hawai‘i. The images should thus be regarded not chronologically (some of them cannot be exactly dated anyway), but rather as coeval and thus as demonstrations of multiple performative identities and functions. Under King Kalakaua (1874–91) hula flourished again, yet within a fundamentally altered cultural context. When Kalakaua, the ‘Merrie Monarch’, assumed the Hawaiian throne in 1874, he called kumu hula (hula teachers) to his court and revived the tradition of hula performers being part of the court retinue as had been the case in pre-contact times. With Kalakaua begins what might be called a conscious reinvention of tradition for the purpose of cementing Hawaiian national identity and reinforcing indigenous political aspirations, which were coming under pressure from the white settlers. King Kalakaua’s revival of hula is to be seen in a context of increasing political and economic disenfranchisement of indigenous Hawaiians. His predecessors, particularly Kamehameha III (1813–54), had given up title to all Hawaiian lands with the exception of certain large estates retained as

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crown lands. From the 1850s onwards foreigners could purchase property easily – which they did in large quantities, laying the foundations for the huge sugar and pineapple plantations. With the plantations came indentured labourers from China, Japan and the Philippines and the foundation of Hawai‘i’s famous multicultural society. The nationalist revival initiated by Kalakaua was, however, aimed at the indigenous population and was more strongly cultural than explicitly political in orientation. Although the reintroduction of ancient hula as a form of court entertainment was initially conceived as a demonstration of indigenous traditionalism, it led ironically (or perhaps logically) to major innovations in the performance form itself. It ‘became a breeding place for change’, as Adrienne Kaeppler notes.30 These changes received dynamic public demonstrations during the 1880s when Kalakaua staged large hula festivals on various occasions. The celebrations were extensively photographed and we have a large number of photographic documents in different contexts. The various guises under which hula was demonstrated and promoted, even within the same courtly context, can be seen by examining Figure 10. The photograph depicts the hula master Ioane Ukeke with four of his troupe. Ukeke was responsible for staging Kalakaua’s festivals and earned the name ‘Honolulu Dandy’. While the dancers are clad in ‘traditional’ attire, Ukeke presents himself in an intriguing mixture of top hat, jacket, lei and cigar. The backdrop is a painted view of Waikiki beach and Diamond Head, Honolulu’s most famous landmark, quintessential touristland, even in the late nineteenth century. Thus we have a conflation here of a courtly dance troupe dedicated to the preservation and practice of ancient hula with a standardized, even stereotypical vista and a somewhat hybridized Hawaiian male presence. It is one of the many paradoxes of performative identity presentation that the cultural renaissance and self-assertion signified by the hula revival is clothed in the outward signs of Western culture. At exactly the same time the grass skirts and leis commonly associated with Hawaiian hula were beginning to be introduced.31 The origin of the grass skirts is uncertain. They may have been introduced by visiting Tahitian troupes, from whom the Hawaiians certainly learned the famous hip-rotating dance, synonymous with hula, but in fact entirely unknown to ancient hula. Other scholars identify Gilbert Islanders, present in Hawai‘i as labourers, as the source of inspiration for what was to become one of the most famous dance costumes of all time.32 The ukulele is itself equally synonymous with hula and was incorporated into the hula performance tradition at this time within the context of Kalakaua’s court dancers, along with hymn singing and band music coordinated by the Prussian bandmaster Heinrich Berger.33 European music was refashioned and syncretized during these years to produce a distinctively Hawaiian music and

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Figure 10 The ‘Honolulu Dandy’ Ioane Ukeke with his hula troupe, c.1880. The women’s costume, closely resembling that of Figure 9, comprises calf-length dresses, long-sleeved voluminous blouses and head wreaths. This set the fashion and standard for ancient or traditional hula which has persisted with slight variations until today Source: Photo: Dickson Collection, by permission of the Bishop Museum (CP 76818).

dance tradition, which found acceptance by both Hawaiians and Europeans alike. They were introduced in one spectacular performance according to Adrienne Kaeppler: In Kalakaua’s court all these influences converged and at his jubilee celebration in 1886 a famous Hawaiian dancer appeared in a hula accompanied by ukulele and steel guitar. The new music was sanctioned by the King, teachers, and performers, and loved by the audience. Soon most new compositions were in this style.    This new idiom is now known as ‘Hawaiian music.’ In truth it has little indigenous Hawaiian music in it, but is uniquely Hawaiian in that it was developed in Hawai‘i by Hawaiians out of a combination of Western music ideas available to them in the second half of the 19th century.34

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Both process and performance document a moment of cultural and performative self-fashioning as a response to heavy acculturative influences. Girls in grass skirts and ukuleles that began to feature on tourist postcards also reveal, however, the ambivalence of this process. A multiplicity of images and performative identities becomes apparent. Under the putative strategy of reviving ancient hula, the court dancers created a completely new form, incorporating new movements (Tahitian hip-gyrations), new musical instruments and idiom. Out of an initially conservative, folkloristic impetus arose a highly inventive syncretic performance form.

Figure 11 Hula dancers in a forest setting, c.1899 Source: Photo: Frank Davey, by permission of the Bishop Museum (CP 32352).

Finally, we will return to Krämer’s search for ancient hula in 1897. As an answer we can offer two alternatives, both images coinciding within a year or two with Krämer’s visit. His journey into the forest may have led him to Figure 11, dating from 1899. In a grove of trees somewhere, two bare-breasted hula dancers (or are they even dancers?) pose. They are accompanied by a woman in a sleeveless dress with a guitar and an elderly man in a loin cloth playing a nose-flute. This photograph contains in one image the multiple identities of hula at the end of the century and encapsulates

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a range of projections. The forest setting corresponds with Krämer’s intuition that genuine ‘old Hula’ might be best found in a remote area, far from the madding crowd. The bare-breasted women correspond to the eroticized tourist image of hula; one, however, which had more to do with European, especially missionary, projections than with the actual costume codes of the form, whether ancient or modern. The girl with the guitar suggests that for the Hawaiians, or for the photographer Frank Davey staging the photograph, the instrument introduced by the Portuguese in the middle of the nineteenth century had become synonymous with hula, to the point perhaps where it was inconceivable without it.35 The old man playing the nose-flute is, finally, a marker of the pre-contact musical accompaniment and his presence is somewhat at odds with the guitar-playing women, at least in the context of staged primitivism, in which the photograph is clearly to be located. The image is written over with the whole genealogy of European projections regarding hula: the contradictions and impositions. It is a composite image trying in a sense to cater for all these desires. It is perhaps the image that would have met with Krämer’s approval, if he could have been convinced it was authentic.

Figure 12 Backyard hula dancing in informal setting, c.1900 Source: Photo: Alonzo Gartley, by permission of the Bishop Museum (CP 90762).

The last image to be considered here (Figure 12) also dates from the late 1890s. It is a snapshot of hula being performed in a backyard, probably somewhere in Honolulu. Although this performance would certainly not have met with Krämer’s approval – the urban setting alone would have been a great disappointment – it is ‘authentic’ to the extent that it appears to be an indigenous performance context. With the exception perhaps of the photographer, there are no European spectators. The dancers are clad in simple

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dresses without decorative wreaths (leis) or anklets. They are accompanied by two men playing calabash drums, a sign of hula kahiko, dances performed in a broadly traditional way. The photographer has caught the characteristic but subtle sway and hand movements of ancient hula, as performed today. Of interest here, however, is less the question of ancient or modern: the image suggests a conflation of both and the existence of a performance form integrated into indigenous society. It is a formal occasion judging by the attire of the spectators – a birthday or wedding perhaps – and hula dancers have evidently been employed or invited for that special celebration. We see here hula as part of a living tradition within the fabric of native Hawaiian society. Performed neither for the tourist gaze nor for courtly delectation and political self-representation, it appears here to be in a third space, somewhere between the private and the public.

Taming the haka If the hula is metonymic of Hawaiian culture, then the same function is assumed by the haka, the war dance of the Maori in Aotearoa, New Zealand. This dance, more than any other cultural manifestation, represented the dominant image of the Maori as a fearsome warrior in the mind of Europeans both at home and abroad.36 That the Maori had almost defeated the mighty British Army in the wars of the 1860s was still very much in public consciousness. It was thus only logical that for the 1897 Diamond Jubilee celebrations in London, New Zealand chose to send along with its pakeha (white) troops a contingent of Maori soldiers clad in modern army uniforms. Those same soldiers then performed the haka in traditional costume at the Holborn restaurant in London, watched by the New Zealand premier Richard Seddon, the former New Zealand Minister of Labour and ardent imperialist William Pember Reeves and assorted British guests (Figure 13). It is hard to imagine a more ‘fitting’ image of the construction of performance under the imperial gaze. The artist has individualized the guests of honour – Seddon is recognizable (to New Zealanders at least) even without the caption – whereas the haka party vies for iconographic attention with chandeliers and bowls of fruit. Nevertheless, their presence here is remarkable. The enemies of yesterday were now providing entertainment in an upmarket London restaurant on the eve of a large-scale colonial conference, where Seddon, among other things, promoted New Zealand’s claim to annex various Pacific territories.37 The success of this performance may have perhaps laid the seeds for what four years later was to become the largest ever demonstration of Maori performance forms for Maori and European alike. In 1901, New Zealand and other British colonies were treated to a Royal tour by the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York, the Duke being the grandson of recently deceased Queen Victoria, Empress of India and Sovereign of many far-flung dominions. The tour was clearly designed to reinforce the symbolic claim

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Figure 13 Premier Richard Seddon attending a haka performance at the Holborn restaurant, London, 1897 Source: London Illustrated News. Collection of the author.

to imperial sovereignty by the royal family after the death of the Empire’s most important figurehead. While the reception of the royal party on the part of the white settlers was presumably never in doubt, – ‘a thousand miles of loyalty’ in the words of the official historian of the tour38 – the same could not necessarily be said of his majesty’s Maori subjects.39 It is perhaps not surprising, then, that Maori participation was focused almost entirely in one place: a three-day ‘carnival’ of Maori performance culture in Rotorua from 13 to 15 June 1901. This hui, (the Maori term for a ceremonial gathering) brought together representatives from all the major tribes in Aotearoa, who provided the royal party and each other with an unprecedented display of indigenous performance forms. The choice of Rotorua was not surprising. The town could already boast an established touristic infrastructure dedicated to presenting Maori culture to European visitors. The local people, the Arawa, were also famous, or infamous, for having kept out of the Maori/European wars in the 1860s, or rather for having deliberately sided with the settlers. The planning for the hui was in the hands of a Maori committee under the chairmanship of the Minister of Native Affairs, James Carroll, himself half Maori. The result was

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a gathering on an unprecedented scale with over 6000 Maori from all over the country in attendance. The resulting meeting provided ample evidence of the dialectics of spectacle: that is, the mutual desire to see and be seen in an aesthetically controlled environment. While the Maori were certainly on display to the Europeans, the latter, especially the royal party, were equally on display to the Maori, and the different tribal groups were on display to each other. The uniqueness of this event was apparent already to the participants, and subsequent historians of Maori culture have drawn attention to its importance in terms of scale and organizational ideas.40 The Maori contingent consisted of 6000 people camped together for about ten days prior to the actual ceremony. The camp was divided up along tribal lines and the time was used for extensive rehearsals. In the following examination of what was a multi-textured and complex performance event, I wish to restrict my comments to the question of how these extensive performances may have functioned as indicators of cultural redefinition for Europeans and Maori alike. This ‘gathering of the clans’, as Robert Loughnan, the official historian and ardent colonialist, terms the coming together of the various tribal groups,41 was certainly unprecedented in scale and form of interaction. As well as oratory, the main mode of performance was by means of action songs and dances, haka and poi (a form of dance employing light balls swung on the end of a string), costume and waiata (songs). Perhaps the dominant chord in the plethora of information provided is that of a tension between the past and the present. Loughnan’s account stresses the occasion as an opportunity for the Maori people to rejoice in the glories of their ancient, pre-contact culture. Using a theatrical metaphor Loughnan describes the preparations as a welcome chance to revive past grandeur: ‘Once more the Maori lived in the past. For a brief space the edge of the heavy curtain that screened it was raised, old memories revived, old chords were touched anew, and hearts thrilled and vibrated to the weird music of the dead ages.’42 The Maori past is represented here as a stage on which an historical play dramatizing the ‘dead ages’ is to be produced. It is not the ‘debased’ Maori present that is to be unfolded before the royal visitors (and the New Zealand politicians accompanying them) but an idealized version of a heroic and ‘Homeric’ past. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, theatrical performances only allow themselves to be stage-managed to a certain degree. Theatre, like culture, is always subject to the vicissitudes of time and change. This was nowhere more obvious than in the costuming for the event. Like the hula in Hawai‘i, the Maori performances were now subject to precise control and conceptualization. The Rotorua performances saw a similar process of conscious and unconscious adaptation to the special requirements of the unusual event. Traditional clothing became increasingly refashioned as theatrical or folkloristic costume: at once a signifier of the ‘dead past’ and the cultural changes

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118 Pacific Performances

There was a curious mingling of the old and new. Deeply tattooed warriors, some of whom had witnessed a cannibal feast, rubbed noses with young men who rode bicycles and pounded the big drum in the brass band. It was one huge fancy ball, full of fantastic anachronisms characteristic of a time of transition.43 While the quotidian, informal dress codes reflected indeed the cultural syncretism characteristic of most ‘times of transition’, the formal performances revealed much tighter control and conscious fashioning. Not only did each tribe adopt a special dominant colour, but most tried to emulate within the bounds of Christian propriety the traditional past that was eagerly sought after by European and Maori alike. The extent of this ‘conscious fashioning’ can be illustrated by comparing two photographs. Figure 14 shows the performance of a haka by members of the Ngati Kahungunu tribe of the East Coast region of the North Island to welcome guests at a wedding. The photo is contemporaneous with the

Figure 14 Hosts of the Ngati Kahungunu tribe welcome visitors to a wedding at Taradale, East Coast, North Island, New Zealand Source: By permission of the Alexander Turnbull Library (F-68581-1/2).

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of the present. During the preparations for the arrival of the royal party, Loughnan describes the appearance of the Maori in the informal situation of the camp:

Figure 15 Haka party at Rotorua during visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall, 1901 Source: Auckland Star Collection, by permission of the Alexander Turnbull Library (G-3142-1/1).

Rotorua festivities. Like the backyard hula, this is an indigenous performance context. Maori are performing for Maori. With the exception of the figure right, all are dressed in formal, everyday European-style clothes. If we compare this image with a photograph taken of the Wanganui haka party at the Rotorua hui44 (Figure 15), all performers are now clad in traditional piupiu. The dominant impression is a move from clothes to costume. Although both occasions can be considered hui, ceremonial encounters in the Maori use of the word, the Rotorua gatherings evidence a new configuration of performative and cultural codes to cater to the European gaze at work. This conscious staging of anachronism by means of costuming was matched by careful attention to the type of weapons on display: ‘They were admired by all who saw them – they and their good humour, and their vigour, and their weapons. No weapon was there, however, of European origin; no gun of any period from the time of Hingis [sic!] wars    no pouch, no belt, no tomahawk or axe of the whole fire-and-steel period of their wars.’45 Already here we see a feature typical of the folklorization of colonized cultures in general: the effacement of all signs of post-contact culture. All material signifiers of culture – costume and properties (in this case weapons) – were placed in the temporal frame of pre-contact times, the generic time of folklorized performance forms. At Rotorua we can observe the metonymic theatricalization of Maori performance forms as they were adjusted to the new receptive code of

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Dressing the Hula and Taming the Haka 119

120 Pacific Performances

The carnival had not lasted more than an hour. But for the spectators who saw it for the first time how many impressions had been crowded into that brief space! It was something to dream of. In no theatre in the world could a sight comparable to it be seen. The broad glare of the sun played on stage and players; the stage might have been the whole world, and the players children of Nature, untutored, yet endowed with instinctive grace and the marvellous art of suiting word to action and action to world.46 The theatrical performance being played out is, in Loughnan’s interpretation, a kind of historical drama resurrecting ‘the buried treasures’ of the Maori past and celebrating ‘the remnants of a proud race.’47 The metaphor carries also the metonymic force of generalizing for colonial peoples as a whole. When he claims that ‘the stage might have been the whole’ on which children of Nature perform for their colonial rulers, then it needs no sophistry to interpret this vision as one pertaining to all colonized peoples. In this sense the Rotorua performance is not only highly specific, but also symptomatic of wider issues and processes pertaining to performance in cross-cultural colonial situations. ∗

∗

∗

Polynesian performance forms belong to those cultural aspects that are, for outsiders at least, almost synonymous with these cultures. The aim has been to explore a particular nexus between colonial contact and identity formation as manifested during particular periods of substantial change in Hawaiian and Maori society in the nineteenth century. Although this general question has been much researched in recent years, the field of performance is one area that has received little systematic attention, even so. The aim of this chapter has been twofold: first, to demonstrate how two particular performance forms – the hula and the haka – became subject to double folklorization in the sense of ‘freezing’ a form in an imagined precolonial past. The strategic folklorization of King Kalakaua’s court dancers, who revived a putative traditional hula, also paved the way for the commercialized touristic forms. The touristic manifestation of hula in turn reveals itself to be a curious composite requiring the form to be deliberately primitivized in a way in which it had never existed. Maori performance forms, particularly the haka and the poi dances, had by the end of the nineteenth century become subject to similar processes of revaluation. In Rotorua in particular, these performances had been discovered and refashioned for the

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a European desire for performed primitivism. The ineluctable logic of this discursive construction explains why Loughnan himself resorts to an extended theatrical metaphor at the ‘climax’ of his account:

tourist gaze. At the same time they continued to fulfil important functions in their indigenous context. With the arrival of the royal party in 1901, the Maori were called upon to present themselves to the European guests in a theatrical mode. Dancing and singing and brandishing weapons of pre-European origin, they were induced to present a staged version of an earlier period of ancient vigour untainted by European influence. Both hula and haka are quintessential cultural signs, acting as focal points for the cultural identity formation of their respective cultures. Of equal importance, however, are their functions as theatrical forms, as acts of performance combining music, symbolic and mimetic movement and, in the case of hula, narrative and lyrical poetry. The changing dress codes during these periods of change demonstrate that a clear binary of ‘traditional’ performance on the one hand and an ‘inauthentic’ touristic version on the other is extremely problematic. In terms of its physical presentation hula and haka were subjected to a complex dynamic of cultural borrowings and redefinitions that incorporate historical exigencies, aesthetic innovation and cultural identity formation.

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5

In 1951, shortly after his return to Frankfurt from American exile, the German philosopher and connoisseur of avant-garde music Theodor W. Adorno recalled that the sound of a kettledrum invariably produced associations with the Samoan troupes he had seen as a 7-year-old child in the Frankfurt zoo: In the Zoological Garden there were not just the animals but there was a music pavilion and occasionally exhibitions of exotic tribes, of Samoans and Senegalese.    Whether it is the memory of it or simply the condensation of things long past – even today I associate with the beat of a kettledrum the name Tamasese and at the same time: the drum is played on his prisoners’ heads, or it is the pestle in which the savages cook human flesh.1 Adorno’s associative recollections are remarkably accurate on a number of counts. In 1910 a troupe of Samoan performers spent almost a month in the Frankfurt zoo performing dances and songs, cavorting on specially constructed water-slides and paddling their imported canoes. While the demonstration of cannibalistic practices was certainly not on the menu, boxing, wrestling, knife-dances and Samoan earth-cooking were. Even for a precocious child the conflation was understandable. Far from wanting to recall Samoa’s cannibal past, the troupe was in Germany for political as much as entertainment purposes. In celebration of ten years of German colonial rule in Western Samoa, Chief Tamasese Le Alofi was on his way, he hoped, to see the Kaiser. The trip had been organised by the former policechief of Apia, Fritz Marquardt, and his amateur anthropologist brother Carl. Unfortunately for Tamesese, the Marquardt brothers saw the tour more as lucrative entertainment than as a diplomatic mission. In fact the chief and his entourage were forced to make a number of prolonged detours to various German zoos before they were finally granted an audience with the Kaiser. 122

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Kindred Spirits: Spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany

If, in the previous chapters, the connection between colonial experience and indigenous performance has not always been explicitly political, in this chapter we will examine the place of performance in a formalized colonial context. From 1890 to the outbreak of war in 1914, Germany received visits on six different occasions by Samoan performance troupes. All but one were imported and organized by the impresarios Carl and Fritz Marquardt. While Germans were well accustomed to the spectacles of exotic performances thanks to the famous ethnographic shows (Völkerschauen) promoted by the Hamburg impresario Carl Hagenbeck, the Samoan troupes were framed in a different discursive context.2 If Hagenbeck aimed to capitalize on what might be termed the maximization of alterity, the Marquardt brothers positioned the Samoan performers in an unusual balancing act between alterity and familiarity, savagery and aesthetics. Their marketing of Samoan performance was closely keyed into the prevailing colonial discourse that attempted to sell Samoa and Samoans, the Kaiser’s most recent colonial acquisition, as kindred spirits of the Germans. Yet this latest addition to the German colonial empire was far from uncontested at home. Its economic or strategic benefits were doubtful to say the least. As we shall see, aesthetic as much as economic or geopolitical arguments had to be employed to justify the annexation of Samoa. The spectacle of Samoans performing in zoos was not an unusual event. Although by 1910 laws had made it more difficult to import native peoples in general, and German colonial subjects in particular, for performance purposes, Germans still expected to be entertained and edified by a regular procession of native peoples on display. This phenomenon has been extensively studied by scholars in the past years. Less well known, however, were the reciprocal arrangements made in the colonies themselves. Therefore, in the second part of the chapter we will examine the nexus of colonialism and indigenous performance in Western Samoa itself, where the German colonial administration made extensive use of local performance culture for political ends. As I have stressed throughout, the relationship between colonialism and theatricality is marked by a high degree of complementarity. The performative genre of colonial ceremony, in which colonizer and colonized perform to each, albeit in highly disparate positions of power, can be studied as a formalization of the liminal and unpredictable performative encounters examined in Chapter 1.

A place in the sun By the end of the nineteenth century the Pacific, and especially the Polynesian triangle, had been largely distributed between the colonial powers. While there was no single ceremonial carving up to rival the infamous 1884 Berlin conference on Africa, Pacific island territories were nonetheless gradually acquired and redistributed in a succession of deals and plays of

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Kindred Spirits: Spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany 123

diplomatic one-upmanship. The major acquisitions were the British control of New Zealand in 1840 through the Treaty of Waitangi, and the French annexation of the Society Islands and the Marquesas in 1842 followed by the declaration of a protectorate over New Caledonia in 1853. The British annexed Fiji in 1874 and concluded a succession of ‘friendship’ treaties with other islands that amounted to making them protectorates. It would, however, be erroneous to see the partition of the Pacific as the result of imperial-driven game plans directed from London, Paris, Berlin or Washington. In many cases, the annexations were forced on the Western governments by local players – administrators, traders or even missionaries – who compelled their respective governments to act in the best interests of endangered commercial operations brought about by local conflicts. Of all the island groups, with the exception of Tonga, Samoa remained independent the longest. Here the rivalry was particularly complicated, as it involved internecine tribal politics and British, American and German interests. German activity in the Pacific had been spearheaded in the 1850s by the Hamburg-based company of Goddefroy & Son, which established a strong trading presence in Samoa as well as on other islands. When the company went bankrupt in 1879, its interests were taken over by the Deutsche Handels- und Plantagen-Gesellschaft, which worked closely with the growing German colonial lobby. By the 1890s the company owned approximately 50 per cent of the arable land in Western Samoa. Throughout the 1880s and 1890s the German government became heavily involved in the struggle for influence and control over the Samoan islands. Although the archipelago was guaranteed independence in two different treaties signed by the Germans, British and Americans, all three powers attempted to gain influence by backing a succession of Samoan aspirants to the ‘throne’. These complex power plays culminated several times in violence involving not only inter-tribal bloodshed, as the major title-holders jostled for influence, but also attacks by Samoans on Europeans and by Europeans on each other. A particularly bloody incident took place in 1888 when the aspirant Mata’afa Josefo attacked Apia and the Germans sent in their marines who were defeated by the Samoans. He burned down the German consulate and the American, British and German warships in Apia’s harbour came to the brink of engaging each other until Bismarck defused the situation by sending out a more diplomatic consul. Several months later, in March 1889, a violent hurricane wrecked both American and German warships leaving hundreds of sailors dead. This catastrophe sobered all parties and led to a renewal of diplomatic negotiations. German colonial policy in general, and towards its Pacific territories in particular, has been the subject of intense scrutiny by historians in recent years. Loosely adapting Hobbes, we could say that German colonial history (outside Europe) was sometimes idealistic, occasionally brutish and very short. Its brevity was the result of Germany’s late appearance on the international scene as a major power on the one hand and was compounded

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by Bismarck’s well-known opposition to colonialism on the other. Despite growing pressure from colonialist pressure groups, the Iron Chancellor remained sceptical about establishing colonies under direct German administration. With his resignation as chancellor in 1890 and Wilhelm II’s ascension to the imperial throne, the mood changed perceptibly. In a recent study the German historian Hermann Hiery has argued persuasively that German interests in the Pacific had neither economic nor strategic advantages, a fact that was available not just to later historians but also to German politicians of the day.3 The question he asks is, then, why Germany invested so many resources in the upkeep and administration of colonies that were manifestly not paying their way. German colonial engagement belies the traditional Marxist argument, made famous by Lenin in his pamphlet Imperialism: The Highest stage of Capitalism (1916), which sees colonialism and imperialism as direct extensions of capitalism. German investment in New Guinea, Samoa and elsewhere in the Pacific was guided not by the crass fiscal requirements of excess capital, but by the more intangible imperatives of prestige and cultural self-fashioning. That German colonial and foreign policy were determined to a large extent by notions of prestige has been long recognized,4 and is indissolubly linked with the person of Kaiser Wilhelm II himself. Ultimately it would play a not insignificant role in the disastrous events leading to the July crisis of 1914. Plays of prestige can of course take many forms: from belligerent sabrerattling to more subtle demonstrations of intellectual and cultural superiority. The discursive justification for German involvement in the Pacific in general and Samoa in particular made recourse therefore not to the hard facts of economics and trade, but to soft-sell appeals to Germany’s role as a cultural nation. The annual Reichstag debates on the colonial budget provide persuasive documentation of a mental disposition that saw colonial involvement motivated by aesthetic appeals as much as by political rationales. In 1902, Rudolph von Bennigsen, governor of Germany’s Melanesian territories, entreated members to disregard economic factors when assessing the advantages such territories offered and to consider instead ‘our lofty ideal purpose’, which consists of protecting ‘the Polynesians    a proud, peaceloving and handsome race and Germany should be consider it an honour to ensure that the Polynesian population remains at its present level and is gradually civilized.’ In the same session, Samoa’s governor Wilhelm Solf appealed emphatically to the members’ sense of poetry: ‘I can assure you that Samoa is indeed the pearl of the South Seas and in my name and on behalf of my brown charges I would be most grateful to the house if you would not spare on gold for this pearl’s setting.’ The metaphor did its work and the parliamentary proceedings record ‘merriness and lively applause on all sides of the house’. The budget was passed seconds later.5 Solf’s metaphor was a considered rhetorical device, which played on a discursive tradition that for over a decade had constructed a close

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Kindred Spirits: Spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany 125

alignment between German and Samoan cultures. The trope of Samoa as the ‘pearl of the South Seas’ had been around for some time and resulted in a particularly protective attitude to the inhabitants of the islands that could certainly not be considered characteristic of German colonial policy in general. It surpassed mere paternalism and took on occasional traits of a kind of mythic affinity that gained in intensity after Samoa was annexed in 1900. Writing in defence of the practice of mixed marriages in the German colony of Western Samoa 1906, a German colonist, E. F. Reye, even detected deep-seated parallels between the two races: Their habits of mind, their love of physical sports, their preference for head decorations made up of flowers and wreaths are very reminiscent of the descriptions Tacitus provides of the way of life of our ancient German forefathers. The Samoans are not ashamed of their brown skin colour. The full strong colour is admirably suited to the lively colours of the tropical world.6 Particularly the final sentence, in which the people and their skin colour are perceived as a naturalized component of a tropical (stage) setting, draws attention to a recurrent topos in European writing about the South Seas and to the Samoans in particular. Not only are peoples and places aestheticized and theatricalized to a large degree, they exist primarily as extras on a stage or theatre set, where the human beings and the surrounding foliage are part and parcel of a unified Gesamtkunstwerk.7 As we shall see, this image was literally staged in the tours of Samoan troupes in Germany after 1890.

Anthropological anxieties Between 1890 and 1911 Germany hosted extended tours by Samoan performance troupes on no less than six different occasions making them the culture with the most frequent presence among the many exotic troupes to visit Wilhelminian Germany. The presence of exotic performers was in itself nothing new thanks to the entrepreneurial efforts of Carl Hagenbeck’s Völkerschauen, the ethnographic shows that toured Europe from 1874 until the 1930s. A child of the Gründerzeit, the economic boom that followed Germany’s unification in 1871, Hagenbeck developed sophisticated advertising campaigns, involved dramaturgical ‘stories’ to frame the exhibitions, and even registered patents for panoramic backgrounds and, most famously, for the first cageless zoo in the world in 1896. In 1907 he opened a huge park-like zoo in Hamburg-Stellingen which became a model for other cities. Over the course of Hagenbeck’s career one can observe a clear move from exhibition to performance in the staging of his spectacles. A second important move was the choice of zoological park as the preferred setting. Although not the only setting for the shows, zoos remained the most

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important locale for the Völkerschauen. In fact many zoos set aside special areas or arenas to cater for the shows. The Samoan troupes remained in Germany and Europe for periods ranging from several months up to two years. They visited all major German cities and many smaller centres besides. The unique aspect of the Samoan performance troupes was, apart from their continuing long-term presence, an increasingly complex involvement with their German spectators. No other culture enjoyed the same degree of sympathetic identification that combined political and anthropological discourses with aesthetic and commercial ends. We find played out anthropological anxieties over authenticity as well as direct political agendas prosecuted by both the German hosts and the Samoan performers. A close examination of the troupes will show that, far from being mere passive objects of commercial exchange and the exoticist gaze, the performers were in continual contact with families and leaders at home who monitored progress and reception and even intervened with German officials when necessary. On 21 June 1890 an evening session of the Berlin Society for Anthropology, Ethnology and Prehistory was slowly coming to a conclusion after intense discussion over archaeological finds from the Bronze Age discovered near Heegemühle in Brandenburg. The minutes record controversial exchanges over the possible provenience of bronze sword hilts with analogies ranging from Caucasian bird figures to carts in present-day Troy. Despite their differences of opinion, all members agreed that the objects should be exhibited in the Royal Museum in Berlin, and the donors were thanked for their patriotism and contribution to the advancement of science. The august members then effected a seemingly effortless mental leap from the Bronze Age to the present as the internationally renowned pathologist and founder of the aforesaid society, Prof. Rudolf Virchow, moved to the twenty-ninth and final item on the agenda, noted simply as ‘A Number of Samoans’.8 What the proceedings go on to document is a lecture by Virchow on the ‘anthropology’ of Samoans in the presence of six male members of the first performance troupe to visit Germany. One should add, the six remaining members of an original troupe of nine. In 1889, Robert A. Cunningham, an agent of the Bailey and Barnum circus, visited Samoa and recruited the first troupe of Samoans to visit Europe at a time when the islands were embroiled in one of their worst periods of conflict. He was opposed by Mata’afa and other Samoan chiefs and finally found eight men and one woman from the island of Tutuila in Eastern Samoa willing to accompany him for a three-year contract. The troupe travelled to Europe via San Francisco and New York. Finally, only three returned home, the others having died of malnourishment or pulmonary diseases.9 Although best remembered today as the founder of cell pathology, Rudolf Virchow (1821–1902) was a scientist with wide interests, liberal political persuasions and a seat in the Reichstag. A pioneer of modern sanitation,

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Virchow was also an advocate and practitioner of anthropometry, the infamous measuring, cataloguing and photographing of indigenous peoples, both alive and dead, for the advancement of science. His collection of skulls was legendary and is still in the possession of Berlin’s Humboldt University. Virchow’s lecture-performance with the borrowed performers encapsulates many of the ‘urgent’ anthropological questions of the time. Analogous to the debates on the bronze sword-hilts, he begins by confirming the supposed provenience of the subject of his lecture, in this case the island of Upolu in the Samoan group. He is able to exclude with almost complete certainty the possibility of deception, a reference to other cases where supposedly ‘pure’ specimens had turned out to be adulterated racial mixtures palmed off on him by eager agents.10 Virchow was particularly suspicious of troupes appearing in variety shows and waxwork museums, which did not carry the same guarantee of authenticity that had become the trademark of Hagenbeck’s zoological-anthropological exhibitions. Cunningham’s troupe was performing in the Flora of Charlottenburg, one of Berlin’s more luxurious entertainment establishments that combined a park, palm garden and stage with an excellent location beside the river Spree, so was, to Virchow’s mind, by definition slightly suspect. The ambivalences in Virchow’s anthropological project become evident at the end of the evening when the lecture switches to performance. Compared to the minutiae of toe length and skin colour, the text is unusually laconic with respect to the performances by the Samoans: After the lecture the Samoans sang first some traditional songs, then danced and fought, whereby the confidence and power of their movements manifested themselves admirably. Finally Manoje [the leader of the troupe] demonstrated some highly dangerous skills with a long knife which he spun into the air and caught again etc. (ZfE, 1890: 392) At the conclusion of the performance, a heated discussion broke out over the racial purity of the Samoans in question. Richard Neuhaus, doctor, photographer and amateur ethnographer, expressed the opinion that the specimens in question had been adulterated with Melanesian blood. Virchow countered in the same pejorative metaphor that the question of whether present-day Samoans ‘have suffered adulteration with Melanesian blood’ is not really the question since this is an accepted fact. The only question of interest for Virchow was whether the people present corresponded to the current Samoan ‘type’ which he was able to affirm. The attendant question of whether Samoans were Polynesians could also in Virchow’s mind be confirmed but he was conscious that the present performers might have left a less than ideal impression. He continued: ‘One must not be deceived by mere fashions, for example in the dancing, or by artificial hair-dos. Wigs such as that worn by Manoje are also known in Tahiti, and no-one would claim that

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the Tahitians are Melanesians. All natural traits of the Samoans belong to the typical characteristics of the Polynesian race’ [emphasis added] (392). Clearly the genre of performance was not conducive to serving the interests of an empirical science. Nature was at war with culture here. The latter represented metonymically by performance, that most ‘unreliable’ of cultural forms with its penchant for costuming, make-up and unrepentant borrowing. Virchow was in a sense forced to demonstrate the authentic Samoans beneath the potentially deceptive signs of theatrical performance. Underlying Virchow’s exhortations was, as already mentioned, a fundamental distrust of specimens purveyed via ethnographic shows. Since 1884 the Berlin Society for Anthropology, Ethnology and Prehistory had worked hand in hand with Hagenbeck and other impresarios to capitalize on the constant supply of human ‘data’ passing through the capital. ‘With the enthusiasm and morality of entomologists’, as Sibylle Benninghoff-Lühl has put it,11 Virchow and other physical anthropologists subjected their specimens not only to exhaustive measurements but invariably to photographic recording in their ‘natural state’. The basic procedures were adapted from the Prussian military (Virchow had originally trained as a military doctor), which required quick and reliable data about their recruits. The provision of human material in the interests of empirical science was not conducted entirely without self-interest on the part of the impresarios. Publicity material contained not infrequently Virchow’s seal of approval in regard to the authenticity of the troupe. By 1890, however, Virchow was unhappy with the whole business, and shortly after the Samoan lectureperformance, he complained: ‘An increasing degree of acumen is necessary in order to distinguish between authenticity and inauthenticity, and even the knowledge of older travellers has proven insufficient in light of the puzzles produced by the various competing troupe leaders.’12 Virchow realized that the epistemological basis of his understanding of anthropology was in danger if he could not verify the provenience of his data.13

Samoan troupes and the politics of the colonial gaze It was not until 1895 that Carl and Fritz Marquardt organized a second visit by a Samoan troupe. During the 1890s Hagenbeck had largely withdrawn from the Völkerschau business so there was considerable scope for rival impresarios. A former journalist from Berlin, Fritz Marquardt had been variously a shipping clerk, military advisor to Tamasese and chief of police in Apia while his brother Carl was an amateur ethnologist and collector of ethnographic curios. Altogether the Marquardt brothers organized five tours with Samoan troupes before the First World War.14 During this 15-year period, however, the ‘conditions of production’ altered dramatically. By 1910 it had become practically illegal to import troupes from German colonies, and the final tour was made possible only under the guise of

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a putative ‘diplomatic mission’. As we shall see, the spectacles of alterity that had made Hagenbeck a millionaire and a household name were becoming increasing problematic for a variety of political, ethical and aesthetic reasons. In the same period, Samoa altered its status from being just one more exotic location to official recognition as part of the German empire. The islands’ inhabitants changed from being just one more ethnic group on display to redefinition as ‘fellow citizens’ of the German spectators. In the light of such volatile political changes, it must be asked whether the apparently clear-cut power relations that recent scholarship has ascribed to the Völkerschauen and ethnographic spectacles in general bear up to closer scrutiny. The first tour organized by the Marquardt brothers took place between 1895 and 1896. In comparison to Cunningham’s all-male troupe with its emphasis on Samoan martial arts, the first Marquardt troupe was dominated by the erotic appeal of the South Seas. Its 22 ‘beautiful girls’ far outnumbered the four men. The publicity material also gave pride of place to the women, with the men featuring more as musical back-up rather than as a dominant presence. For the last time Virchow allowed his scientific judgement to be used as a seal of approval. He was indeed impressed by these ‘natural wonders’: A race that combines such great physical merits with a great abundance of natural grace and stamina is in itself one of the most remarkable phenomena in the history of the development of the human race. The persons selected by Mr Marquardt display these characteristics to a high degree. I can only hope that many Europeans will see and appreciate these natural wonders.15 The troupe travelled extensively in Germany and other European countries over a two-year period. They appeared mainly in zoos but also included two extended runs at the Berlin Panopticum, a kind of variety theatre. The Völkerschauen came under direct pressure after 1900 with the passing of several laws and regulations that made their activities extremely difficult. The influential Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft had been agitating since the mid-1890s to outlaw the importation of German ‘colonial subjects’ for the purposes of exhibition and performance.16 Their arguments combined moral, economic and aesthetic anxieties over the destructive effects of exposing native peoples to too much European culture. The threat of moral debilitation for both Europeans and natives was omnipresent, but apparently equally threatening was the practice of excessive theatricality in the display of the peoples, as a memorandum written to the German chancellor in 1900 made clear: The attraction of just observing indigenous people in their typical dress and customary jewelry surrounded by their weapons and tools, or even the

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presentation of their native dances is not enough to attract the spectator anymore. Therefore, one turns to methods that are geared to titillate the masses to attend [the exhibitions]. The natives are dressed up so that they laugh at themselves and the gullible spectators. They are taught dances that they never knew before, and thus they deceive the public and simultaneously become corrupted.17 The loss of authenticity signalled by an almost self-reflexive awareness on the part the native performers of their own theatrical behaviour counteracted whatever educational value the Völkerschauen may have had in their original and presumably less overtly histrionic form. The consequence of the memorandum and its attendant agitation was a regulation passed in 1901 prohibiting the export or import of ethnographic troupes from German

Figure 16 Programme for the 1901 tour. It reads, ‘Our new compatriots. Samoa Exhibition’ Source: Photo: collection of the author.

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Kindred Spirits: Spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany 131

colonies.18 This legislation was also enforced in the new German colony of Samoa, which required that the tours which subsequently took place be framed in a new way. Following their successful tours of the mid-1890s the Marquardt brothers resolved to capitalize on Samoa’s status as a German colony. Their ‘exhibition’ of 1901 was promoted under the heading ‘Our New Compatriots’. The emphasis on the personal pronoun ‘our’ was presumably intended to construct a different kind of gaze. Instead of purely exotisistic wonderment, German spectators were required to admire their new fellow countrymen with a curious mixture of complicity and distance. On the verbal level this unusual perceptual balancing act was no doubt motivated in part by the new legislation. It also reflected the aforementioned aesthetic colonialism that figured Samoa as the ‘Pearl of the South Seas’ and its inhabitants as Germans in spirit if not in skin colour. Amongst the plethora of promotional iconography that was disseminated in the form of posters and postcards, the cover picture of the performance programme (Figure 16) encapsulates the new discourse. The Samoan warrior in traditional attire and brandishing a fighting knife assumes a dominant stance, not unlike the familiar pose of big-game hunters. He is framed by the German flag and his steady gaze communicates to the viewer a relationship of assured equality: two warrior peoples on equal terms. Although designated an ‘exhibition’ to take advantage of the term’s edificatory connotations, Germany’s newest relatives presented themselves almost entirely in performative situations. Besides the numerous dances, a variety of other cultural activities with performative potential were adapted for theatrical presentation. Some, such as coconut-tree climbing, have since entered the basic repertoire of Samoan tourist performances (see Chapter 7). Others, such as Samoan cricket, provided entertainment value on account of its mimicry of European practices. Even today cricket remains a completely incomprehensible sporting activity to the uninitiated German gaze; in its Samoan adaptation its performance presumably provided German spectators with bemusement at English as well as Samoan culture. Particularly striking are the broadly martial performances: boxing, war scenes, knife-dances, and so on. They underscore the overall discursive frame of two warrior peoples meeting in peace and mutual respect. The performance itself combined the viewing practices of both exhibition and theatre, as Carl Marquardt emphasizes in the programme booklet. The overall purpose is to enable spectators to experience at first hand ‘tropical nature’ and the ‘charming disposition of the Samoans’: A mighty tableau permits him to form an idea of the splendour of the Samoan landscape. A native village, situated in a circle of green palms, transports him in his mind to the strands of the distant ocean. Selected representatives of the people demonstrate that physical beauty and charm have not only been bequeathed to the white race.19

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Apart from its provision of vicarious touristic experiences, the dominant tenor underlying the whole show was one of gaining sympathy for the ‘new compatriots’ of Germany. Its combination of entertainment and education (included was a large exhibition of ethnographic objects) was intended as a kind of goodwill tour on the part of the colonial project. The next tour organized by Carl and Fritz Marquardt in 1910 faced even greater legal problems than the 1901 tour. Ten years on, the laws regulating the movement of German colonial subjects had been tightened even more, so that ethnographic shows from the colonies had become practically impossible to organize. 1910 was however the tenth anniversary of German colonial rule in Samoa where the German administration was itself planning large-scale ceremonies and performances, as we shall see below. With the help of Governor Solf the Marquardts constructed an argument that effectively reversed the politics of the gaze. In a letter to Solf, Felix Marquardt reported on the supposed Samoan view of the regulations. He argued that Samoans now regarded themselves as Germans and therefore had a legitimate right to be able to inspect their fellow countrymen at first hand. Quoting a putative prospective Samoan tourist, Marquardt writes: ‘We are Germans after all. Why does one prevent us from seeing Germany? Why are we not allowed to visit Germany?’20

Figure 17 Postcard of Samoan performers in Hagenbeck’s zoo in Hamburg-Stellingen, 1910. The performers belonged to the Tamasese troupe seen by Adorno Source: Photo: collection of the author.

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Finally, Solf reached an agreement with the Colonial Office whereby ‘Prince’ Tamasese, son of one of Western Samoa’s royal families, and his entourage would visit Germany and the Kaiser on a diplomatic mission. That the journey there entailed prolonged sojourns at a number of German zoos was not explicitly stipulated but nevertheless accepted. That this diplomatic mission also included objects such as water-slides in imitation of the famous Papasea waterfalls and several outrigger canoes could be justified by recourse to cultural customs. These two properties added additional attractions to a programme that in other respects closely resembled that of 1901. Whether these performances actually established a balanced politics of the gaze as Marquardt claimed must be doubted. This last ethnographic show from Samoa offered many Germans, however, one last opportunity to enjoy the spectacle of their Polynesian relatives from the safe vantage point of an animal enclosure (Figure 17).

‘Impressing the natives’: colonial ceremony in Samoa Adorno’s childhood memories of Samoan performers refer, as mentioned, to a tour led by Chief Tamasese Le Alofi. Tamasese’s theatrical-diplomatic mission in Germany had its pendant back in Western Samoa. There, too, it was decided that ten years of colonial rule should be marked by the appropriate ceremonial procedures. On 17 November 1909 the German governor of Western Samoa, Wilhelm Solf, sent a letter to the State Secretary of the Colonial Office in Berlin applying for special funds to celebrate ten years of rule in Germany’s furthest flung colony with a flag-raising ceremony. After stressing that the local population intended to mark the occasion with festivities, he continues: The organisation of an imposing ceremony on the occasion of the first decennium of German rule is desired by the government in more than one respect. It offers the government a welcome opportunity to demonstrate to the natives a summation of the beneficial effects of German rule and at the same time to convince those amongst them who have been talked into believing that Germany’s ‘Pule’ would only last ten years of the absurdity of this rumour.21 This letter is a significant document for two main reasons. First, it emphasizes with programmatic clarity the importance of a symbolic and ephemeral act – the flag-raising ceremony and its attendant festivities – for reinforcing colonial rule. Second and perhaps more importantly, Solf articulates in the second sentence the double-edged function of colonial ceremony: its specific aesthetic nature and its clear political mandate. With the phrase ‘a summation’ (zusammenfassend), Solf stresses further the particular efficacy of this

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kind of ceremonial demonstration. Ceremony offers a concentration of signs, supported by the full force of carefully chosen symbol, as a way of staging political power. This demonstration contains a double message: at once benevolent and admonitory. In what was the single most impressive, expensive and extensive demonstration of German colonial rule in its 14 years of power, it is possible to study the interrelationship between aesthetics and power as it manifests itself in the theatricality of cross-cultural encounter. Colonial ceremony The specific importance of theatricality as a theoretical construct lies in its interactive, interrelational nature. Human actors in a broad range of activities are organized by means of staging procedures for perception by others. Understood in this broad sense, ceremony can be regarded as a particular form of theatricality. Anthropologists usually distinguish ceremony from ritual. Although many of the outward signs may be identical, ceremonies do not necessarily require the transformative efficacy that characterizes ritual in its narrower sense. In Victor Turner’s felicitous phrase: ‘Ceremony indicates, ritual transforms’.22 Ceremonies are a particularly complex form of ‘public events’, which conform to a number of anthropological principles and, according to Don Handelman, function as ‘mirrors and models’ of the societies that stage the ceremonies.23 Social and cultural practices are not just mimetically imitated but are also refashioned to present an idealized model of the society in question. In the colonial situation this twin function frequently became doubled, as the colonial powers instantiated their ceremonial protocols in their new territories while often adding and even incorporating the ceremonial practices of the indigenous peoples. More than just adding ‘local colour’ to European displays, the integration of indigenous performance forms demonstrated to the colonial rulers native acquiescence and it was hoped that the same message communicated itself to the dominated peoples. The German colonial administration in Western Samoa provides a particularly fruitful field of inquiry for examining the interrelationship between colonialism and theatricality. First, it was sustained with a minimum of direct force. There was no continuous military or even police presence in the colony. Police duties were carried out by locally trained Samoans (Fita Fita) under German command. German military ‘might’ was underscored by visits from the cruiser Comoran, which toured the German colonies in the Pacific. Second, as we have seen, Western Samoa and its indigenous inhabitants were themselves subject to aestheticization to a high degree. Since the economic potential of the islands was limited to say the least, the German colonialists prided themselves with possessing, if not the most lucrative, then certainly the most aesthetically appealing colony. This particular German attitude to Western Samoa then fed into the wider European discourse of South Sea paradise, which, while it had centred mainly on Tahiti,

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had by the end of the nineteenth century extended its scope to include the Samoan islands. One particularly efficacious way of fusing the necessity of power demonstration with the desire engendered by the South Seas myth was by the staging of elaborate ceremonies incorporating the insignia of German colonial rule and the aesthetics of indigenous performance forms. The particular strategy employed in Samoa by German officials was to incorporate indigenous performance forms at special points of the ceremonial process. They were fitted into a carefully thought out dramaturgical structure which will be analysed below. Those involved in the ceremonies and celebrations – colonial officials, European settlers and Samoans – were both actors and spectators at the same time. The result was a complex theatrical phenomenon, the reading of which requires ‘thick description’ in the Geertzian sense, whereby ‘piled up structures of influence and implication’ must be unravelled.24 How the various parties and ethnic groups or cultures involved perceived such ceremonies is a complex question. In order to address it, it is necessary to consider the broader context of the frame(s) of reference which the various parties might have had at their disposal. Reader response theory speaks of the horizon of expectation that readers bring to bear on texts. The horizon of expectation of theatre-goers is determined largely by a complex of factors including the theatre-going experience, place of performance and by signals such as genre designations. In the case of the flag-raising ceremony – although it was a singular event in terms of scale – the actual components were familiar to all participants through regular participation in the annual birthday celebrations in honour of the German Kaiser. In terms of general procedure the tenth anniversary celebrations followed closely the initial flagraising ceremony on 1 March 1900. In fact there was a conscious will to evoke a number of obvious echoes of the first event. Solf described this first ceremony in some detail in an article published in the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten, which, significantly, was reprinted on the eve of the 1910 ceremony. Prior to the ceremony in 1900, he had negotiated with the paramount chiefs Mata’afa and Tamasese to ensure the participation of the Samoan matai (chiefs) and their followers. Almost the entire settler population and about 5000 Samoans gathered in places allocated to them to watch the ceremony. Of central importance for all ceremonies is the special arrangement of participants. In the case of the German flag-raising ceremony in 1900, great care was taken to reflect the various groups making up Western society. A diagram (Figure 18) was published in the Samoa Times following the official assumption of German colonial rule. It reflects first of all the trilingual nature of Samoan society around 1900, as each spatial coordinate is given in English, Samoan and German. The focal point of this ‘theatre-in-the-round’ is the flag itself. The backdrop is the sea, and the various groups constitute both the scenery and audience. The Samoans are standing at right angles to the papalagi (the indigenous term for foreigners).

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Kindred Spirits: Spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany 137

Fu‘a. Flag Deutsche und fremde Einwohner Samoas. Papalagi. German and foreign residents of Samoa. Strasse. Ala. Road.

Figure 18 Arrangement of spectators for flag-raising ceremony, Apia, Western Samoa, 1 March 1900 Source: Samoa Times, 1 March 1900. Collection of the author.

Opposite the Samoans are the schools and missions: two groups which are made up of Samoans and Europeans. The Kaiser’s proclamation was read out in German and Samoan and the flag then raised. This was followed by speeches from the bishop of the Marist mission and the representative of the London Missionary Society. The ceremony was continued with a prayer and a song from pupils of the German school: A rousing cheer went through the whole population; the natives, who behaved superbly during the ceremony, joined in the cheers of the Whites in Samoan fashion with long drawn out, powerfully swelling sounds. After it died down all the schools sang the German national anthem together. Then Mataafa stepped up to the flagpole and held an appropriate speech in which he thanked the powers for finally solving the Samoan question.25 Mata’afa’s speech was followed by one from Tamasese who reiterated in his oration the same loyalty to the German flag he had pronounced during the Kaiser’s birthday celebrations a month before. The actual ceremony was followed by festivities including separate receptions for the ‘non-coloured population’ and the Samoan chiefs, a garden party for the school children, a procession and performances organised by the missions (presumably of

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∗

Haus des Gouverneurs. Fale o le Kavana. House of the Governor.

Flagge

Missionen. Faifeau. Missions.

Ehrenwache Faamamalu. Guard of honour.

Schulen. A‘oga. Schools.

Alii uma.

MULINUU Samoaner Tagata o Samoa Samoans

Band.

Municipalitaet. Eleele Sa. Municipality

Meer. Sami. Sea.

Samoan song and dance), a feast for the Samoan chiefs, and an evening dance for the white population. In this carefully orchestrated performance proclaiming the assumption of colonial rule, we find in nuce both general and specific principles. General, because flag-raising ceremonies in the German South Seas colonies followed basically the same script, especially in regards to integrating indigenous performance forms. Of specific interest to the Samoan situation, and here the ceremony prefigures the ‘success’ of Solf’s administration, is the integration of the chiefs Mata’afa and Tamasese into the proceedings, on whose cooperation German rule was largely dependent. Their speeches to their followers must be seen as a parallel discourse to the European components of the ceremony. Of particular interest in Solf’s representation of the ceremony (and we must stress that it is principally what we have at our disposal) is the evocation of political unity and cultural separation. The image of European and Samoan voices joining together in unison, Samoan children under the baton of an English missionary singing the German national anthem, but each race retaining, as it were, its cultural specificity (the Samoan cheer (Hurrah) is different from the European one) anticipates Solf’s colonial practice of promoting separate development of the races in Samoa. The final point to be mentioned in regard to Solf’s official report is that he stresses the harmonious and peaceful nature of the festivities. On the one hand, this refers back to the strife that had beset Samoa over a long period: Samoan internecine warfare, Samoan versus Europeans, and squabbles between the Europeans themselves. On the other, he is alluding to the precarious nature of ceremony itself. This generalized anxiety becomes clear when reading the newspaper reports of the annual Kaiser’s birthday celebrations, which almost invariably close with the remark that everything went peacefully and without incident. Ceremony required the gathering together of different races and cultures and such promiscuous contact seemed to have contained the potential for violence in the minds of the colonial officials. Each ceremony, for all its outward festive appearance and harmony, concealed an underlying dramatic tension and potential for disaster. Each ceremonial drama, although conceived and planned as a festive comedy, could potentially tip over into the destruction of tragedy. For this reason, the dramaturgy of the ceremonies was subject to particularly careful planning. This model was continued and repeated each year on the occasion of the Kaiser’s birthday. As far as Samoan participation was concerned – principally in the form of dance and the ceremonial presentation of gifts (ta’alolo) – the colonial administration was dependent on missionary cooperation. Each year, the governor, or his deputy Erich Schultz, sent the same letter to the three missions requesting their involvement and assistance. From this correspondence one can form a generalized picture of the basic principles behind missionary and Samoan involvement in the mind of the colonial administration. He requested from the London Missionary Society in particular

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the celebration of a German church service in Apia and from all three organisations church services in the outlying areas, ‘in order to impress on the natives as well the significance of this day’. Here we can see quite explicitly the reliance of the Germans on the missions as cultural brokers for their administration, a question to which we shall return below. The other general principle is that of the effect of ceremony outside the circle of those who are present. While the actual ceremony could not be repeated outside Apia, the use of church services as multipliers was considered part of the overall strategy. This is made quite explicit a year later in Schulz’s letter to the missions. Here he requests from the Catholic bishop of the Marist mission a church service in the cathedral in Apia in honour of the Kaiser’s birthday, ‘and furthermore to ensure that outside Apia in the native church services the national significance of the day is commemorated’. In this brief remark a problematic area of the colonial enterprise becomes apparent. The use of ceremony to forge an idea of nationhood is a difficult task not just in relation to the Samoans with their strong familial allegiances, but also for the European settlers, who were by no means a homogeneous group. The Church (and a French Catholic one at that) is being asked to act via its religious celebrations as a political amplifier of German colonial intentions.

Tenth anniversary celebrations An anonymous journalist responsible for the English language section of the Samoanische Zeitung noted the theatrical or dramatic nature of the impending tenth anniversary celebrations. On the 26 February 1910, a day before the celebrations commenced, and with diplomatic regard to the German administration, he remarked: Annexation imposed on Germany a difficult task; that of bringing a proud and turbulent race into subjection without destroying them; of dealing justly with them without leading them to suppose that this was done through weakness of force or purpose. All this has been successfully accomplished, and the leading personage in the political drama can, with those who were his fellow workers, not only congratulate himself on what has been done, but look forward with reasonable hope to its continuance.26 That the English commentator perceived Governor Solf as the leading figure in a ‘political drama’ was more than borne out in the dramaturgy and staging procedures of the commemorative celebrations. The actual activities extended over five days from the 26 February to 2 March 1910 and culminated in a solemn ceremony on 1 March. Indeed, the sheer length of time involved suggests that indigenous practices were being followed where ceremonial gatherings frequently involved several days.27

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The official Vorspiel was marked by the arrival of the German cruiser Comoran on 26 February, carrying Samoan chiefs from the island of Savai’i to Apia. They were greeted the next day with a large ta’alolo. In the course of the day numerous village groups gathered at the ceremonial space around the flagpole on the Mulinu’u peninsular adjoining Apia. At 3 p.m. the German government party took its place in the fono house. After the distribution of food the villages performed a large number of different dances (siva) in a spirit of competition. It was estimated that approximately 10,000 Samoans attended. On Monday 28 February, European festivities began with a torchlight procession, directed by the Concordia and Military clubs. It commenced at 8 p.m. accompanied by a brass band and was led by a detachment of sailors from the Comoran. On each side of the brass band marched Samoan pupils from the government school carrying burning torches. They were followed by various clubs, each with their own bands. The procession proceeded amidst loud cheers from the spectators to the market hall where the distinguished guests were waiting. On arrival the various groups threw their torches onto a bonfire to the strains of ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alles’. The participants entered the decorated market hall for the Kommers (drinking ceremony). German songs were sung, before governor Solf delivered a short, but spirited toast to the Kaiser. His peroration was followed by songs and more speeches praising Solf’s political achievements, particularly in regard to race relations. This extended Vorspiel was but a prelude to the main celebrations on 1 March that began at 8 a.m. with a procession. Even larger and more spectacular than that of the previous evening, it involved almost the entire European population. The procession was led by the sailors from the Comoran, followed by the Fita Fita (Samoan policemen), pupils of the government school for whites and the various church schools. The rearguard was made up of pupils of the government native school. All pupils were clad in shining white and adorned with the colours of the German flag. The procession and the other guests gathered around the flagpole at Mulinu’u. Within a fenced off area around the flagpole a smaller group of honoured guests and representatives of the clubs and missions assembled. Outside the fenced-off area the rest of the procession formed a large square but remained in their groups. Solf held a speech in praise of German colonial achievements, mentioning the English and American settlers, and the missions for their work among the Samoans helping the new government. This speech was followed by a short address from the commander of the Comoran who ordered the flag to be raised, accompanied by cannon fire. Solf returned to the podium and gave a speech directed at the assembled Samoans, in which ‘he explained to them the significance of the day in a manner suited to their culture.’ Solf’s address was followed by one from Mata’afa, the paramount Samoan leader, who urged his people to always obey the governor as the representative of the German Kaiser.

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Throughout the ceremony the pupils of the LMS school had been concealed by the Fita Fita. On a sign, the latter stepped aside to reveal to the spectators a spectacular sight: the pupils were dressed and arranged to depict the German flag. As they sang ‘Wir sind nun Deutsche’ (Now we are Germans) the individual schools, each of which formed a strip of the flag, waved hand-held flags in rhythm to the music. At the end of the ceremony, the sailors and Fita Fita took up positions beside the fono house whither the governmental party had repaired. The Fita Fita paraded before them under the command of their German officer. This was followed by addresses from the missions, Samoan dancing and later in the afternoon a children’s festival in the market hall. The 2 March was set aside as a sports’ day for the Samoans. Running races and games were organized along divisions of sex and race. The main attraction was, however, the boat races (fautasi) featuring the swift Samoan canoes: ‘It was a spectacle that has no equivalent anywhere on the globe.’ The end of the festivities was marked with a ball, opened by Solf and his wife with a polonaise. This dance was seen as a symbol of the unity demonstrated by the festivities: ‘where all follow the paramount leader undivided’. The primary end of ceremony of this kind, especially with regard to the genre as it was developed in the latter half of the nineteenth century, is to provide a display of national unity by means of carefully staged signs. The underlying teleological function is to give the appearance of harmony to those disparate interest groups, classes and races which had to be welded together under the banner of nationalism and colonial rule. The purpose is to demonstrate by sign and action the existence and creation of an ‘imagined community’, as Benedict Anderson termed the problem besetting nation states and their colonial extensions.28 The celebrations on 1 March, 1910, in Samoa represent in a sense a microcosm of European ceremonial staging procedures. Yet, in another and more interesting sense, the colonial ceremony developed into a genre sui generis, because it had somewhat more complex tasks to perform than the European model. The most obvious and difficult one was that of negotiating and disguising the racial and cultural conflicts attendant on any colonial enterprise. The overt and covert conflicts and frictions were transformed into a demonstration of willing acceptance of colonial rule by the Samoans. In addition to the European–Samoan fault line, there were numerous micro-conflicts to be smoothed over as well: between the colonial administration and the missions; between the government and the non-German settlers; between Solf and some of the more reactionary German settlers; between the settlers and the missions; between the Samoans and other ethnic minorities such as Chinese and Melanesian labourers. All these potential and to some extent overt conflicts find expression in the planning, arrangement and execution of the festivities.

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The genre of German colonial celebration, if indeed it can be termed that, is in the main an adaptation of the nationalist ceremonies that became widespread in most European countries towards the end of the nineteenth century. These ceremonies fulfilled a number of functions in their respective countries, the chief of which was perhaps what Hobsbawm and Ranger have termed in their famous collection of essays ‘the invention of tradition’.29 Both in the ‘Mother Countries’ and in their various colonies considerable energy and large sums of money were expended in visible demonstrations of ‘ancient’ traditions that served in the main to legitimate claims to domination or to monarchical rights. Under its Wilhelminian Kaisers two main forms of demonstrating tradition became common in Germany. One was the mania for erecting monuments and statues, usually of immense dimensions, the other was the institutionalization of celebrations, the most important being the victory at Sedan in 1871 and the Kaiser’s birthday.30 These celebrations, which were organized in most larger towns, were in the main the responsibility of local organisations and clubs. The practices were transported intact to the colonies. Samoa had its monuments to fallen German servicemen, to Bismarck and even to the paramount Samoan chief Mata’afa.31 Western Samoa under German colonial rule also had extensive annual celebrations commemorating the Kaiser’s birthday. In the context of this kind of festivity culture, it is important to remember that the flagraising ceremony, although exceptional in terms of scale, marked in a sense the culmination of what became a regular calendar of such ceremonies.32 The basic pattern of Samoan ta’alolo and siva dances, European processions, speeches and ‘native’ sports, was an annual event, repeated at least once a year on the Kaiser’s birthday, or even more often if a suitable occasion could be found. If we return for a moment to Solf’s letter to the Berlin Colonial Office quoted above, then it is clear that the celebrations were to be directed primarily at the Samoans. One can argue that ceremonial and theatrical display was a key, but previously overlooked element in the subtle mechanisms of colonial administration. The reasoning behind it may have been expressed unconsciously by Captain Siemens, the commander of the station ship Comoran during his speech on the eve of the flag-raising ceremony at the Beer Evening when, evidently moved by the spectacle of events, he remarked: ‘Now as the Samoans are also great friends of festivities, they were thereby predestined to become Germans, and I do not understand why it took until the year 1900 to resolve any doubts in this matter.’33 In order to analyse the relationship between ceremony and colonialism, it is essential to look more closely at Samoan involvement. The most important Samoan ceremony was the ta’alolo, the ceremonial presentation of food to a chief. When surveying the documents contained in the file ‘Ceremonies

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Mixing ceremonies

and Etiquette’ of the German colonial administration, one gains the impression that ta’alolo were veritably ordered by the administration. Because of the importance attached to the ta’alolo ceremony within Samoan culture – it was by no means an everyday event but normally reserved for personages of high standing and for special occasions – it was eagerly used by the German colonial administration to enhance its own standing.34 Apart from the actual food offerings, the ta’alolo consisted of spectacular dances performed normally by the manaia, the chiefly sons adorned in spectacular headdresses and brandishing knives or ceremonial clubs, which were tossed into the air and caught again. In the case of the Kaiser’s birthday celebrations for which a ta’alolo was invariably performed, the recipient was of course absent, and in his place stood governor Solf, or his deputy, Erich Schultz.35 This situation poses an interesting anomaly within the Samoan cultural frame where the actual recipient of the ta’alolo, the Kaiser, was continually absent, or present only by representation through another person. This too was constitutive of colonial ceremonies which always required strategies to make manifest absent power. The ta’alolo thus fulfilled a double cultural function. By virtue of being performed, it reinforced the high status of the European ceremony into which it was integrated. It provided the necessary ingredients of ‘spectacle’ for the European participants/spectators. But most importantly, the co-opting of the ta’alolo ceremony provided the colonial government with an opportunity to reinforce its position of power by aesthetic means. For the Samoan participants the ta’alolo offered a familiar ceremonial procedure. To borrow Erving Goffman’s term, it ‘keyed’ them into the frame of the European ceremony that was to follow.36 It also provided a forum for the discussion of Samoan matters. More importantly though, the ta’alolo as a component of colonial celebrations meant that there was a double focus for the Samoan participants: on the one hand, on the semantics of their own intricate inter-tribal configurations, disputes and alliances, and on the other, a kind of refracted focus on the absent addressee, the German Kaiser. While the administration viewed the Samoan participation in entirely instrumental terms, fulfilling a teleology of guaranteeing political stability, the very act of bringing together 10,000 Samoans (the official figures for Samoan attendance) inevitably generated internecine repercussions. A further integral component of the ceremony was the performance of Samoan dances. An analogous bi-cultural function or double focus can be detected in this component of the celebrations as well. By the turn of the century siva had become part of the touristic image of Samoa, along with the Papasea waterfalls and Robert Louis Stevenson’s grave. That Samoan dance had become a focus of tourist interest by this time is made clear from the large number of commercially available photographs depicting siva in

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144 Pacific Performances

[A]nd the Samoans certainly know what the Whites want to see, when they ask for a siva, because most of them do not have much understanding of dancing, even if they have been living in the country for a long time. What the foreigner wants to see today and gets to see is a kind of poula, if possible with headdress, garlands of flowers, song, beating of mats, performed by girls, but almost exclusively in a group, whereas in the genuine large poula which the Samoans perform amongst themselves group follows group (soa).38 The poula referred to here is a generic term for night dances performed on festive occasions. Soa is defined by Krämer as a very old dance performed outside by over a hundred dancers on important ceremonial occasions. Quite apart from the terminological differentiation, the important issue raised by Krämer is that the Samoans had already adapted their dance forms into a synthesized version catering to European tastes. Even the indigenous word itself has two discrete referents, meaning different things in the Samoan context specifically as a dance song) and for the Europeans as a synonym for Samoan dance. The function and perception of the siva for the Europeans is well illustrated by a newspaper article published in January 1910, announcing preparations and plans for entertaining the German sailors and marines during the flagraising ceremony: It has been mooted from several sides to give the ‘men-of-wars’ men a Samoan ‘taumafataga’ and ‘siva-faa-Samoa’ on the afternoon of February 28th, in order to give them an opportunity of learning something about Samoan customs and life    Without doubt the Samoans themselves will do their best to give the bluejackets a glimpse into the secrets of Samoan culinary art.39 The sailors’ encounter with Samoan ‘customs and life’ was thus to be presented in the concentrated form of Samoan dance. At the same time, though, the dances were enjoyed by the Samoans themselves in an evident spirit of intense competition, each village trying to outdo the other in skill and presentation. What we see here is once again the basic pattern of colonial theatricality whereby indigenous dance and song is required to assume a metonymic function, concentrating and encapsulating cultures as a whole.

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various settings.37 In his account of Samoan dances published in 1903, but based on research conducted in the 1890s, Augustin Krämer remarks that the word siva originally meant a song accompanying a dance, and implies that a semantic shift in the meaning of the word has taken place under the influence of European receptive codes:

Kindred Spirits: Spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany 145

The indigenous culture itself integrates the performances into a completely different set of values. ∗

∗

Although colonial ceremonies continued in Western Samoa until 1914, when New Zealand took over administration of the islands from Germany, the dimension of the 1910 celebrations remained unsurpassed.40 At roughly the same time, Tamesese’s travelling Samoan diplomatic troupe provided Germans at home with a similar spectacle, albeit on a more modest scale. Canoe races, oratory, dances, sporting competitions, all these performative events were staged in Samoa and in Germany within an explicitly colonial context. The structures of colonialist theatricality encountered thus far reveal a conjunction of seemingly disparate elements – authenticity and exoticism, metonymy and metaphor, scientific and touristic curiosity – that the organized performances of Samoans and others welded together to form a seemingly unified perceptual field. Most importantly, the theatrical processes examined here demonstrate that aesthetic as much as economic pressures were at work to make the colonial project succeed. As we move into the twentieth century, we shall encounter both continuity and disjuncture, as the United States moves into the Pacific and plays out its own colonialist and aesthetic agendas there.

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∗

6

In the 1890s the United States emerged as a fully-fledged imperialist and colonialist power in the Pacific. In 1893 American settlers in Hawai‘i staged a coup d’état and deposed the ruling Hawaiian queen Liliuokalani. The so-called ‘revolutionary government’ aggressively petitioned the US government to annex the Hawaiian islands, which was formally enacted in 1898. In 1899 the United States was granted Eastern Samoa as a territory, a colonial possession it still holds. Between 1941 and 1945 in the course of the Pacific war against Japan, the US military occupied many islands throughout the Pacific, a presence with far-reaching ramifications for the islands’ economies and cultures. This de jure or de facto colonial presence led to an upsurge of interest in the territories which found expression on the US stage in three major works.1 In 1912, Richard Walton Tully’s Hawaiian drama The Bird of Paradise premiered in New York and was performed for over 12 years in North America and London. Ten years later, in 1922, Rain, an adaptation of Somerset Maugham’s novella of the same title, opened to critical and popular acclaim. In 1949 the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific dramatized the Pacific theatre of war. In all three plays internal racial issues were played out in Pacific island settings. In all cases we can observe a strategy of geographical displacement and semiotic substitution, whereby theatrical performance functions to camouflage and reveal unresolved domestic conflicts. In our account of performative genealogies these three works occupy a central place in early and mid-twentieth-century representations of the Pacific. They feed into one another, providing dramaturgical patterns and theatrical devices that are adapted and altered to fit new geopolitical situations and cultural concerns. They are bound together by their ‘flora and fauna of paradise’, heroines who are either indigenous Hawaiians like Luana in Tully’s musical drama, or socially marginalized like Maugham’s ‘savage’ prostitute Sadie. South Pacific offers two or three exotic birds: the alluring Tonkinese virgin 146

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Birds of Paradise: American-Pacific Dramas of Displacement

Liat and the equally exotic because displaced racial bigot with a heart of gold, Nellie Forbush from Little Rock, Arkansas. Seen chronologically, the three works kept the Pacific on the mainstream American stage or in the cinema continuously from 1912 until the early 1960s. Because of their heavy reliance on music and dance, The Bird of Paradise and South Pacific make a significant contribution to what now can be called the commodification of the Pacific with its ramifications for the tourist industry (Chapter 7) and for the recent indigenous theatre and performance movement (Chapter 8). The term ‘displacement’ should be understood here in a more complex sense than just geographical transposition. In Freudian psychoanalysis, displacement refers to a process of transferral of an image (Vorstellung) from one object to another via association. In this sense it is a semiotic process involving semantic substitution. Displacement is, however, not merely a function of language or a poetic device or stylistic tendency but also lived experience as Homi Bhabha has stressed: Culture as a strategy of survival is both transnational and translational. It is transnational because contemporary postcolonial discourses are rooted in specific histories of cultural displacement.    Culture is translational because such spatial histories of displacement – now accompanied by the territorial ambitions of global media technologies – make the question of how culture signifies, or what is signified by culture, a rather complex issue.2 The term displacement should be understood in the following remarks as a dramaturgical and theatrical strategy whereby local issues are played out in remote milieus whose existence is only possible because of colonial projects. Colonial settings are both microcosms of the colonializing power and also liminal spaces where Western patterns of behaviour and control never fully pertain. Such liminal settings and displacements foster the possibility of re-examining cultural questions. In the twentieth century the South Pacific had become just such a space. Displacements, however, require concrete forms as well as recognizable visual and acoustic signs in order to function on stage. In the three theatrical versions of the South Pacific to be examined, the central site of recognition was the female body in performance. This is not surprising in the light of the discursive and representational history examined thus far. A new element in the equation, however, is race. The Polynesian female body, especially in performative mode, had certainly been figured in sexualized terms. Yet its ethnic make-up had never really occasioned moral or philosophical discomfort. In the twentieth century old desire meets new theories of race. The American stage finds different solutions to reconciling the indigenous body as a necessary site of desire for the audience with their preference for white rather than coloured bodies.

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148 Pacific Performances

Richard Walton Tully’s Broadway and West End success The Bird of Paradise is set in the early 1890s, the period in which the Unites States annexed Hawai‘i and forced the native queen into house arrest until her death. Its background is eminently political, although the main theme is romantic and exotic, a variation on the popular theme of cross-cultural romances and thus heir to a long chain of mainly orientalist Western dramas and operas where indigenous heroines enter into ultimately disastrous liaisons with European men. Within this framework, Tully manages to articulate a number of pressing issues affecting indigenous Hawaiians, introducing them both literally and thematically to the New York stage and thus into the centre of US media attention. The following plot summary is based roughly on Tully’s own précis.3 A young man, Paul Wilson, fresh from college comes to Hawai‘i to work among the lepers of Molokai. The steamer stops at the Puna coast of Big Island, where he meets and falls in love with a beautiful Hawaiian girl, Luana, who is a descendant of the Hawaiian king Kamehameha and has been brought up by a Hawaiian priest. They marry, and instead of proceeding to Molokai, Wilson stays on the island with her and her friends and family. Luana is happy, but the young husband loses all ambition and increasingly his self-respect. Other characters include Captain Hatch, a sugar-cane planter; the missionary Sysonby and his wife; Diana, a young American who wants to write a psychological study of Hawaiian magical practices; and Dean, a college-educated beachcomber critical of missionary practices. Hatch and Sysonby pressure Luana to become queen in Honolulu after the present one has been deposed. For love of her husband she follows Wilson to Honolulu, into a world of Western conventions, only to find that there she is an incubus upon her husband. On learning that her people are endangered by an imminent volcanic eruption, she leaves him, returns to Big Island and casts herself into the molten maw of the nearby volcano to appease the wrath of the goddess Pele. As the plot summary suggests, the play combines popular nineteenthcentury South Seas themes – human sacrifice and witchcraft – with contemporary political issues and cultural questions regarding the impact of Western civilization on indigenous cultures. The play reveals detailed knowledge of Hawaiian geography, history and performance culture; in this complexity it is unique among Western representations of the Pacific of this period. In terms of its scenic devices the play is an exemplary child of its time with a predilection for hyperrealism and ethnographic exactitude. Tully, for example, suggests an olfactory scenic effect: ‘Electric fans to carry the smell of wet kelp out to the audience.’4 Slavish attention to cultural and scenographic detail is of course typical of fin-de-siècle theatre and synonymous with the production style of David Belasco and Oliver Morosco with whom

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The Bird of Paradise

Tully was so closely associated. The play became famous, however, not for its evocation of the smell of kelp but for its authentic rendition of Hawaiian dance and music and for a stunning volcanic eruption in the last act. The Bird of Paradise was premiered on 11 September 1911 in Los Angeles at Oliver Morosco’s Belasco Theater. Morosco, an erstwhile acrobat and one of the leading theatrical impresarios of the day, had worked with Tully before, and commissioned him to write the play on the basis of a scenario. After a tryout in Rochester, in New York state, in December of the same year, the play opened in New York City on 7 January 1912 at Daly’s Theater before transferring to Maxine Elliott’s on Broadway where it completed its run. The New York production launched the career of Laurette Taylor (better known today perhaps as the original Amanda Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie), who played Luana. Taylor went on to attain a place in the Broadway pantheon with her role in Peg o’ My Heart, which opened later the same year and was also produced by Morosco. The reviewers were struck by the production’s ‘scenic beauty’, the spectacular effects and, as the New York Times critic remarked, ‘the introduction of the weirdly sensuous music of the island people’. It is, however, the final scene, the active volcano ‘in its suggestion of molten rock, broken by jets of steam and flame’, into which Luana throws herself, that seems to have left the most lasting impression on reviewers.5 The critics were, to put it in a nutshell, respectful but not ecstatic. Although its impact on Broadway was considerable, the play’s actual long-term effect was generated by the multitude of stock company productions that the original spawned. The play was seen throughout the United States and Canada over a period of 12 years. A special feature of this play was the artistic control that Tully exerted. By the mid-1920s he had supervised around 30 separate productions. The Bird didn’t transfer to the West End in London until 1919, a delay caused by the outbreak of World War I, where it was produced by Sir Alfred Butt in conjunction with Tully. The former, a leading London producer, acquired the rights in 1912 but, as The Times explained, ‘preferred to keep it back rather than produce it during the abnormal conditions created by the war’.6 Although the London production, which opened at the Lyric on 11 September 1919, was entirely recast and redesigned, Tully, as usual, supervised it and once again organized the importation of Hawaiian musicians. Finally, the London production outperformed the New York original. It closed on 7 June 1920 after 310 performances, but enjoyed a brief revival in 1922 when it ran for another two months. Attracted no doubt by the ‘peerless play’s’ commercial success and Morosco’s relentless publicity machine, a young California schoolteacher by the name of Grace Altman Fendler filed a law suit in 1912 claiming that Tully had plagiarized a play of hers entitled ‘In Hawaii, a version of which she had submitted to Morosco for consideration in 1911. The case was, however, not heard until 12 years later in 1924. Fendler was able to prove her case; the

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Birds of Paradise: American-Pacific Dramas of Displacement 149

court granted an injunction and ordered an accounting of the profits of the defendants. A judgment was awarded to the plaintiff for more than $780,000, a not unsubstantial sum and an indication of the play’s commercial success. At its prime, the play was estimated to be grossing about $100,000 a year.7 The Appellate Division upheld the judgement unanimously thus precluding the possibility of immediate appeal. This ruling forced ‘The Bird’ off the road for good. It was not until an eminent New York Lawyer Charles H. Tuttle found a loophole in the law that Morosco and Tully were able to justify an appeal.8 The final ruling by the New York Court of Appeals, passed in 1930, reversed the previous decision and required Fendler to pay back the damages awarded plus all costs. The ruling became an important precedent in US copyright law and is still cited today in plagiarism cases. The decisive argument causing the original decision to be overthrown was that Tully’s original scenario antedated the submission of Fendler’s manuscript. While he could certainly have theoretically plagiarized the script for details, the original concept was definitely his own. In his close reading of the two versions the judge set out not only legal principles – ‘there may be literary property in a particular combination of ideas or in the form in which ideas are embodied. There can be none in the ideas’ – but also provides some insight into contemporary attitudes regarding such subject matter. He notes: In spite of the entire dissimilarity of the two plays in theme and story there are many similarities in detail. Perhaps this is inevitable in two plays about Hawaii. The very name Hawaii seems to suggest to Americans the hula dance and the sport of swimming; flowers and sunshine and music. It suggests too the dread disease of leprosy.9 This may have appeared obvious to an American judge in 1930. It was, however, by no means such an automatic association in 1912. That Americans inevitably associated the name Hawai‘i with hula and music in 1930 was in fact in no small degree due to the play itself and its success. Popularizing Hawaiian performance culture A special feature of the productions was the extensive use of ‘authentic’ Hawaiian music and dance. ‘Authentic’ meant that the musicians were imported from Hawai‘i. Although Laurette Taylor and other New York actresses rendered the hula, real Hawaiians provided the music. Its distinct style, especially the guitar-playing, known as slack-key played on a steel guitar, had been developed in Hawai‘i.10 As only Hawaiians could at this time play in this style, for the first productions Tully imported a Hawaiian band known as the Hawaiian Quintette, which included the famous steel guitarist Walter Kolomoku. The band became so successful in their own

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150 Pacific Performances

right through their performances in the play that they recorded for the phonograph company Victor the play’s incidental music, which sold well into the 1920s.11 The appearance of Hawaiian popular music via Tully’s play and its foregrounding of ‘real live’ Hawaiian musicians resulted in a craze for the new music and its icon, the ‘Honolulu girl’ in songs by Irving Berlin such as

Figure 19 Sheet music cover featuring Laurette Taylor. A photograph of Taylor has been superimposed on the background picture. The song is ‘Mai Poina Oe’ (Forget me not), composed by W. A. Aeko with English lyrics by Arthur Denvir Source: John Franklin Music Co. 1912. Photo: collection of the author.

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Birds of Paradise: American-Pacific Dramas of Displacement 151

‘My Bird of Paradise’ issued in 1915, a ragtime parody of the play and the Hawaiian craze engendered by it. By the end of World War I, Hawaiian recordings were the biggest selling records in the United States, especially acoustic steel guitar and vocal recordings. Apart from recordings, sheet music of the songs was also published and satisfied a huge demand for merchandizing and spin-off products. The sheet music was invariably illustrated (Figure 19) with the images of Luana in her native costume. The music itself, scored for piano and the moderately trained voice of the home parlour, provided the most accessible way for consumers to process the Hawaiian experience they had had at the theatre. While Tully’s original play only had provision for Hawaiian songs motivated by plausible

Figure 20 Poster for Federal Theatre Project presentation of Bird of Paradise at the Belasco Theatre, Los Angeles, showing a woman wearing a bikini top and skirt, standing next to a palm tree. The poster was produced under the auspices of the Federal Arts project, like the Federal Theater Project, a division of the Work Projects Administration, a New Deal programme of the US Government Source: By permission of the Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, WPA Poster Collection (POS - WPA - CA.01.B549, no. 1).

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occasions for singing, (but does not contain exact titles or lyrics), subsequent developments of the production included more and more numbers, pushing the play closer to ‘opera’ or ‘musical’. Owing to the growing prominence of Hawaiian music and popular songs, it is perhaps not surprising that ‘The Bird’ was revived – and quickly flopped – as a musical in 1930 under the title Luana. The original play was also presented under the auspices of the Federal Theatre Project at its birthplace, The Belasco Theater in Los Angeles in the late 1930s. Its poster (Figure 20), which features a bikini-clad maiden rather than the more traditional grass skirt, demonstrates that the former was now an integral part of the iconographical repertoire of Hawai‘i, although such images have nothing to do with the original play.12 The images produced on sheet music and posters alluded almost always to the hula. By the time the play was first produced, the hula had become a standard feature of entertainment in the growing tourist trade to Hawai‘i, although pre-World War I tourism was by no means comparable to the mass industry of the post-World War II period. The version presented to the tourists was a composite of Polynesian dance forms developed in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Despite the increasing prominence of the dance form on the Hawaiian islands themselves, there was at the time no real popular conception of the dance on the mainland. This was to change with the impact of the play and above all its dissemination in stock company productions throughout North America.13 As we have already mentioned, Laurette Taylor and her many successors danced the hula.14 She received instruction from (in her own words) a ‘fat little Hawaiian    who moved like a fat little wave, S. M. Kaiawae, one of the members of the Hawaiian Quintette. ‘When she could balance a gourd full of water on the back of each hand and undulate her hips without spilling a drop, he pronounced her proficient.’15 She even learned some words of Hawaiian – certainly enough to sing the songs, and anecdotal legend has it that the intensive rehearsal sessions in the tenement flat she shared with her mother generated so much adverse interest from the neighbours that she was threatened with eviction. Not amused was Tully, who objected not only to Taylor’s Irish accent but also to her, in his eyes, less than authentic hula dancing.16 He advised to ‘merely “indicate” the hula with a few motions’, which he demonstrated in rehearsal.17 Authentic or not, Taylor’s rendition of the hula took New York by storm, and Kaiawae was able to cash in on the craze by providing instruction to enthused epigones – at a price. By 1930 the theatrical commodity, The Bird of Paradise, had run its course. Its cultural, mimetic and financial capital seems to have been expended, milked of its last drops of novelty and selling power. This cultural exhaustion is best demonstrated by the fact that it was now made into a film, directed by King Vidor and starring Dolores del Rio.18 The only links with the play, however, are the title and the heroine’s self-immolation in a volcano.

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US imperial ambitions on the one hand, and race debates on the other, form the ideological framework for the play’s success. The play’s treatment of the native Hawaiians oscillates between sympathy and antipathy. Tully is a clear proponent of the ‘salvage paradigm’, to use James Clifford’s term, whereby anthropological, or in his case theatrical representation, may serve to preserve what is ultimately seen as a doomed culture.19 Indigenous Hawaiians are represented as being in a transitional phase, caught up in various stages of maladjustment to Western culture. The opening scenes highlight such dissonances acoustically and visually: for example by a ‘quartet of male voices’ singing a Hawaiian song to a European melody, and visually by the disparate costumes worn by two girls. Makia, ‘a convert’, appears in the full-length Mother Hubbard dress, while Liliha, ‘a Hula dancer’ cavorts in a skirt of coconut leaves, ‘the old-fashioned dress of the Hawaiians’.20 As already mentioned, the play engages directly with the coup d’état of 1893 and the ensuing American annexation of the islands in 1898.21 The unholy alliance of missionaries (Sysonby) and money (sugar-cane planter Hatch) had been much discussed in the debates leading to final annexation. In this regard the play is explicitly political in its exposure of the background to the annexation and articulates unmitigated sympathies for the indigenous perspective – rendered, however, somewhat romantically and improbably via the unlikely story of a Hawaiian princess. Less obvious today is another thematic complex, which at the time, however, would have been immediately accessible to a contemporary audience. This is the rise of eugenics and the ensuing debates over racial intermarriage and questions of non-white immigration. This theme is made explicit by Tully in the original scenario: The disappearance of the so-called inferior races before the advancement of the Anglo-Saxon race. Degeneracy and death is the penalty that has always been paid by the higher race that seeks to raise the lower by amalgamating with it. The play thoroughly dramatizes the well-known fact that though we dress, educate and polish the members of a lower race to the superficial religious and social equality with the Caucasian, at heart he is still the fetish-worshipping savage who will become atavistic in every moment of stress. The play is only a tragedy in one sense – that is for the girl who represents the weaker race and the man who mates with her. Hope and salvation are working out for the dissolute beach-comber who climbs from degradation to the highest honor among men through his having kept himself racially pure and his mating with the clear-eyed intelligent girl of his own kind.22

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Racial imperatives

Despite such statements, the play cannot be simply dismissed as an exercise in dramatized eugenics. Although ideologically justifiable, such a reading would bypass its popularity and place in theatrical and cultural history.23 From the perspective of its author The Bird was a serious play, an attempt to explore the dynamics of cross-cultural encounter, the major theme of his oeuvre. Julian Johnston, of the Los Angeles Times and the play’s first reviewer, attested to its ‘keen philosophic observation’ and ‘literary solidity.’24 Its appeal to contemporary audiences was, however, probably less philosophic than corporeal, as we have seen. Nevertheless, the subject of interracial encounter was clearly one that interested US audiences over and beyond the teachings of eugenics. Colonial politics and racial exoticism are of course by no means separate spheres but closely intertwined. Nineteenth- and twentieth-century theatre predicated on exotic sexual relationships – the tradition extending from Meyerbeer’s L’Africaine through to Madama Butterfly and South Pacific – has always had to work through, and even against, a growing tension between erotic desire on the one hand and anxiety over miscegenation on the other.25 The play’s passage into American popular culture was supported by imperial fantasies on the one hand, and a geographical displacement of American race issues on the other. The ‘failure’ of the relationship between a white American man and a young Hawaiian native woman can clearly be read as an admonitory enactment of a local predicament from the safe distance of a Pacific island.

Rain Two years before ‘the Bird’ came off the stage for good following Fendler’s successful lawsuit in 1924, New York audiences were to be privileged to what could be termed the final chapter in the drama of anti-theatrical prejudice in the South Seas. We have already noted that many Europeans viewed missionary activities with considerable disparagement. This opposition often had straightforward mercenary motives: traders and missionaries had very different ideas as to what suitable dealing with the local people entailed. Perhaps the most severe critics were visiting writers, a tradition that begins with Herman Melville and continued into the twentieth century culminating as we shall see in W. Somerset Maugham’s most famous novella ‘Miss Thompson’ (1921) and its various adaptations for stage and screen.26 By the time he published the story, Maugham was generally considered to be one of the most successful writers of the century. Although he began as a novelist with the publication of the autobiographical Liza of Lambeth in 1897, in his lifetime Maugham was best known as a playwright, in which capacity he dominated the London stage from 1903 to 1933. In the course of his career he travelled to most parts of the world, and visited the remotest outposts

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of the British Empire. These experiences invariably found their way into a huge output of stories, novels and plays. When Maugham embarked on the SS Sonoma in December 1916 at Honolulu en route to Sydney, the ship’s passengers included a certain Miss Thompson and a missionary with, as Maugham noted in his notebook, ‘a look of suppressed fire’.27 The ship called at Pago Pago, the main port of Eastern Samoa, where the passengers were forced to spend several weeks in quarantine because of an outbreak of cholera on board. Miss Thompson was an American nightclub performer and probable prostitute who had been working at Iwelei, Honolulu’s notorious red-light district. Her destination was Apia where she planned to work in a hotel bar. With uncharacteristic directness, Maugham translated these bare facts complete with actual name into the novella, ‘Miss Thompson’, which was published in April 1921 in the progressive magazine Smart Set and then in September of the same year in his most famous collection The Trembling of the Leaf: Little Stories of the South Seas. Descriptions of the real Miss Thompson, which Maugham recorded in his later published Writer’s Notebook, we find almost verbatim in the story.28 What Maugham did not directly observe but imagined is the dramatic confrontation between the nightclub performer cum prostitute and the missionary Davidson who resolves to convert sinful Sadie and send her back to San Francisco for lawful punishment for an undisclosed crime. After several all-night prayer sessions Davidson is discovered dead one morning on the beach having cut his own throat. The mystery of the suicide is disclosed in Sadie Thompson’s famous words: ‘You men! You filthy, dirty pigs! You’re all the same, all of you. Pigs! Pigs!’29 For all his religious fervour and puritan convictions, Davidson succumbed to his own repressed urges. The dramatization by John Colton and Clemence Randolph, which was renamed Rain because of a legal dispute, follows the novella in respect to setting and main characters, although it embellishes what Maugham’s story only indicates and concentrates time and space to adhere to the demands of dramatic convention.30 The action of the play takes place entirely in the living room of Joe Horn’s hotel-store in the port of Pago Pago, American Samoa, whereas Maugham begins his story and introduces the main characters on board ship. The play focuses the action into one week, while Maugham extends it over several. The most important additions, however, are the American marines who in the story are nameless but in the play are fleshed out in the form of a private, a corporal and, above all, Sergeant O’Hara of the US Marine Corps. The latter becomes a major player in the battle for Sadie’s soul, offering her the worldly prospect of a new life in Sydney as his wife. A group of five travellers are stranded in Pago Pago during the rainy season by an outbreak of cholera on their ship. Dr MacPhail and his wife are en route to Apia, Western Samoa. The reverend Davidson, an American missionary

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and his wife, are returning to their mission on a remote island after a sabbatical. They are forced to take up lodgings in Joe Horn’s general store, where they are joined by Sadie Thompson who identifies herself as a ‘singer’. Both women immediately take exception to Sadie’s raucous behaviour and evident lack of social graces. Davidson surmises that she is a prostitute escaping from Honolulu and intent on pursuing her profession in Apia. Coexistence proves impossible. Sadie starts on the wrong foot by inviting the ship’s quartermaster and three marines into her room, where she cranks up the gramophone. The marines manhandle Davidson when he tries to turn off the music. He has considerable influence in the region and importunes the local governor, insisting that she be deported on the first available boat. At the same time he begins a relentless campaign to force Sadie to repent and accept spiritual salvation and secular punishment. Davidson is unyielding in his decision that she must be sent to San Francisco – and a probable jail sentence – and not to Australia, to where Sadie has now decided to head on O’Hara’s suggestion. After many all-night prayer sessions he finally triumphs and at the same time yields to the temptation of the flesh that Sadie represents. On the morning of Sadie’s deportation, Davidson is discovered dead on the beach having cut his own throat. Sadie resolves to accompany the marine sergeant O’Hara to Sydney. With the exception of the local Samoans, all major and minor characters in Rain are ‘displaced persons’ of one kind or another. Either they are stranded against their will in the Pacific outpost of Pago Pago because of the quarantine, or they are stationed there for professional reasons. The US marines Griggs, Hodson and O’Hara are counting the days until their term of duty is over. Indeed, the latter has no intention of returning home but plans to start a new life in Australia. Even the store-owner, Joe Horn, who has a native wife and is a permanent resident, exudes an air of incongruity. Quite apart from his excessive love of the bottle, his ‘ludicrous figure’ (51) is the visual counterpoint to his propensity for reading Nietzsche and quoting Samuel Johnson, activities that find little or no resonance in his immediate surroundings. Ironically, the only European characters who are ‘at home’ in the setting are the American missionaries Davidson and his wife. Their many years of residence on another island have provided them at least with familiarity with their surroundings, yet their attitude still remains contestatory and dismissive, especially with respect to the port of Pago Pago where missionary endeavours appear to have been only partially successful. The setting is indeed crucial to understanding the cultural and spiritual drama that is played out. Since the entire action takes place in the public living-room of Joe Horn’s hotel-store, its ‘milieu’ becomes a determining factor for the ensuing action. The stage directions make clear that the authors were true disciples of naturalistic theory. Zola’s famous requirement in Le naturalisme au théâtre (1881) that setting (décor) act as an extension of

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the dramatic text by demonstrating the effect of the environment on people was of course by 1922 a common place in European and American theatre practice.31 The meticulous stage directions stress above all images of decay and dilapidation. The floor of the room is covered with ‘greasy matting’, while the walls are covered with patches of old wallpaper: ‘Where the paper has peeled, crumbling plaster and whitewashed laths show through.’ A ‘bedraggled Japanese bead curtain, stringy, bitten, and very old’ marks a doorway to the room that Sadie Thompson will later occupy. Chairs, dining tables, umbrellas and even books are invariably ‘shabby’, ‘dreary’, ‘dilapidated’ or ‘battered’. The pictures on the wall commemorate queens and presidents of 30 years ago. In contrast to the decrepit man-made habitation, the natural surroundings visible in the background provide a ‘vista of sky, sea, beach and distant mountains’ (59). Yet the scenic beauty of Samoa is only one aspect of this environment. That ‘brilliant flowers grow in riotous confusion’ suggests a premonition of nature’s implacable and uncontrollable side. Indeed, once the eponymous rain sets in, the stranded characters are subjected to a sound- as well as a landscape that becomes the dominant trope of the play. As Horn explains to Dr MacPhail: ‘It’s getting you! – all this lush, dripping world – outside, everything growing with a sort of savage violence! Tomorrow you will see strange flowers where yesterday there were only roots. For myself I like it. This rain you hate – it wipes out, it kills – and it begins    ’ (67). As the play nears its climax at the beginning of the third act the sound of the rain ‘beating persistently on the roof’ blends with the ‘ominous beating of festival drums’ (81). By now the rain and Davidson have worn down Sadie’s resistance so that she is willing to return to San Francisco to face imprisonment. The milieu depicted suggests that the attempts at civilization are at best skin-deep, in decay and finally doomed to failure. The beating of festival drums marks another figure of displacement central to the play. The ‘natives’ as they are called (never Samoans) feature as visual and verbal accessories to the ‘savage violence’ of nature. Compared to Maugham’s story, however, where they are little more than a shadowy presence, the Samoans in the dramatic version do attain occasional, if not centre, at least upstage visibility. The play in fact opens with a dumbshow procession of ‘natives’, not unlike the ethnographic spectacles and world’s fair displays that had attained popularity at the turn of century (see Chapter 5): A native girl enters from down R., on the veranda. She wears the lava lava, the native costume of the South Seas, and carries on her head a basket of pineapples. She crosses indolently and gracefully to L., and enters the store. She is followed by a native boy, and an old man, also wearing the lava lava. The boy carries fruit and the old man a basket of toys and ferocious masks of Kanaka workmanship. They are all chattering and

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The model for this exotisistic procession was probably Maugham’s own play East of Suez, which had premiered in New York two months earlier. Its famous long opening scene consisted of a street scene in Peking in which dozens of Chinese and European actors playing coolies recreated the hustle and bustle of rickshaws, water carriers, street vendors backed up by atmospheric Chinese music. While not quite on the same scale, the opening of Rain aimed for a similar effect. The scene has no model in the story and the indigenous supernumeraries fulfil no recognizable dramatic function. They exist rather on the level of spectacle, remaining visually and acoustically present during the first act during which they ‘disappear aimlessly and unobtrusively’ (50). Like Maugham’s own writing, the play cannot conceal a condescending attitude to the native characters. The only one to achieve name status is Ameena, Joe’s native wife, ‘a large and darksome lady, the color of deep café au lait, and ten years ago    very pretty. Now she is enormously fat and oozes rather than walks’ (50). Ameena, like all the other Samoan characters, speaks a generic pidgin English, which is designed to obey more the laws of stage comedy than verisimilitude. Her fright on catching sight of the approaching Davidsons – ‘Mis-sion-ary! Goddam! I run!’ (52) – is calculated to achieve a certain degree of sympathetic identification with an audience that may harbour similar misgivings. Such lines are rare, however. Overall, the ‘natives’ appear to have a more important diegetic than mimetic function despite their ‘unobstrusive’ presence. They are primarily talked about, figuring more as subjects of conversation than themselves attaining the status of autonomous subjects. As topics of conversation, the ‘natives’ feature mainly in the Davidsons’s selfcongratulatory disquisitions on their own ‘good work’ or as caveats regarding the incorrigibility of certain ‘practices’. It is the latter which establish a discursive line stretching back to the first reports sent to London from the missionaries on the Duff. Like some of the early missionaries, Mrs Davidson in particular is caught between fascination and repulsion, and cannot conceal a prurient interest in the very practices she and her husband have dedicated themselves to eradicating. She uses in fact Mrs MacPhail as a kind of projection screen for what in the play’s uncomplicated understanding of Freudian psychology are easily to be seen as her own repressed desires. Her marriage has been, as she admits, entirely spiritual and without physical consummation: Mrs Davidson (to Dr Macphail): Well? I hear that Mrs. MacPhail has been telling you some of the things about these islands which I couldn’t, even though you are a doctor.

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laughing good-humoredly. After them comes an old woman, chewing betel-nut and balancing on her back a pole to which are attached fish bladders and pieces of dried shark. (50)

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MacPhail suggests that in terms of function they are probably little different to the Maypole dancing Mrs Davidson admits to having participated in as a little girl. The comparison is, however, lost on her. The play moves through what was by the 1920s a predictable critique of missionary interventions. Dr MacPhail’s admiration for the native physique (‘Notice how their muscles mould into the flesh without one ugly line’) provokes Mrs Davidsons’s rejoinder that she and her husband are concerned with their souls not their bodies, and that ‘we have practically eradicated the lava lava in our district’ (57). From a secular point of view – represented by the trader Horn and Dr MacPhail – the arrival of the missionaries was a mixed ‘blessing’, sentiments expressed almost a century earlier by Melville, as we have seen. For the trader Horn, the Islanders were ‘naturally the happiest, most contented people on earth    then along comes Mr. Missionary in broadcloth and spectacles and tells ’em they’re lost souls and have to be saved whether they want to be or not!’ Dr MacPhail notes the paradoxical condition that the coming of the missionaries ended an Edenic state: ‘Too bad that man couldn’t develop a soul without losing the Garden of Eden    ’ (58–9). In the context of a displacement theory this attack on missionary endeavours in the South Seas must also be read against the background of contemporary American debates on the influence of Christian doctrine within secular society. The connection becomes conspicuous with the arrival of Sadie Thompson. The play, more so than the story, follows a clear strategy of displacing tropes of savagery from the tacit natives to the extremely voluble ‘performer’. The stage direction describing her first entrance provides an almost overdetermined explication of such a transposition: ‘There is something of the grace of a wild animal in her movements, something primitive perhaps, even as her clothes suggest savage and untutored responses to cut and color’ (55). Sadie’s appeal and identificatory potential for a 1920s American audience lay of course in just this liminal position between the ‘savagery’ of the social lower depths, her ‘immunity’ to the civilisatory dictates of fashion and taste on the one hand and the religious advances of Davidson on the other. Throughout the play, Sadie is aligned metaphorically with the Samoans so that she becomes figuratively at least another savage soul to be converted. Although she announces almost immediately that she ‘wants to see the cannibals’ (56), it becomes quickly clear that she herself is one.32 The displacement of missionary zeal from the natives to Sadie manifests itself in the second half of the first act during the protracted onstage dance scene (Figure 21), which incurs the wrath of the Davidsons. Not only is

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Dr Macphail (mildly interested): What things? Mrs Davidson (warming to her subject): About the moon dancing, the sugarcane festival etcetera!    Can you imagine such depravity! Such dances! (53–4)

Figure 21 Jeanne Eagels as Sadie Thompson dancing to her gramophone Source: Original New York production. Publicity material. Photo: collection of the author.

it the Sabbath, but Sadie’s choice of dances – mixed of course – would have provided George Burder (see Chapter 3) with ample proof of ‘unlawful amusement’. The reaction of Davidson and his wife mark them as Burder’s true disciples. Needless to say, they have eradicated dancing on ‘their’ island. Their attempts to curb Sadie’s Sunday pastime – an American girl dancing with American marines – transfer the conflict into the internal cultural sphere. While she retires to her room with her gramophone and marines to continue dancing offstage, the onstage debate shifts to perhaps the key issue underpinning the displacement strategy of the play. Against the acoustic background of ragtime and a Spanish tango, Davidson states not surprisingly that he has ‘no patience with Darwinian Theory    In my opinion it should be prohibited by law’ (63). This pronouncement transposes the conflict from a minor social irritation at a far-flung Pacific trading post onto the frame of a major US political debate. Spectators would have made the connection with the campaign by William Jennings Bryan to have the teaching of evolution banned from schools. By the mid-1920s he had succeeded in 15 mainly Southern states. Although the famous Monkey Trials did not take place until 1925 (and their dramatic and filmic reflection in Inherit the Wind much later) the issue was being debated throughout the country when the curtain went up on Rain in 1922.33 From the missionary perspective Sadie’s predilection for dancing and professional promiscuity places her in the same category as the arioi, the professional Tahitian performers we encountered in chapter 3. As we have seen, for the Evangelical missionaries performance and prostitution were

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related professions. Like her extinct predecessors Sadie is also peripatetic, moving from Honolulu to Pago Pago to Apia, spreading, in Davidson’s eyes, sin wherever she goes. For this reason, Davidson compares her to an infectious disease that must be quarantined like the cholera that has broken out on board ship: ‘Sin must be segregated until it can be stamped out’ (72). The parallel between Sadie’s and native performance is re-established at the beginning of the third act. By this time Sadie has succumbed to Davidson’s relentless proselytizing. She has had her epiphany – ‘a big, bright, beautiful place’ (84). Davidson and others are attending a native festival on a neighbouring island. Horn describes it, not without irony, as a ‘native witch dance’ and a new field for Davidson’s evangelistic endeavours ‘now he has nipped poor Sadie Thompson out of the flames.’ O’Hara is therefore convinced that Davidson will ‘bust the whole show up when the dancing starts’ (82). The displacement of native depravity onto Sadie is echoed even in the famous climax in which, after Davidson has declared his new convert to be ‘one of the daughters of the King – radiant – beautiful’, he succumbs to his own basic instincts (and presumably 30 years of self-imposed celibacy). The stage directions demand a silent movie-like ‘realization’, a legible pantomimic display of Davidson’s contest between moral injunction and libidinous drives or, in the words of the play, ‘a bitter struggle between Davidson, the man of God, and Davidson, human creature’ (90). This is the same predicament in which not a few of Davidson’s brethren found themselves, especially in the early days of the mission. From the very first Tahitian mission, members, both single and married, occasionally succumbed to the temptations offered by native mores, which usually resulted in expulsion and invariably undermined the larger enterprise of convincing the local people of the benefits of pre-marital chastity and monogamy.34 Rain opened on 7 November, 1922 at the Maxine Elliot Theatre in New York, produced by Sam H. Harris and directed by John D. Williams. Jeanne Eagels played the title role with Robert Kelly as her adversary, the Rev. Davidson. The controversial production was a huge success and Eagels played the part of Sadie for 174 weeks in New York.35 Looking back 30 years later, the journalist and theatre historian Ward Morehouse, who witnessed the play’s premiere in New York, could claim that ‘the opening brought forth an emotional demonstration never exceeded in the theatre of this country and century.’36 Even if we allow a certain idealization and exaggeration characteristic of retrospective memory, there is no doubt that Rain generated a response of remarkable emotional intensity. The audience reaction seemed to echo involvement of the type more familiar to nineteenth-century melodrama than to finely drawn psychological drama. The critic for the New York Times, John Corbin, mentions in his review that ‘the gallery fairly booed and derided him [Davidson]’, whereas ‘the house    fairly rose to Miss Eagels and acclaimed her.’37 Lines of identification were clearly drawn both dramatically and theatrically, as the contemporary audience reaction suggests. This

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can be explained by the fact that the audience recognized that the drama being acted out was one of local significance rather than exotic distance. John Gassner terms Rain an ‘early anti-puritan melodrama’ and regards it as evidence of ‘the new generation’s assault on Puritanism.’38 According to this reading, Rain, like The Bird of Paradise, is a drama of displacement. Internal cultural conflicts – in this case the tension between the ‘liberated’ Charleston generation and the still strong puritan heritage in the United States – are displaced and acted out on a remote Pacific island. The play belongs to the anti-Calvinist tradition that gathered momentum towards the end of the nineteenth century and which regarded the Puritan legacy as a major impediment to America’s cultural modernization. H. L. Mencken’s essay ‘Puritanism as a Literary Force’ (1917) is perhaps the best-known attack on the cultural heritage but it was echoed by many other intellectuals, including George Santayana and Randolph Bourne. As the editors of a recent volume on the Calvinist legacy in the twentieth century put it: ‘Together, these works replaced the popular image of Puritan as originator of American democratic institutions and guarantor of personal moral rectitude with the image of the Puritan as theocratic killjoy who repressed the individual’s ability to experience beauty and create art.’39 Although the lines seem to be drawn with Manichean clarity – the ‘progressive’ spectators clearly side with the good-hearted, if immoral, Sadie against a bigoted Davidson – it would be unwise to interpret the audience’s vociferous rejection of the Calvinist standpoint represented by the latter as evidence of a ‘clean break’. The Puritan legacy and the Calvinist doctrine underpinning it – antinominalist rebellion, fierce individualism, communal conformity – were central to American national identity formation. The play provides therefore not just a psychological analysis of the Id in conflict with the Ego and Superego but also the unusual spectacle of a nation at war with itself and some of its foundational ideals. In Rain, it can be argued, the ‘voyage out of the civilizing mission’ (Bhabha) has returned home to one of its main points of departure, the New England Puritan heritage, and hence back to metropolitan consciousness. The play focuses both strategies: the transnational moment of geocultural transposition, and the translational figures of sign and symbol. The history of representations of the Pacific is a chronicle of displacements, of libidinal and other energies, which move from object to object, image to image, changing in their rhetorical form. In Rain the savage object of conversion has been transferred onto the body of a US citizen whose performative exuberance and possible sexual promiscuity become the battleground of cultural values. As we have tried to show, such a drama does not arise by chance, but reflects a complex genealogy of performative and discursive practices stretching back over a century. Regarding Sadie Thompson as a latter day arioi should not be discounted as hermeneutical imagining but rather as a way of conceptualizing genealogies of performance which function as much through strategies of displacement as through clear lines of influence.

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164 Pacific Performances

Historians of the Pacific are unusually united in their evaluation of the events of World War II on the region. No other chain of events since the initial Western exploration and colonization produced more disruption than the Japanese invasion of the islands and the ensuing war by the Allies against the invaders between 1942 and 1945. Whereas the European invasion of the region had been a gradual process with substantial changes, the Japanese occupation was exceedingly swift but with equally massive disruptions. It should not be forgotten, however, that even before the outbreak of hostilities, Japan was already a colonial presence in the Pacific. Under the auspices of a League of Nations mandate, Japan had effectively annexed a number of Micronesian islands that had been part of the German colonial empire until World War I. Thus, by 1939 Japan was already well-prepared geographically to extend its infamous Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere further into the Pacific. The Pacific theatre of war produced unusual divisions of loyalty, which often ran against the traditional European versus indigenous divide. In French Polynesia, French planters were split between supporters of the Vichy regime and the Free French. In Fiji, there was a general reluctance among the Indian population to participate on the Allied side, a position that greatly exacerbated existing tensions and divisions between them and indigenous Fijians, a conflict that has in one way or another persisted in maintaining the divide between the two majority cultures on that island. On contested islands such as the Solomons or New Guinea, the indigenous people were confronted with the spectacle of their former colonial masters being humiliated militarily by a non-European country. But also those islands that did not see direct occupation or military conflict were subjected to major disruption, mainly due to the mighty American logistical machine. The Americans ‘destabilized existing colonial power relations both economically through excessive spending and the huge amount of material goods that they brought with them, and socially, among many other things, by the presence of black soldiers who seemed to enjoy equality’.40 The war also refocused attention on the existing Asian presence in the Pacific, most of whom had been brought there under the system of indentured labour: the so-called Tonkinese on French plantations in the New Hebrides and New Caledonia; Hawai‘i with its large Japanese, Chinese and Filipino populations but other islands as well, whose loyalties from the Western perspective could not always be relied upon. The reconfiguring of Western perceptions of the Pacific through the impact of the war, and particularly the American presence, found its earliest and commercially most successful literary, theatrical and finally cinematic treatment in James Michener’s Pulitzer Prize-winning collection of stories Tales of the South Pacific and its subsequent adaptation into a musical play by

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Pacific and Oriental lines: South Pacific

Richard Rodgers, Oscar Hammerstein and Joshua Logan. All three versions have earned themselves acclaim for different reasons,41 but together, the stories, play and film must be regarded as perhaps the most important American treatment of the Pacific war in fictional media of the 1940s and 1950s. And by extension, this ensemble of media texts must be regarded as one of the seminal contributions to the history of Western representations of the Pacific, alongside Melville’s Typee, some of Stevenson’s tales, Loti’s Le mariage de Loti, Somerset Maugham’s The Trembling of a Leaf and Murnau’s Tabu. Leaving aside questions of literary, theatrical or cinematic complexity and ‘value’, the sheer popular impact of all three versions as mass-media products guaranteed the work’s importance as a defining moment in Western perceptions about the Pacific. Among other things, it is still ranked among the longest running shows in Broadway history, attended by over 3.5 million people in New York alone, and by more than that number on its extended national tours. It was also one of the first musicals to be released as an LP, a new long-playing medium that enabled consumers to have all the songs on one disc. The name ‘South Pacific’ was even ‘licensed for dolls, cosmetics, dresses, lingerie’.42 The Pacific theatre of war has of course been the subject of a seemingly interminable number of American war films, varying a fairly narrow thematic spectrum of US heroism, sacrifice, hardship, failure and victory, while pitted against an implacable Japanese foe. While the general historical background is the same, South Pacific must be differentiated from the generic war drama. Especially when one brings the whole collection of Michener’s stories into focus, and not just the three adapted for the musical, then it becomes clear that, while its focus is on US American troops, South Pacific is on another level concerned with the interaction between the different cultures gathered together on the islands: the Americans, Tonkinese, Chinese, Melanesians, Polynesians, French planters, and other nationalities besides. On a second level, this ethnic propinquity can be read as a further variation of the same displacement strategy that we have analysed in the previous two plays. It can be argued that American racial issues, already virulent by the 1950s, are played out in a kind of Never-Never Land of the South Seas, which was by this time well and truly over-determined by Hollywood films and other products of popular culture. This setting provides, as it were, a kind of protective cocoon behind which an engagement with the real problems in the United States could be neatly avoided. A variation on the displacement thesis has been put forward by Bruce McConachie in his analysis of all the Rodgers and Hammerstein ‘Oriental’ musicals as he terms them (besides South Pacific, The King and I and The Flower Drum Song). McConachie places these works in the context of the United States’ increasing involvement in South East Asia and more exactly Vietnam, as Bloody Mary and her daughter Liat hail from Tonkin, on the border of Vietnam and South China.43

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The drawback, however, of reading the musical play exclusively as an essay in American racial politics, although it certainly is this, is to overlook the multifaceted exploration of cross-cultural interaction beyond the binary of Polynesian women and Euro-American men. In my reading I shall attempt instead to resituate South Pacific in its very complex cultural setting. Rather than focusing primarily on the narrative of racial conflict, I want to inspect some of the other cultural signs that may appear at first glance to be tangential. The analysis will alternate mainly between the film version, Michener’s stories, on which the film seems to have drawn, and the musical play. All three versions – the stories, the musical play and then the film – reveal different emphases. My thesis is that South Pacific engages with the question of Pacific alterity in ways unbeknown to itself. It oscillates between secure footing in an empirical world of historical fact – revealing an almost ethnographic discernment in regard to cultural difference – and the deliberate blurring of this difference so that Polynesian, Melanesian and Asian ethnicities kaleidoscope in ever-changing images of otherness.44 In addition to the many signs of ethnic alterity in which the film abounds, we also have undertones or indeed ‘overtones’ of homoeroticism, as Victor Burgin has rightly pointed out. In addition then to the very obvious orientalist narrative of the work, there is a kind of overdetermining excess of alterity that threatens to destabilize the dominant line of a fairly predictable essay on racial prejudice and its resolution in the apotheosis of human love. The authors of South Pacific, the lyricist Oscar Hammerstein the Second and the stage director, Joshua Logan, interwove three stories from Michener’s collection: ‘The Heroine’, ‘Fo’ Dolla’ and ‘A Boar’s Tooth’. From these three stories the authors gained not just their two main plots, but also an assortment of ‘characters’. ‘The Heroine’ covers the relationship between the French planter Emile de Beque and the nurse Nellie Forbush from Little Rock, Arkansas, a place-name that today has other resonances, but then no doubt stood for small town bible-belt bigotry. ‘Fo’ Dolla’, arguably the best story in the collection and perhaps some of the best writing Michener ever produced, relates the attempts of the Tonkinese trader, Bloody Mary, to embroil the Marine Lt Cable in a relationship with her daughter Liat, who is living on the island Bali Ha’i, along with all other women of the main island where the US forces are stationed. ‘A Boar’s Tooth’ focuses on the Seabee trader Luther Billis and his attempt to attend the native ceremony of the same name, which takes place on an off-limits island, infamous for its inhabitants recently having renounced cannibalism. Before studying more closely a number of scenes, it is essential to look briefly at Michener and his famous collection of stories. As an intelligence officer during World War II, Michener served in the Pacific, and his duties evidently took him to most if not all of the islands on which US troops were stationed. Whatever one may think of Michener as a writer, and his

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reputation has seemed to shrink in inverse proportion to the length of his books, the Tales of the South Pacific are not merely a populist addition to the trivial literature on the region, although they doubtlessly owe much to this tradition.45 The stories themselves counterbalance the accreted myths and stereotypes of the South Seas with the material facts of life on the islands during wartime. Michener also shows that his characters, in the main US servicemen and women, are themselves both seduced and seriously disturbed by this tradition. The islands are depicted both in terms of the lived material world of conflicting cultural interests and agendas but also as tourist sites where the local people exploit the Western demand for curios and souvenirs of a savage Pacific. To borrow Jonathan Culler’s term for the semiotics of tourism: in Michener’s stories the Pacific is already a sign of itself; the characters are in search of the Pacificness of their place of abode and the local traders are only too happy to reinforce this notion.46 The local traders are in the main of Tonkinese extraction, as the Vietnamese indentured labourers were then known. They are represented by two antonymical characters. The repulsive, foul-mouthed Bloody Mary is both literally foul-mouthed in that she is forever chewing betel nut, and metaphorically in that the little English she knows consists of obscenities acquired from the US Marines. Her daughter Liat, on the other hand, embodies every male orientalist fantasy: she is young, slim, attractive, a virgin and very willing. If Bloody Mary represents the capitalist mercantile side of Asia, then her daughter stands for its seductive allures, both of which are seriously unsettling for an upper-class American from the eastern states. Bloody Mary is the Asian character who occupies centre stage in both story and musical. She is independent, resilient, but also involved in negotiating a dangerous performance between ingratiation and militant autonomy. In the terms of postcolonial theory, she is a product of colonial mimicry, having been instructed by the Marines to repeat ‘their roughest language’: Mary would grin, not understanding a word of what they were saying, but after they came to see her for many days in a row the old miracle of the subdued races took place again. The yellow woman learned dozens of white words but the white man learned not one yellow word. When she had mastered their vilest obscenities, they made her an honorary Marine, emblem and all.47 In the stage version, this translates into a slightly less obscene exchange but the mimicry is retained: Marine: Tell ‘em good Mary! Mary: What is good?

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168 Pacific Performances

She mimics the Western other parrot fashion, but this mimicry can also be unsettling, as Homi Bhabha has instructed us.49 Bloody Mary’s mimicry is also a spectacle in itself. Her daily performances of buying, selling and hurling obscenities at the US servicemen are themselves worthy of viewing and recounting: Then Mary would scream at him, thrusting her nose into his face, ‘Bullshit, brother!’ She wasn’t quite sure what the words meant, but from the way new men would jump back in astonishment as if they had been hit with a board, she knew it was effective. And so she used it for effect, and more men would come back next week and say, ‘Four bucks for that? Not on your life!’ just to hear the weathered old Tonk scream out some phrase they could report to the fellows in the saloon back home, ‘and then, by God maybe those guys would know us guys was really seein’ somethin’ out here!’50 Mary’s use of language is performative rather than semantic. She knows the effect of words, not their meaning. And, Michener suggests, for most servicemen their only direct experience of South Seas enchantment worthy of recounting is the spectacle of a Tonkinese woman hurling abuse at them. In such passages it becomes clear that Michener is not just a peddler in outworn South Seas fantasies but a critical observer of the perceptual confusion such traditions can cause. Bloody Mary functions also as a kind of cultural mediator, brokering not just marriages between her daughter and European suitors (first Cable, then the French planter Jacques Benoit), but also between the Americans and the indigenous population, who scarcely feature at all in either the stories or the film. Her mediator function is illustrated by two main activities: she moves between the main island and Bali Ha’i, and she runs a kiosk selling island curios. In the film version, the audience is introduced to the South Pacific island setting by a wide shot from the perspective of Lieutenant Cable from his approaching aeroplane. The next shot is a close-up of Bloody Mary with one of her curios, a shrunken head. By intercutting the vision of a South Seas paradise from above, with the visage of Bloody Mary clutching a shrunken head, the director Joshua Logan picks up on Michener’s thesis that the Asian Mary has in no small way corrupted the pristine nature of what was perhaps once an unspoilt Pacific paradise. Bloody Mary’s kiosk, run on the best capitalist principles of profit maximization, is for most American servicemen

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Marine: Tell him he’s a stingy bastard! Mary: (Delighted at the sound of these new words) Stingy bastard! (She turns back to the marine for approval) That good? Marine: That’s great Mary. You’re learning fast. (283)48

in the film and play the meeting ground with ‘local culture’. Besides the shrunken heads, which move Luther Billis to part with $100, Mary has a most eclectic assortment of objects with which to ‘represent the Pacific’: ‘her merchandize, laid out in front, comprises shells, native hats, local dress material, outrigger canoes and hookahs. Several grass skirts are hanging up around the kiosk.’ Her stage costume is metonymic of the cultural mixing fostered by colonialism and exacerbated by the war: ‘She is small, yellow, with Oriental eyes. She wears black sateen trousers, and a white blouse over which is an old Marine’s tunic. On her head is a peach-basket hat, around her neck is a GI identification chain from which hangs a silver Marine emblem’ (282). The grass-skirts, as we learn, are being mass-produced to meet American demand. The story and play outline in considerable detail how this new tourist economy has begun to destabilize the older colonialist planter economy. Because the production and sale of grass-skirts is much more lucrative, the indentured Tonkinese workers have stopped working for their colonial masters. They also use the anti-malaria atabrine pills distributed by the military as a colouring agent for the skirts. Mary’s kiosk contains signs of Asian culture as well: the peach-basket hat and of course the hookah, the object most readily associated with pejorative overtones of ‘Oriental’ corruption. In fact, local indigenous culture has been debased and reduced to a few fake grass-skirts and toy canoes.51 Real indigenous culture can only be viewed on Bali Ha’i, the site of the barbarous Boar’s Tooth Ceremony and the repository of most of the island’s women of all ethnic backgrounds. The play and film conflate what in the stories are kept apart. In Michener’s story, the ceremony takes place on the neighbouring island of Vanicoro, which is clearly figured in the discourse of the Pacific as purgatory: ‘It was a large and brooding island, miasmic with malaria, old fetishes, sickness and deep shadows    Only the bravest dared live on Vanicoro, and they were the last to give up cannibalism.’52 Bali Ha’i on the other hand, is the Pacific as Paradise and the embodiment of all Western fantasies: it is ‘a jewel of the vast ocean    and it seemed to curve itself like a woman’.53 This is only fitting for the repository of all the local women: ‘The French, with Gallic foresight and knowledge in these things, had housed on this haven of the seas all young women from the islands. Every girl, no matter how ugly or what her color, who might normally be raped by Americans was hidden on Bali-ha’i.’54 For reasons of dramatic economy, the musical merges the two islands into one great conglomerate of South Seas spectacle. The arrival at Bali Ha’i is perhaps the most intense theatrical moment in both story and film in the sense that it emphasizes the act of seeing. The stage version renders the scene much less spectacularly. Groups of ‘French girls and native girls’ sing ‘Bali Ha’i’ in front of a tapa-cloth curtain before Cable and Billis enter (320). In the film it is clear that the arriving Americans are a spectacle for the

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inhabitants on the island, whereas the inhabitants are a spectacle for the Americans who stand in for the gaze of the cinema viewers. This moment of first encounter on the beach is, of course, a stock situation in the history of the theatricalization of the Pacific, where two cultures meet one another, if not for the first time, at least, it seems, always in a situation of heightened expectation. Michener’s story emphasizes the theatricality of the situation even more so by two devices. First, he intensifies the erotic, voyeuristic moment by focusing on Cable’s unashamed fascination with the spectacle of a cultural smorgasbord of pubescent girls: Then came the girls! There were native girls with breasts, and red sarongs about their hips. There were inquisitive Chinese girls who were pulled back by equally inquisitive Chinese mothers. Tonkinese girls, as yet unmarried, stood close to their distinctive white and red shacks. And in the distance, properly aloof, a few French girls demonstrated their inherited superiority by looking with disdain upon the entire proceedings. They wore white dresses, and you could not discern whether their breasts were conical or flabby.55 As it happens, Cable is not much interested in the French girls and their breasts, surrounded as he is by 30 native girls wearing only sarongs and offering him a selection of native fruit. At one point even the sarong slips awry and Lt Cable is ‘unable    or unwilling    to look away. Like the jungle, like the fruits of the jungle, adolescent girls seemed to abound in unbelievable profusion.’56 Michener intensifies the theatricality of the scene even more by adding a further observer or spectator perspective. While Cable is looking at topless pubescent girls whose sarongs occasionally fall ‘awry’, this scene is being observed by the Melanesians on the neighbouring island of Vanicoro: ‘And from the hills of Vanicoro the watchers looked at the boat and then at one another! It could not be believed that for a few pineapples, for some papayas, and such little papayas, one could get cloth!’57 Evidently, the same spectacle is being read from two different perceptual and economic perspectives. The scene is also noteworthy for the importance attached to cultural differentiation: Polynesians, Melanesian, Chinese and Europeans – all are described and valorized. While the ‘brown’ Polynesians are held up as being almost acceptable, the Melanesians occupy their traditional place in the Pacific’s discursive history: the men are semi-savage cannibals – see the Boar’s Tooth dance, whereas the women seem to epitomize ugliness, so much so that the soldiers send home pictures to placate their girlfriends and fiancées that they are not being tempted. One soldier produces ‘a horrendous picture of a Melanesian woman with frizzled hair, sagging breasts, and buttocks like a Colorado mesa. She was wearing a frond of palm leaves.    “Look, Cable!” one officer cried “The real South Seas!”.’58

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Birds of Paradise: American-Pacific Dramas of Displacement 171

(The music builds in a rapturous upsurge. CABLE gathers LIAT in his arms. She reaches her small arms up to his neck. He lifts her off her feet. The lights fade slowly as his hand slides her blouse up her back toward her shoulders. The lights dim to complete darkness. Light projections of large and lovely Oriental blossoms are thrown against the drop. Native couples stroll across the stage only dimly seen. The music mounts ecstatically, then diminishes.) (323) The musical orgasm is at least as old as Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde. Jo Mielziner’s scenographic device of ‘oriental blossoms’ on the gauze drop paired with dimly lit native couples utilizes a metaphorical montage more familiar from Eisenstein’s cinema than from the stage. In moments like these there appear to be no obstacles to inter-racial liaisons. Thanks to the discursive history of orientalism and its countless narratives of relationships between Western men and Asian women, from Meyerbeer’s L’Africaine to Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, which never speak of a basic erotic incompatibility between European men and Asian women, but certainly of the impossibility of any kind of equal relationship, there is no real problem in squaring up the economy of desire of the characters with those of the audience. In the Cable–Liat relationship, Michener, like Tully, follows a basic Madame Butterfly scenario with the significant difference that the conflict is resolved over his and not her dead body. The situation is somewhat more complicated as soon as the American characters begin to calculate the costs of erotic desire in the currency of longterm cultural capital. Bloody Mary’s allusion to the ‘special good babies’ that her daughter will produce with Cable makes the latter ‘deeply disturbed’ and ‘tortured’ (339). The same fear and loathing of miscegenation forces Cable into an alliance with Nellie Forbush who feels incapable of marrying the French planter Emile because of the latter’s mixed-blood children by a Polynesian mother. His musical contribution to the nature/nurture debate, the song ‘You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught’, was certainly understood in the United States where the musical ran into trouble and was even banned in some Southern states.59 The two situations are of course not strictly analogous. Cable’s situation would lead potentially to – from a racist point of view – genuine miscegenation, whereas Nellie must only become a surrogate mother to children of a previous interracial marriage. Her own will be racially pure. Whatever the outcome, the two love stories demonstrate that the Pacific has become a culturally hybrid place. The conjunction of European, Asian, Polynesian and Melanesian cultures in the South Pacific point forward to increasing complex geopolitical and cultural equations in the post-war period.

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Meanwhile Lt Cable has experienced the erotic side of the ‘real South Seas’ through his affair with Liat, Bloody Mary’s daughter. The stage play renders this act of cross-cultural coitus with all the climatic and allusive means that 1940s American theatre had at its disposal:

This cultural hybridity is echoed on another level in the play, but not in the stories. The theatricality that we have been tracing throughout this book resurfaces in the musical version with a vengeance. Semiotically this hybridity is located in the figure of the business-minded Seabee Luther Billis. Dramatically, he is responsible for the comic business the musical genre demands. In terms of our performance genealogy he can be seen as a nodal point for the complete commodification of South Pacific signs. At the same time he stands in an ambivalent relationship to the signs of Asian and indigenous alterity. He is evidently fascinated by something other than just pecuniary motives. And he justifies his urge to visit Bali Ha’i with: ‘It is boar’s teeth    and women!’ (288). Spatially and visually, Billis is in fact more closely aligned with Bloody Mary than with the other American characters. His laundry and her kiosk occupy the same stage space. Both are involved in the same trade in grass-skirts and curios. Bloody Mary’s hybrid costume of Asian and US Marine articles finds an echo in Billiss’s stage costume in the Thanksgiving show in Act 2. The Thanksgiving troop entertainment provides a theatrical version of the South Seas tourist trade prosecuted with such vigour by Billis and Bloody Mary. Strictly speaking, the popular vision of the South Pacific with its grassskirt clad native women is represented only by a carnivalesque parody. The only ‘South Sea sirens’ we see are in a rough drag act by ‘Lutheria’ Billis and navy nurses clad in fish nets and parachute cloth. The stage directions make explicit the deliberate travesty: (Now BILLIS enters, dressed as a South Sea siren in a straw-colored wig, long lashes fantastically painted on his eyelids, lips painted in bright carmine, two coconut shells on his chest to simulate ‘femininity’ and a battleship tattooed on his bare midriff.    The girls are dressed in home-made costumes representing island natives. The materials are fish-net parachute cloth, large tropical leaves and flowers – anything they could find and sew together.) (342–3) Lothar Billis’s coconut bra can of course be read in a number of ways: as a sign of a concealed homoerotic undertone in the work, made more explicit in the bare-chested dance routines of the Seabees; or as a reference to the pantomime dame tradition. Whatever the reading, the sign will reappear in the final chapter (see Chapter 8) when it is reappropriated in the night club acts of Polynesian transvestites who are more than familiar with the visual and musical vocabulary of Western representations of the South Seas. ∗

∗

∗

The exigencies of makeshift amateur theatricals provide only a partial explanation for such ramshackle representation of Pacific culture. This bricolage approach to the Pacific is emblematic of wider cultural commodification processes. The reduction of the Pacific area to a hotch-potch of clichés

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and curios was, it seems, complete by the end of World War II. It reached its ‘apotheosis’ in 1950s America with a fad for Polynesian kitsch that decorated bars, restaurants and motels from California to New England. The number of establishments labelled Tiki, Hula Hut and Bali Ha’i increased exponentially, only to disappear by the late 1960s.60 As the Pacific as a space of imaginative geography slowly sank under the burden of sheer commercial exploitation in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and disappeared from stage and screen in the United States and Europe, it re-emerged shortly afterwards in situ so to speak. New forms of tourist performance were developed in Hawai‘i and elsewhere. But more importantly, the indigenous people in the Pacific, at home or in the diaspora, began to explore the possibilities of theatrical performance to prosecute a wide range of artistic, political and cultural agendas. The next two chapters will explore this significant shift in locale and strategies.

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7

As we saw in the last chapter, Bloody Mary’s trade in yellow grass-skirts, shrunken heads and model canoes documented that the South Pacific had well and truly become a tourist space. Her US servicemen customers were evidently more than eager to document their Pacific experience (which for many would end in death or wounding) in terms of authentic native curios. By this time, the Pacific had begun to trade on its discursive history. It had become a sign of itself, which is a prerequisite of the tourist experience. For a place or culture to attain this state of virtual existence, whereby the phoney and contrived version of cultural experience is perceived as more authentic than the actual state, a sustained process of verbal, visual and very often performative representation must have occurred. The preceding chapters have engaged in different ways with this historical process. The redefinition of hula and haka in the nineteenth century (Chapter 4) created two performance forms that, in their versions at least, became metonymic representations of their respective indigenous cultures. The popular ethnographic spectacles of late nineteenth-century Europe (Chapter 5) could be considered as armchair-tourist performances. The popularization of Hawaiian music and dance in the wake of Richard Walton Tully’s play The Bird of Paradise (Chapter 6) had an important influence on the growing tourist trade to Hawai‘i. Those islands on the main steamer routes, such as Samoa or Tahiti, had a small but active tourist trade by the late nineteenth century. An integral part of the tourist experience by this period was indigenous performance of various kinds. As we shall examine in the present chapter, performance is an integral part of tourism that has developed into a genre utilizing a specific set of theatrical techniques. Touristic performances highlight in particular the paradoxical relationship between theatricality and authenticity in cross-cultural performances, the central theoretical concern of this book. As we have encountered in many examples beginning with the first theatrical representations of the Pacific on the European stage in the 1780s, the supposed antonyms theatricality and authenticity are in fact folded into 174

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‘As You Always Imagined It’: The Pacific as Tourist Spectacle

one another in a close relationship of mutual interdependence. This paradoxical affiliation is nowhere more apparent than in the largest tourist complex in the Pacific designed especially to represent Polynesian cultures, the Polynesian Cultural Center (PCC) on Oahu, Hawai‘i, funded and managed by the Mormon Church. As we shall see, the PCC is predicated on the idea of presenting to an international tourist public Polynesian culture as ‘it used to be’, in which notions such as ‘authenticity’ and ‘tradition’ are writ large. Yet the performance of authenticity is an undertaking with an oxymoronic resonance and the performers at the Center exploit to the full the subversive potential provided by a remit requiring them to perform a way of life that has long since disappeared. The performances call to mind ‘first contact’ situations, as most of the visitors have probably never seen a real Polynesian in the flesh before. They are also intrinsically mediated because the theatrical presentation makes direct appeals to the history of Western conceptions of the Pacific. As visitors to Hawai‘i’s famous Polynesian Cultural Center disembark from their buses, they find themselves standing in front of a huge, grass-roofed house nestled in lush tropical growth. Before it stands a large carving of some kind of warrior god that glares at the guests as they enter. As most of the visitors have come directly from the high-rise congestion of Waikiki they may feel for a moment they have moved back in time, that the promise of the Center’s brochure, ‘The islands as you always hoped they would be’, has in fact been fulfilled.1 Should they chance to glance a little to the right, however, they will catch a glimpse of a MacDonald’s restaurant on the far side of the car park. This initial visual impression, which conflates the primitive with the commercial, represents the first of what will be a whole series of contrasting images. The first stop on the usually nine-hour encounter with seven Polynesian cultures is the Samoan village. Here a Samoan chief treats tourists to an extended stand-up comic routine, demonstrating, among other things, traditional coconut-husking techniques, while the tourist audience is required to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ in their various languages. By this point it should have become clear to even the most culturally disinterested visitor that the promise of ‘authentic’ material culture highlighted in the publicity material is a negotiable term. This apparent contradiction will in fact become clearer at every turn as the tourists make their way through the land- and mindscape of the 42-acre complex. What tourists witness at the PCC is a network of apparent conceptual contradictions or paradoxes woven into a seamless whole of commercially successful tourist entertainment. These contradictions can be best encapsulated in the oxymoron ‘staged authenticity’, coined by Dean MacCannell to define one of the central paradoxes of the tourist gaze.2 The purpose of this chapter is to elucidate a set of issues revolving around the question of establishing and negotiating authenticity in tourist performances. The central tension to be explored is that between the notion of a fixed

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and immutable authenticity and that of performance, which, by definition, creates alteration through repetition. Performance is understood here as a potentially subversive process by virtue of its ineluctable slippage between script and realization, between perception and object. On the basis of two particular performances at the Center which will be analysed in detail, I shall try to expose a deeper contradiction in the notions of authenticity and authentification as it pertains to material culture and its impossibility in the realm of performance culture, even though performance procedures are steadily dominating the whole structure of the complex. It will be argued that two of these performances, from Samoa and Tonga respectively, are engaged in a playful deconstruction of the tourist gaze with its expectation of authenticity in respect to Polynesian culture. It will be argued that the deconstructive performances in the Samoan and Tongan villages manipulate disparate culturally coded spectator positions. The different activities and performances demonstrate numerous ways in which discourses of authenticity and staging continuously merge and refine themselves. This deconstruction employs a variation of what has been called colonial mimicry in postcolonial theory. It is a variation because the mimicry involved is in most cases not directed at the tourists themselves, but rather at the tourists’ tacit expectations of Polynesian culture. Due to the dissonance between the expectations and projections, authenticity must be examined from a double perspective, so as to grasp the dynamics at work in the tourist gaze. At stake is not only the meaning of the performances or cultural artefacts on display, but also the various spectator positions of the tourists which, as we shall see, are remarkably susceptible to reversal and manipulation. Amongst the theatrical genres, tourist performances have possibly the worst reputation because they seem to embody various negative features: inauthenticity, lack of aesthetic innovation, and a symbolic collusion with Western imperialism in the Third and Fourth Worlds. While anthropologists have concerned themselves occasionally with tourist performances within the framework of tourism and cultural change in their traditional fields of inquiry, theatre studies have until recently ignored the whole phenomenon.3 Richard Schechner was perhaps one of the first to call for a concern with ‘theatre for tourists’ within the framework of performance theory.4 From a disciplinary perspective it is necessary to create a critical awareness of tourist performances as a field of inquiry and to demonstrate ways in which techniques of performance analysis and postcolonial theory can be profitably employed in reading what is clearly one of the major performance phenomena of our time. It shall be argued that despite the obvious commodification processes at work in tourist performances they also contain the potential for considerable performative agency on the part of the indigenous performers. In this chapter we shall be tracing the move, already evident in Chapter 5, from strategies for purely Western representations of the Pacific to self-representation, albeit under the aegis of a commercial tourist operation.

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‘As You Always Imagined It’: The Pacific as Tourist Spectacle 177

The Polynesian Cultural Center, situated on the north-eastern coast of Oahu, the main island of Hawai‘i, offers a spectacular example of the theatricalization of Polynesian culture. Founded in 1963 under the aegis of the Mormon Church, this ‘cultural theme park’ (the PCC’s self-description) houses seven Polynesian villages. The Polynesian cultures represented (Hawai‘i, Tahiti, Marquesas, Samoa, Tonga, Maori, and Fiji) are staged in various ways for the tourist gaze. The ‘actors’ are in the main students of the adjacent Brigham Young University, who assume various theatrical tasks as they perform their own cultures in a putatively ‘traditional’ form, as a means of paying their way through college.5 Performances of different kinds shape the visitors’ experience from the very moment of entering the Center to departure in the evening. It is necessary therefore to differentiate between the following strategies of cultural self-presentation: • Welcome and performances of the individual villages. These routines vary greatly between villages. Some rely heavily on comedy and entertainment (Samoa, Tonga), while others assume the air of quasi-ethnographic seriousness (Hawai‘i). • ‘Ancient Legends of Polynesia’ is a theatrical presentation of traditional legends. These dramatized myths with modern musical accompaniment are performed twice a day on the lagoons. • The Night Show ‘Horizons’ is a carefully choreographed, opulently costumed and decorated stage spectacle. It consists of a series of scenes and numbers involving each of the island groups. Each scene is made up of songs and dances depicting historical and mythical events. In addition there are spectacular stage-effects such as a jet-fountain water curtain and, presumably in unconscious reference to The Bird of Paradise, volcanic eruptions. Much of the music is pre-recorded and requires the performers to lip-synch. Although each of these three levels can be analysed discretely, they can in fact also be viewed as three interlocking performance complexes, which build on each other to provide a cumulative effect in the course of a visit. The whole complex is thus arranged according to precise dramaturgical and theatrical principles: it is, in the words of the anthropologist Terry Webb, ‘highly structured tourist art’. Webb comments: ‘In the night show, the unaffected, clever villagers are presented as polished performers, reputedly superior to any other Polynesian troupe in the world. Simplicity is transformed into excellence.’6 The PCC is ‘a complex work of tourist art’, as Webb argues, demanding interpretation and exegesis in terms of its aesthetic structures and not just

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The Polynesian Cultural Center and tourist performance

explication of its organization or commercial function. While compelling, this hypothesis is a bit too neat, since Webb constructs a teleological reading based on Mormon doctrine. He tries to fit the different elements of the Center into a unified artistic and ideological structure pattern held together by the affiliation to the Mormon Church. Whereas Webb is concerned to demonstrate how the parts fit together to form an aesthetic whole, my reading is more concerned with particularities of cultural staging in specific villages, with their considerable differences in terms of mise en scène and the differing audience responses they elicit. Furthermore I will demonstrate how the Samoan and Tongan performances work to subvert whatever aesthetic ‘master-plan’ may or may not be in place. During its over 40-year history of catering to tourists, the PCC has developed a wide range of performance genres. The three levels of performance outlined above correspond to some of the basic forms of entertainment and edification designed for the tourist gaze. These include: • Theme parks and living museums • Hotel entertainment • Fictionalized real encounters The PCC terms itself a ‘cultural theme attraction’ and fits broadly into the first category.7 Theme parks and living museums are certainly the most widespread examples of recreated and staged realities, which often include within their programmes a number of performances in the narrower sense, such as song and dance demonstrations.8 The PCC, especially in the early period of its operation, stressed its museum function as a preserver of Polynesia’s ‘cultural heritage.’ Cultural villages such as the PCC, also known as ethnic theme parks, distinguish themselves from living museums in so far as the workers do not perform roles from the historical past, but supposedly represent their own cultural identity. Although the Polynesian Cultural Center is the most famous and longest established example of the ethnic theme park, this is a fast-growing area and similar undertakings can be found in many parts of the world, where ‘the performative primitive’ (to use Dean MacCannell’s term) allows itself to be staged and commercially exploited.9 The PCC provides an increasingly rich offering in performances fitting the second category, so-called hotel entertainment or ‘port folklore’ as it is known in the Caribbean. The term is understood here to mean performances, usually song and dance, but sometimes decontextualized rituals such as Fijian fire-walking or Brazilian candomblé, designed specifically to entertain the cultural tourist. Such performances do not necessarily have to take place in a hotel, but very often do, because they must be located in the touristic space. Hotel performances seldom contain a didactic element. Mainly because of its entertainment and commercial bias hotel entertainment is associated with the most negative aspects of tourism. It has come

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to stand for cultural self-abasement, a form of fast-food culture for quick consumption, or the performative equivalent of airport art. The third category, fictionalized real encounters, refers to a growing tendency among tourist operators to provide clients with ‘encounters off the beaten track’. In Egypt, for example, this would mean an afternoon with a tribe of Bedouins in the desert; in Papua New Guinea, a visit to a male ceremonial house (see below); in the Trobriand Islands, a stop off at a village to witness a ritual dance. The premise behind such encounters – and the performances that almost invariably accompany them – is that the tourist is privy to a slice of real ‘primitive’ life which s/he allegedly encounters by chance. That this ‘slice of life’ is structured and ordered according to a precise dramaturgy arranged by tour operator and village chief is of course not immediately evident. If it were, the whole exercise would lose a large degree of legitimacy. The popularity of such encounters is due in large part to a form of ‘willing suspension of disbelief’, where the expectation of authentic, non-staged experience overrides any doubts about primitive manipulation. The theoretical questions regarding this discourse of authenticity shall be addressed in the fourth section, ‘Framing Authenticity’. The PCC, because it is framed so clearly as a tourist space, can never lay claims to this kind of ‘encounter’ dramaturgy, although the cultural presentations in the villages, as we shall see below, do flirt with this idea. Because of its special location in Hawai‘i, the complex also offers an opportunity to study a number of converging lines of cultural and performative vectors, which break open the traditional binary of Western versus Polynesian cultures. Originally one of the fabled South Sea islands, Hawai‘i is now a part of the United States; its Polynesian inhabitants are both quantitatively and economically very much a minority. A cosmopolitan society, the largest single ethnic group in Hawai‘i is of Japanese origin. Japanese capital has a very strong stake in Hawai‘i, particularly in the tourist and financial sectors; in addition ‘real’ Japanese constitute the single largest group of tourists visiting the island, who in turn constitute a large potential audience at the PCC. Many of these undercurrents resurface, albeit in subtle ways, in the transactions enacted between performers and spectators at the Center.

Staging Polynesian culture(s) This analysis will concentrate on performances from three villages: Samoa, Tonga and, very briefly, Hawai‘i. Although the PCC originally intended that tourists would move informally through the villages and mingle with the ‘inhabitants’, who answer questions about traditional arts and crafts, including performance forms, this casual movement has evolved into highly formalized performance situations with (mostly) clearly defined performative functions and spectatorial frames.

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In the Samoan village, tourists are welcomed by a Samoan chief. He performs on a raised dais, aided by a microphone, before quite a large audience seated in rows before him. The backdrop is a mixture of natural scenery (palm trees) and Samoan houses. The only ‘modern’ emblem is the microphone, a necessary aid for outdoor performances buffeted by the trade winds. The ‘performer’ is a real Samoan chief, as he hastens to add, and one of the few full-time professionals at the PCC. The style of presentation is reminiscent of an American-style stand-up comic routine. This routine is structured around the demonstration of material culture, including husking coconuts, making fire with two sticks, and climbing a coconut tree; it also invites the audience to participate in the drinking of coconut juice. The chief interlaces these demonstrations with wry humour, which continually links a pre-modern material culture with modern technology: We are happy to have you all here. There is so much to do and learn today. At the Center we have seven different islands. We also have seven different cultures and seven different languages, so we don’t understand each other. That’s why we have to speak English. (laughter) Any questions, talk to me. All of us that work here are from Samoa. The culture of Samoa is strong because Samoa is still controlled by chiefs. So the chiefs make the rules and they tell you what to do. Whatever they say, we do it, so it’s good to be chief. (laughter) People of Samoa are known as the happy people of Polynesia: ladies and gentlemen we are the happy people. (looks sad) Please be happy. Are you happy? (audience: Yeah!!) Me, too (looks sad). Korea, are you happy? (translates the question into Korean)    Every time we cook, we use the ground-oven. When I go back some day, I’m going to take a microwave oven. Allow me to share with you one of the most important parts of cooking: making fire. You can make fire by rubbing two sticks together. While you flick your bic, we rub our sticks. It’s very simple: it takes about five and a half hours. (demonstrates; applause) Do you want to see how we put it out? It’s not what you’re thinking. Any questions about making fire? You can do this anytime you want, because any wood works. Make sure the wood is dry and the two pieces come from the same tree. You know the name of this wood? Firewood. (laughter) Now I’m going to show you how to open a coconut. Get a coconut. Look for the ripe ones. This one is ripe; you can tell by its color. It turns brown like me when it’s ripe, which tells me that some of you are not ripe yet. That’s a joke. (laughter) Husk the coconut using this instrument. We call it ‘mele’. Please say ‘mele’. (audience responds) Come on everybody: mele! (audience responds) English: Sharp Stick! (Audience: ‘Sharp stick!’ He says the word in Korean and Spanish) First kill the coconut. (demonstrates husking) I was doing that in slow motion for your convenience. On the islands this is one of the competitive sports: record for the men three seconds; ladies two days. That’s why we men cook. To crack it you have to hit it between

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the eyes. You can use hammers, knives, screwdrivers, dynamite. (cracks the coconut and pours the juice) This is not the milk, some people call it the milk. It’s the juice. It’s good to drink – we call it seven-up because there’s no caffeine – never had it? Never will. (he asks spectators to come up and sample the juice) You don’t like? Drink it! Drink the whole thing. (He demonstrates how to remove coconut meat using a sharpened stick. The audience is requested to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ while he does this) The Koreans are not singing. Koreans: sing ‘Jingle Bells’! In your language. (they begin to sing in English) That’s not your language! (sings the first verse in Korean) Sing faster!    (This is followed by a coconut-tree climbing demonstration performed by a young Samoan man) Jump to the next tree. Everybody say jump! Don’t look up, but you can take pictures.10 The Tongan drumming demonstration with audience participation also takes place on a slightly raised stage with audience members seated opposite. It is cast in the same comic mode as the Samoan village, although it uses different means. Three audience members are selected at ‘random’ by a performer and return some minutes later clad in grass skirts.11 They are subjected to a few questions – ‘What is your name, where do you come from? etc. – receive basic instruction in the ‘fundamentals’ of Tongan drumming technique, and are then required to imitate successively the main drummer and thus make fools of themselves.

Mimicry and resisting the tourist gaze Although these performances appear to offer little more than superficial entertainment, I would like to argue that both are cast in a double mode of resistance: on the one hand, they practise subtle forms of resistance against the official PCC philosophy of staged traditionalism because each village has a certain degree of autonomy in the staging of these presentations (as opposed to the ‘Ancient Legends of Polynesia’ or the ‘Horizons’ Night Show), where PCC management is in total control. On the other hand, strategies of resistance against the tourist gaze itself operate under the guise of comic routines. To achieve this subversive resistance, both Samoan and Tongan performances use a reflexive citational mode, which draws upon the expectation of authenticity that the PCC promulgates and that the tourists in the main deploy. Authenticity in the Polynesian context consists of a combination of discursive elements constructed over the past 200 years of colonial and postcolonial contact, and solidified into fixed but intermedially transferable and thus quotable preconceptions. The performative demonstration of Samoan culture is clearly aimed at this expectation of a pre-contact authentic traditionalism merged with elements of contemporary culture, whereby the

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‘As You Always Imagined It’: The Pacific as Tourist Spectacle 181

uninformed spectator would be hard put to distinguish the self-ironic citation from actual lived practices. Judging by the exterior signs of the performance itself, Samoan culture is made up of happy people run by chiefs (‘it’s good to be chief’) where the men are evidently superior to the women. The standard clothing is lava lava plus palm fronds and fire is made by rubbing two sticks together. The staple food is the coconut which is obtained by climbing trees and opened with a sharp stick. This performance, superficial though it may seem, is interwoven with various discursive intertexts that are the result of a history of touristic encounter between Samoans, on the one hand, and Europeans and EuroAmericans, on the other. Allusion to this history, albeit in an ahistorical way, provides the form and occasion for a variation on colonial mimicry, which I will call reverse colonial mimicry. The locus classicus for this critical term is Frantz Fanon’s psychological analysis of colonial self-hatred. Here, the process whereby the colonized apes the colonizer, a process of continual role-playing and the assumption of attitudes, signifies the former’s self-alienation.12 More recently, Homi Bhabha has drawn attention to the deep-seated ambivalence (in the psychoanalytical sense of the term) of colonial mimicry. Mimicry is deeply ambivalent, he argues, suggesting as it does both a display of conformism and self-regulation on the part of the colonized as well as a sign of recalcitrance and potential subversion, because the imitation is never perfect. From the point of view of the colonizer, there always exists a more or less manifest gap between the original and the copy. The native appears immune to total absorption and remains resolutely Other while in the outward garb of the Self. In this sense mimicry can have a strong parodic or ironic function, by presenting to the colonizer a distorted self-image: ‘The ambivalence of colonial authority repeatedly turns from mimicry – a difference that is almost nothing but not quite – to menace – a difference that is almost total but not quite.’13 Performative mimicry of the kind we find at the PCC in the Samoan and Tongan presentations functions according to a different principle. Instead of imitating the colonizer and developing forms of subversion by holding up a distorted image of the European, the Samoans and Tongans appear to be mimicking European projections of themselves. This kind of parodic irony resembles the double-voiced trickster discourse that Henry Louis Gates finds in Black oral and literary expression.14 This ironic use of parody depends on the performers’ awareness of European and Euro-American projections and is evident in various subtle and not so subtle allusions. For example, jokes about the ripeness of the coconut – ‘it will turn brown when it is ripe, like me, which tells me that some of you are not ripe’ – may well refer specifically to the European discussion of skin-colour hierarchies and more generally to what we have termed the theatricalization of Polynesian peoples. A further variation of colonial mimicry is the coconut-tree climbing demonstration during the Samoan performance. As we saw in Chapter 5,

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182 Pacific Performances

such demonstrations were already included in the performance repertoire of the Samoan troupes visiting Germany just after the turn of the century. In the PCC performance a man swiftly shinnies up a tall tree; he pauses, scratches his behind and then calls out: ‘a plane, a plane.’ The chief exhorts him to jump to the next tree. Several South Seas topoi are being cited here. The allusions to natives as simians are unmistakable – scratching, ‘jump to the next tree’, and so on. The comparison of primitive peoples to apes, particularly in the discourse of the social Darwinism of the late nineteenth century, is refracted back in these comic moments (whereby performers and spectators are presumably laughing at two different things). Also the references to seeing a plane from the top of a tree provide an ironical spoof of the familiar Hollywood scene whereby the approach of European ships is first signalled by natives perched atop coconut trees. The ironical twist of course is the reference to a plane, the main vehicle of tourist transportation, which is easily identifiable without the vantage point of a coconut tree. Although such moments may seem to sail dangerously close to selfdemeaning behaviour, they appear, on closer inspection, to provide performers with the opportunity to subvert and resist the relentless tourist gaze. The laughter they engender confirms their awareness of the discourses

Figure 22 Tourist drinking coconut milk while being filmed by Samoan chief at the Polynesian Cultural Center, Hawai‘i Source: Collection of the author.

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‘As You Always Imagined It’: The Pacific as Tourist Spectacle 183

they assume the tourists bring with them. The empowerment is achieved through a situation of discrepant information distribution with the Samoan performers knowing more than the spectators. Audience participation provides the necessary means by which the tourist gaze can be best exposed to other tourists. It also allows for a greater differentiation among the spectators, particularly along national and or ethnic lines. The Samoan performance requires, for example, that spectators sample fresh coconut juice. While this is straightforward enough, in one performance I recorded, the Samoan chief deftly switched roles by exchanging coconut for camera. As an Asian tourist drank coconut juice, she was filmed by the ‘primitive’ (Figure 22). The camera, perhaps the most ubiquitous index of the tourist gaze, was in this moment turned against its owner. The Samoan show requires other forms of sporadic involvement – vocalizations, mimicking foreign words and a sing-along (‘Jingle Bells’ in accompaniment to a coconut husking demonstration). The choice of ‘Jingle Bells’ is an interesting as well as amusing one, the reason for which only becomes clear when the Koreans are asked to sing in their own language. Not only does the Samoan chief sing some Korean himself, as well as Spanish and other languages, but the absurd-seeming combination of coconut husking and a European Christmas song sung in Korean led by a Samoan thematicizes tourism and global culture in a particularly obvious way. In the Tongan drumming demonstration audience participation permeates the whole performance in various ways. It ranges from conventional working the audience routines – ‘when I come out, I want you to give me a round of applause’ and practising clapping and rhythms – to the involvement of tourists in the demonstration itself. In the Tongan performance the presentation is structured around the willingness of tourists to dress up in grass skirts and take part in the drumming demonstration. The choice of a black and a white American and a Korean in the performances I recorded on two separate visits was both visually striking and very funny: the tourists become the spectacle they had paid to watch. Three tourists in the performances recorded for this study – two Americans (white and African American) and a Korean – were selected and clad in grass skirts. The costuming suggests another form of mimicry in which the colonizer imitates the primitive. It is also a tried and true convention of hotel entertainment, whose connotations most obviously include ‘going native’. The drumming begins with the Tongan making wild grimaces and paralinguistic vocalizations in a self-conscious citation of ferocity. At one point the Tongan drummer launches into a spate of Tongan ending with ‘Shoobeedoo’ in a conflation of ‘savage babble’ and American popular culture burble. The drumming routine itself forces the tourists into a situation of physical and verbal mimicry, particularly the Korean tourist who evidently knows little or no English and has to mimic the Tongan drummer. In the exchange with the Korean the Tongan makes fun of him, establishing complicity with European and Japanese spectators, yet the show ends in a

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184 Pacific Performances

drumming climax with the Korean holding his own, thus re-establishing a harmonious tone which is characteristic of the PCC as a whole, where conflict and disharmony are not permitted. These examples make very clear that the tourist gaze at the PCC is not predicated on a cultural binary of Western versus Polynesian. In economic and cultural terms, Asian tourists, mainly Japanese and Koreans, are especially important. The Japanese are the largest single tourist group visiting Hawai‘i (quite apart from their economic involvement in the islands). It is not by chance that in both performances recorded and analysed here, the Korean tourists are the butt of most of the humour. I would argue that this caters not just to the Western tourists in an orientalist mode but also to the Japanese whose historical (colonial) relationship to Korea has not been fully acknowledged.15 In stark contrast to the entertainment-oriented procedures of the Samoans and Tongans with their sometimes quite complex combination of selective (dis)information, satire and self-deprecation, the Hawaiian presentation is low key and entirely didactic in intent. Traditional hula is demonstrated within the village without a raised stage; the tourists are grouped around in an informal way. The MC provides information on the use of the noseflute, an instrument that has fascinated since the earliest explorers. He also explains that the dancers and musicians are students from the adjoining Brigham Young University; they are in a sense demonstrators of culture. We could argue that we are in the mode of Brechtian gestus rather than the blurred fictionalizations and role-playing of the Samoans and Tongans. The different styles of performance from one island group to the next can be explained partly by differences within the PCC itself and partly by disparate colonial experiences. The sober demonstrative mode of the Hawaiians resembles closely the tone of the Maori presentation. Here audiences gather in a Maori meeting-house where they are treated to a display of Maori performance forms, such as haka, waiata, poi-dancing, familiar to tourists and New Zealanders alike. While the tone is occasionally lighthearted, it is not flippant or self-ironic. The contrast between the Samoans and Tongans on the one hand, and the Hawaiians and Maori on the other signals an important aspect of cultural differentiation within the monolithic conceptualization of Polynesian culture. Both Maori and Hawaiians are Fourth World cultures, that is, indigenous cultures submerged in a majority colonizing culture.16 For both, folkloric demonstrations have had a function historically different from those of the Samoans or Tongans. In both New Zealand and Hawai‘i the preservation, and to some degree recreation, of performance culture towards the end of the nineteenth century was crucial for cultural survival in the face of heavy assimilative pressures. Both were involved in the invention and redefinition of performance traditions, which fulfilled the double function of presenting an image of cultural vitality to the colonial gaze and finding new functions for performance within a new

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186 Pacific Performances

Framing authenticity The different performance procedures examined so far lead into a number of more general questions involving the relationship between authenticity and performance in a tourist context. The tensions that have emerged are closely related to an almost irreconcilable dichotomy between the treatment of material and performance culture. This dichotomy manifests itself both in ethnographic discourse and in the philosophy of the PCC, which is founded, officially at least, on the ‘salvage paradigm’ of ethnography, with its, in James Clifford’s phrase, ‘desire to rescue “authenticity” out of destructive historical change’.18 In all of its official material the PCC declares its primary interest to be the preservation of Polynesian culture. By its own admission the Center is ‘the world’s pre-eminent repository of living Polynesian cultures’, where the suggestive incongruity between the terms ‘repository’ and ‘living’ appears to go unnoticed. While the material culture of the seven Polynesian villages recreated at the PCC appears to be vaguely pre-contact, as do many of the performances presented, and ethnographic expertise is consulted to ensure authenticity in both realms,19 the all-pervasive entertainment mode of the Center acts as a continual counterbalance to the putative museum concept. The tension implicit in the concept of a living museum can also be formulated as an epistemological contest between the ‘archive and the repertoire’, as performance theorist and Latin American scholar Diana Taylor has defined it. According to Taylor’s reading, Western culture privileges the archive as the repository of enduring materials such as texts, buildings and archaeological remains over the ephemerality of the repertoire which represents embodied practices such as spoken language, dances, songs, rituals and the like. With its etymological roots in the Greek term arkhe, a public building, the archive presumes to sustain power and ‘exceed the live’.20 The PCC, with its reconstructed villages and museum concept, is clearly conceived as an archive in this sense. Yet its main forms of presentation, performances, privilege the repertoire, which, as Taylor stresses, require presence and participation so that in practice, the dominant experience of Polynesian culture for the visitors is determined by contact with embodied rather than archival practices. It could also be argued that the subversive performances of the Samoan and Tongan villages are predicated on highlighting the impossibility of a purely archival representation of Polynesian cultures. If we also factor in the discourse of authenticity into the binary of archive and repertoire, then we find that it provides a further variation on the underlying tension between the two means for conserving and transmitting knowledge.

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cultural situation.17 The cultural forms are therefore carefully guarded and treasured; presumably they are regarded as too fragile to be subjected to the rumbustious processes of self-irony and play that the Tongans and Samoans practice.

The notion of authenticity implies a fixed point of reference for final verification, which, in the Western logocentric tradition at least, presupposes archival knowledge. This contradistinction is ultimately irresolvable because it stems from the aporia of the tourist gaze which, on the one hand, appears to demand authenticity and, on the other, works to deauthenticate anything which comes into its field of vision. It is something of a truism in theoretical writing about tourism that the tourist gaze tends especially to blur the epistemological boundaries between fiction and authenticity. Various theoretical models have concerned themselves with elucidating the paradoxical nature of Dean MacCannell’s term ‘staged authenticity’. The tourist gaze, in its search for the unadulterated as a counter-model to the alienation of modernity, seems to automatically contaminate the object(s) of the gaze in the very moment of its usually (mass) perception and reception. A recurrent topos in this theorization is that the touristic sight/site is by definition self-referential. According to Jonathan Culler the tourist gaze reads things as signs of themselves. This is due in part to the ‘density of representations covering our world’.21 The question of authenticity in this constant state of deferral has been linked historically to the predicament of modernity and the rise of large-scale tourism. According to this thesis, varied in different nuances by MacCannell, Culler, Urry, and Frow,22 the condition of alienation constitutive of modernity (the mechanization of work, creation of large-scale urban societies and so on, along with the universal commodification of labour and goods) has bred as its antithesis the ‘invention of tradition’ and the increasing priority placed on authenticity in objects, peoples and places apparently located outside the realm of modernity. The priority of authenticity at the PCC reveals an unstable set of criteria and a quite evident inapplicability to performances. The authentification process is most successful when applied to material culture. Tourists can witness the making of tapa cloth, sample Hawaiian poi, or walk thorough the different traditional houses. However, over the decade I have been visiting the PCC, this aspect appears to be losing its appeal and prominence. Whereas the brochure issued in 1991 outlined in considerable detail the various forms of material culture demonstrated in the different villages, recent versions are dominated entirely by the performances, ranging from Music of the Islands to IMAX.23 This shift in focus appears to be counteracted by the cover photos of the brochures themselves. The 1991 brochure, featuring a grimacing Maori warrior on the cover, is couched in an unequivocally performative mode, whereas the version from 1996 suggests a focus on material culture. A recent version featuring a Tahitian dancer shifts back to performance culture again.24 If the PCC has any way of guaranteeing performance authenticity, it would be by the use of Polynesian students from Brigham Young University (BYU). This is perhaps one of the most interesting aspects of the authenticity

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discussion at the PCC. Whereas the main ‘actors’ of the cultural presentations are in the most cases actually from the islands being ‘explained’, the back-up members are not necessarily so. The BYU caters not only to Polynesian students but also to Americans and other Mormons, so it is quite normal for tourists to be poled along the canal by a Korean or a Filipino or a blond-haired young Mormon from Utah.25 The Marquesas village poses a particular problem because of the lack of representation of indigenous Marquesans at the Center and at BYU.26 In their absence, Tahitians or others play Marquesans. It is also not unusual for there to be a considerable interchange between the villages as Andrew Ross notes: [M]y impression was that the Polynesians who work there were comfortably ambivalent about the overlap between (a) their given performing identities as Tongans, Samoans, Hawaiians, etc.; (b) the faux identities that they often take on as performers – Tongans playing the part of Marquesans, because of the shortage of Marquesan students, Samoans playing Hawaiians just for the hell of it, and Filipinos playing the role of Polynesians in the night show, because sometimes any brown body will do on stage (Maori, a little too haole in appearance and accent, are something of a problem).27 This flexible and eclectic practice suggests that something close to a ‘generic’ Polynesian underlies the idea of authenticity at the PCC. While this may be an inappropriate basis for establishing any kind of authenticity for objects, it is evidently quite practicable for performance. This discrepancy between the two modes of perception may be explained in terms of the semiotic difference between the material and performative sign. The performative sign is understood to embrace both clearly fictionalized forms of presentation (such as ‘Ancient Legends of Polynesia’) as well as the cultural presentations that are not clearly framed in a theatrical mode.28 Authenticity in performances for tourists results in especially contradictory framing procedures because of the potential slippage between sign and referent, a potential which is fully exploited by the Samoan and Tongan performers as I have tried to demonstrate. Distinctions between staging and authenticity, fiction and reality – at the heart of Western aesthetic theory and theatrical performance – do not usually pose any phenomenological problems for the analyst, but tourist performances, as the examples examined suggest, raise basic questions of epistemological framing by continually disrupting the binary oppositions that habitually define performance.29 The shifting frames of authenticity in touristic performances can be illustrated by a further example from the Pacific. Although from Papua New Guinea rather than from the PCC or another Polynesian site, this example is especially illuminating because it allows us to extend the investigation of obviously staged ‘hotel entertainment’ to those fictionalized real encounters that present themselves initially as spontaneous discoveries. Frederik

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‘As You Always Imagined It’: The Pacific as Tourist Spectacle 189

This assertion of collective male power had lasted about twenty minutes when one of the hazers said in pidgin: ‘The law is finished now; we will stand up and the tourists will take pictures.’ Then all four of the hazers moved behind the initiates and stood in a row, facing the tourists, who were then instructed: ‘Clap your hands. The rule of Kwolimopan [the crocodile god] is over; it’s finished now; we have completed it. OK, you can take pictures of us now. Clap your hands.’ The tour guide informed the tourists in English that they should applaud and had been invited to take pictures. The tourists did applaud, and most took a picture or two – although with some reluctance. They seemed annoyed and confused at this point. The hazers had suddenly defined the performance as staged, at least in part, for tourists rather than for the Chambri themselves and this called into question its authenticity [my italics].30 Although the initiation ritual was ‘genuine’ in the sense that the Chambri were doing it for themselves – the initiates went through an efficacious rite – the presence of the tourists (and two anthropologists) meant that the ritual attained a certain quality of self-reflexivity: this became quite clear when onlookers were asked to become spectators by applauding. This not untypical example from the field of tourist performance helps to refocus my earlier posed central question about the putative opposition between ‘staging’ and ‘authenticity’. The force of Errington and Gwertz’s argument rests on the idea that the two concepts are basically self-excluding. The tourists, at least, appear to agree, but the actions of the Chambri and their attitude to their own rituals suggests a less dichotomous way of thinking. In the specific situation of performance, the discourse of authenticity becomes most prone to deconstruction. As the account of the Chambri ritual demonstrates, the performance was paradoxical because it confused two frames. The request for applause drew attention to the position of the tourists. Various observer positions would be possible here, depending on the frame: among them are spectator, witness or bystander. In the theatre, spectatorship is carefully framed by the generic expectations, but the tourists at the Chambri ritual thought that they were witnesses rather than spectators of the ritual and thus they assumed the fiction of non-presence. The Chambri, on the other hand, did not allow this fiction. Instead, they broke the illusion of the fourth wall by inviting the ‘non-present’ tourists to make their presence felt in an explicitly theatrical way (i.e., in accordance with

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Errington and Deborah Gwertz, the two anthropologists present at an initiation ritual among the Chambri people of Papua New Guinea to which tourists – for a price – were privy, note that when the tourists were told they could clap and take photographs because the ritual was over, they were annoyed and consternated:

190 Pacific Performances

∗

∗

∗

The example of the Chambri suggests that any discussion of theatricality and authenticity in the context of tourist performance must address the spectator position as much as the actual performance object itself. Highly complex tourist performances such as those offered by the Polynesian Cultural Center are complex precisely because they seek to cater to the expectation of authenticity and to provide commercially successfully tourist entertainment. Seen in this way, the authenticity ‘content’ of the performance witnessed is a combination of the spectator position and the performance strategies employed. The Chambri ritual and the Samoan ‘cultural presentation’ are comparable to the extent that they construct a tourist gaze just as much as the tourist gaze constructs them. Both performances assume a knowledge of the Western (or Asian) other and modify their codes to meet the perceived patterns of expectation. By so doing, the performances reveal the deeply entrenched ‘framedness’ of authenticity within the tourist gaze. The search for and expectation of authenticity at the PCC or in any other form of tourist performance generates a discourse on the notion itself. As I have shown, the position of the theatrical spectator is just one of a number of positions that the viewer might occupy. The shifts between such positions – from witnesses of a ritual to spectators at a performance or observers of an ethnographical demonstration – invite constant redefinitions of fiction and authenticity or of fictionalization and authentication. Because it ironically quotes discourses on Polynesia in general and Samoans in particular, the ‘staged exprimitivism’ of the Samoan show deconstructs the very notion of cultural authenticity it purports to be presenting.31 In the same way ‘authentic’ Tongan drumming is refracted back to the tourists via other tourists of varied ethnic composition in Polynesian fancy-dress. Despite strict management control and a market-driven desire to satisfy the tourist market, performances involving the self-representation of the ethnic ‘other’ can and do employ various subtle forms of semiotic deconstruction whereby the spectatorial patterns of expectation are parodied and ironized. In these cases ‘tourist’ performance can provide the tourist gaze with the deconstruction it deserves. Tourist performances can therefore provide potential for agency and self-representation, although many spectators may be quite oblivious to the dynamics at work. As we shall see in the next and final chapter, a number of the strategies employed at the PCC have been adapted in the contemporary Pacific theatre and performance movement, which is redefining the notion of Pacific performance.

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the conventional role of the spectator in Western theatre). By thus drawing attention to the position of the viewer, the Chambri destroyed or at least seriously destabilized the authenticity of their own ritual for the Western tourists.

8

As we saw in the last chapter, the Polynesian Cultural Center is predicated on a number of practices that are characteristic of cross-cultural theatricality. As constructed in the Center, Pacific cultures are presented primarily by performative metonymy. A number of putative traditional performances provide a citable set of recognizable and appealing signs of cultural authenticity. Since the villages stage a prelapsarian Polynesia pre-dating Western contact the representational function of these metonymies is in actual fact ahistorical and has little or no connection with contemporary Pacific cultures. It is only in the subversive performances of the Samoan and Tongan villages that this discrepancy is made manifest when the touristic expectations of a mythologized Pacific are refracted back to the spectators. In this fictional theatre of an authentic Polynesian past the actualities of contemporary Pacific cultures are intentionally obscured. Yet in one respect the PCC is characteristic of contemporary Pacific culture and its new performance practices. At its Hawai‘i location it displays different Polynesian cultures outside their islands of origin. This state of translocation is characteristic of both performance and wider cultural experience as island cultures relocate into diasporas around the Pacific rim of which Hawai‘i is one of the main centres. While Hawai‘i remains the undisputed touristic centre of the Pacific, the theatrical centre from the point of view of the growing theatre and performing arts movement is New Zealand. The new Pacific theatre and performance forms emerging in contemporary New Zealand constitute perhaps the most recent significant development in New Zealand theatre at the turn of the century. It is a theatre of remembering focused on rediscovering cultural roots in order to fashion new and sometimes multiple identities. Although connected with the modern world of interculturalism and globalized patterns of movement and exchange, the old routes and roots remain present. While the centre of the movement and the most continuous body of work appear at the moment to be New Zealand-based, significant productions and events also take place in Honolulu, Sydney and Pago Pago. This 191

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific

‘lack’ of centre is of course constitutive of diasporic experience and cultural production. As a movement, Pacific theatre seems to evince all the hallmarks of postcolonial theatre as it has been defined in recent years.1 In respect to its formal construction, it is heavily syncretic, combining indigenous Pacific performance forms and rituals within the framework of European dramaturgical conventions.2 In his now ‘classic’ work Think of a Garden, the Samoan-American playwright and television scriptwriter John Kneubuhl explores memory as the sinew of diasporic identity. The performance Tatau – Rites of Passage, created by the Christchurch-based group Pacific Underground and the Australian community theatre group Zeal Theatre, explores the notion of ritual reincorporation – involving actual tattooing on stage – as a means of transcending dislocation and repairing the ruptures caused by it. The execution of a tattoo on stage pushes a play like Tatau over the accepted boundaries of theatre and into the realm of performance art.3 The transgressive nature of such performance is, however, by no means restricted to a singular work, but can be regarded as a characteristic feature of contemporary Pacific performance. Two other genres will be addressed in this chapter. Throughout the Pacific Rim, Polynesian transvestites, best known by their Samoan name fa’afafine, have become an accepted part of nightclub entertainment. They first established themselves in centres such as Auckland or Sydney but are now an important feature of local performance culture between fashion shows and cabaret, and have even featured in the international theatre festivals. Cabaret and stand-up comedy are the genres that frame the now internationally established act Naked Samoans, formed by Pacific Underground, the same group that created Tatau. In their cabaret-style they address the immigrant experience directly, while making use of the traditional Samoan comic tradition fale aitu. The final example is the New Zealand-based performance group Mau, directed by Samoan-born dancer and director Lemi Ponifasio. Their success at international theatre and art festivals (they have featured at both the Venice Biennale and the Theater der Welt festival in Germany) suggests that because of the diasporic condition Pacific performance echoes both locally and globally.

Pacific diasporas The diasporic experience is of course by no means particular to Pacific Island migrants. In fact, it has as a term only very recently been applied to them. Originally coined in the late nineteenth century with reference to the scattered Jewish populations around the world, the notion has gradually been extended to other migrant populations that have reconstituted themselves in metropolitan centres. James Clifford terms the mental and emotional links between people from the same cultural background, but living in different parts of the world as ‘transnational networks’.

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He goes on: ‘diasporist discourses reflect the sense of being part of an ongoing transnational network that includes the homeland, not as something simply left behind, but as a place of attachment in a contrapuntal modernity.’4 Clifford’s explanation can be aligned to definitions often applied to postcolonial Indian authors who live and work in Western centres far from their country of origin.5 For Pacific Islanders, geographical distance is and has been a condition determined by the islands themselves, scattered as they are across thousands of miles. The largescale movements of emigrants to metropolitan centres such as Auckland, Sydney, Honolulu or Los Angeles since the 1960s has led not surprisingly to the establishment of just such transnational networks. The plays and productions of Pacific authors and theatre artists in the 1990s are situated on these networks and respond accordingly by attempting to create new mental spaces at the interstices of traditional and postmodern ways of life. A number of factors suggest that the term ‘Pacific diaspora’ is an apt one from both a historical and contemporary perspective. The experience of cultural repression during the period of colonial rule was certainly a common one, and led in most cases to so-called ‘split’ identities in which European culture was superimposed on the traditional one. The degree of cultural and linguistic colonization, however, varied greatly between islands, ranging from almost total destruction in the case of some Hawaiian islands to the complete retention of language and most cultural forms in Western Samoa and Tonga. In this sense Pacific histories run parallel to the wider trajectories of postcolonial histories and should certainly be considered part of these. Following the granting of independence to many islands in the 1960s, the debates on cultural identity characteristic of most postcolonial societies also emerged in the Pacific. These were initiated by academics, intellectuals and writers such as the Samoan poet and novelist Albert Wendt and the Tongan scholar and writer Epeli Hau’ofa. The notion of cultural identity is of course a notorious one, affected as it is by colonial constructions, repression, remembrance and forgetting, and by a ‘bad press’ in the context of poststructuralist debates. Yet, it has emerged in the 1970s and 1980s as a new force against the background of migration and the experience of displacement. Beyond specific historical and geographical criteria, diasporic identity emerges as predominantly a mental space shared by like-minded individuals. Pacific Islanders perceive parallels between the different cultures, despite historical and geographical distances. For this reason many of the plays produced by Pacific Island writers and directors return to the same themes.6 The diasporic centres are at present New Zealand and Hawai‘i, at least for the anglophone Pacific. This dominant position is linked to the large Pacific Island populations in these centres plus the possibility, in New Zealand theatre, of modest subsidy for productions. It is well known, in the Pacific at least, that Auckland is the largest Polynesian city in the world, and

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific 193

that Honolulu offers a creative mix, not just of Polynesian cultures but of other ethnic groups as well. As most islands have very fragile economies, the pressure to travel and work in these centres is very great indeed. In the case of New Zealand, the major immigrant groups stem from Samoa, Tonga, the Cook-Islands and Nieue.7 Whereas the Maori in New Zealand began to articulate themselves through the medium of theatre in the 1970s,8 Pacific Islanders have only recently begun to write and produce plays. It is most often the case that those involved are second generation, having being born and raised in New Zealand.

The play of memory The spiritual father of Pacific Island theatre is John Kneubuhl, a dramatist and scriptwriter of mixed American, Samoan and German descent. Raised in American Samoa, educated in Hawai‘i and at Yale University where he studied playwriting under Thornton Wilder, Kneubuhl embarked on a successful career as a television scriptwriter in the 1950s and 1960s, until he made a conscious decision in 1968 to return to the Pacific. From then until his death in 1991, he divided his time between American Samoa and Hawai‘i. His last play Think of a Garden (1990) is an extremely complex play both in formal and thematic terms, intertwining as it does autobiography, political history, Samoan mythology and family conflicts. In formal terms, it bears the imprint of Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, as the action is framed by a narrator and negotiates continual interchanges between the past and present. The action is set in American Samoa in the late 1920s and revolves around the experiences of a young boy, David, a child of mixed American and Samoan descent, on the psychological level and the Mau rebellion in Western Samoa on the political level. The action is framed by the commentary of a narrative voice representing both David as an adult and Kneubuhl himself. In keeping with his bi-cultural background, David leads as it were a double life. At home English is spoken, except with the servants. At the same time he identifies deeply with the indigenous culture of his mother, especially with the spirit of the ancestors. Despite Christianity, the world of spirits and the dead, the aitu, play a central role in Samoan life, as Kneubuhl’s narrator in Think of a Garden points out: Writer: In the huts, those villagers who owned mirrors covered them with cloth – especially if there was a moon – for the glitter of glass, especially moon-struck glass, brought the dead out of their graves, searching for their human images – us – their children – their grandchildren’s children – their otherness which is themselves.    In the old days, this was a time for prayer, appeasing them. In my boyhood, we gathered

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific 195

Neither his American father nor his well-educated Samoan mother have any part in these or the official vespers, preferring to remain home and read. David receives religious instruction from a young Catholic priest, Brother Patrick, who observes that his charge has begun speaking to the dead, whereupon he warns the parents: Patrick: No gravestone – but a little boy’s grave.    Davey spoke to it. I was too far away to hear. Then he would listen, sort of. And, of a sudden, he would laugh. Then listen. And speak. And listen. And laugh. And so it went, for almost an hour    Then he came home.    (a longish pause) I’m that worried about him. (15) David’s best friend turns out to be the spirit of a dead boy called Veni. At the end of the second scene Kneubuhl gives the boy Veni a voice, which turns out to be that of David’s alter ego, the narrator-writer. By conflating the spirit of the dead boy with the narrator-writer, Kneubuhl creates a complex representational form. It is neither a ‘mask’, the usual sign and convention for spirits (although one without any grounding in Samoan performance traditions) nor a disembodied voice. It is rather David’s alter ego manifested as an acoustic figuration who speaks only Samoan in his direct interaction with the boy: Writer: He sat on the ground instead of the bench. I sat beside him David: Veni    Writer: (Always softly) ‘Oa’u. [It is me] ¯ [Can we go?] David: ‘E mafai ‘ona t¯ao? Writer: ‘I fea? [Where?] David: ‘I le mea na ‘¯e sau ai. [From where you came.] (50) Thus Kneubuhl opens a space for different interpretations, which oscillate between Samoan cultural tradition and a psychologically motivated projection or dream figure. Another absent figure provides the link between the private concerns of the characters and their involvement in political events, the other thread of the play. The political background of Think of a Garden charts the failure of the Mau movement, a political opposition to the New Zealand colonial government in Western Samoa that emerged in the 1920s. The climax of the play is the murder of the Mau leader Tamasese, a cousin of David’s mother, who is shot down by the New Zealand police on Christmas Eve 1929. Thus the birthday of Christianity marks the death knell of the Samoan freedom movement. The catastrophic events of Christmas Eve produce a turning point not only on a political but also on a private level, in that they accentuate the differing

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in our thatch-roofed Samoan hut across the road, by the seashore, for vespers.9

identity conflicts. These, however, run across rather than along ethnic lines. Irreconcilable differences between the parents, submerged until this point, surface and lead to their separation. The American father devotes himself to fighting for Samoan rights before the League of Nations, whereas his Samoan wife wants no involvement with the issue whatsoever. She refuses to channel her deep personal loss into any kind of political commitment. The identity conflict of the boy David climaxes in his rejection by the local Samoans, who pelt him with stones. He reacts to this traumatic experience by painting himself brown so as to reduce the difference in his visual appearance from the other Samoan boys. Thereupon, his parents resolve to send him to a boarding-school in New Zealand. As he leaves, his classmates sing a song that their parents sing at the graveside, as the narrator relates: ‘For, as the Brothers had said, my going was a dying away from them and the village’ (95–6). The divided parental house, a divided childhood and finally a divided cultural identity are for many Pacific authors a common experience. For the authorial self, Think of a Garden is a play of and about memory and a struggle against forgetting. These sentiments are expressed in emotionally loaded terms by the Samoan house-keeper Pito who bids farewell to the boy and whose words echo in the memory of the adult. Her words are spoken in Samoan and retranslated by the author through the filter of his memory. The play ends with different images of exile and diasporic existence. The boy David is in exile at his New Zealand boarding-school, while his father leaves for Europe to fight for the Samoan cause there. Although his mother remains in her native Samoa, her alienation from her indigenous culture and identification with the colonial one ultimately create a state of internal exile. Think of a Garden is emblematic of the diasporic condition of Pacific theatre, and not just on account of its preoccupation with displacement and memory. Its conditions of production are equally symptomatic of the postcolonial Pacific. It was first workshopped in New Zealand in 1991. The official premiere took place in Pago Pago, American Samoa in 1992, and was followed by two major productions in New Zealand (1993 in Auckland and 1995 in Wellington10 ). It has since been produced in Honolulu (1995). The places of production – New Zealand, Samoa and Hawai‘i – retrace the key coordinates of the Polynesian triangle and represent the main routes and passages of the Pacific diaspora.

Ritual reincorporation A different form of cultural recollection was developed in the performance of Tatau – Rites of Passage. It was created as a co-production between the New Zealand-based group Pacific Underground and the Australian theatre company Zeal Theatre in 1996 with highly acclaimed performances in both countries. Pacific Underground terms itself a ‘Polynesian theatre and music company’ and was formed in 1992 specializing in ‘telling the stories of

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Pacific Islanders who live in Aotearoa’.11 The action is framed by a tattooing ceremony with which the performance commences and which is carried out throughout the performance backstage. Tattooing as a rite of passage is an important aspect of Samoan tradition by which young men are initiated into the village community. The custom of tattooing in Samoa has had a chequered history, as it has had throughout Polynesia. It was intensely opposed by the missionaries, who rightly saw in it an integral part of traditional Polynesian religious culture. Although they never succeeded in banning it entirely, it was forced to go underground to some extent, moving from a celebrated public to a more secluded private ritual. The recent revival of interest in tattooing and its increasing widespread practice is partially a result of the rediscovery of the tradition among diaspora Samoans in New Zealand, where tattooing became increasingly important from the 1970s onwards as a means of cultural reassertion. From the renaissance of the practice in New Zealand there has been a follow-on effect on mainland Samoa. The integration of a tattooing ceremony into a theatrical performance posed a number of crucial and controversial questions. It involved a redefinition of frames in Goffman’s sense of the term. The ritual ceremony, which is normally performed in a private space, is transported into the public arena of the theatre, and the theatrical frame, which is determined by its capacity to fictionalize all elements within clearly defined spatial parameters, is destabilized by the presence of a real ceremony. The scenes at the beginning and the end of the evening are marked by actual events: real pain and nonactors. Those involved in the ceremony – the tattoo artist and his ‘human canvas’ – are not actors, although certainly performers in a broader sense. Whereas Goffman assumes that switching or confusing frames results in a negative experience for the participants, the performance Tatau produced precisely the opposite result.12 The tension produced by the authentic ceremony has an undeniable effect on the ‘subjunctive’ frame of the theatrical performance (Figure 23). The wooden tapping of the tattooing instruments provides an audible ‘drum beat’ throughout the evening so that its rhythm becomes an important structuring element of the play, even though it has no direct bearing on the narrative level. In a certain sense, the tattooing ceremony can be said to ‘authenticate’ the fictional story presented on stage as it provides a frame of a different kind for the events depicted. In the original Auckland production, further authenticity was added by the fact that the ‘body canvas’, Vic Tamati, had provided much of the material for the fictional story being enacted. He in effect listened to his own story each night while being tattooed. The play Tatau tells the story of a family of Samoan immigrants to New Zealand in a succession of short scenes. It relates closely the actual historical situation between the 1940s and 1990s: the parents meeting to the rhythms of swing music of the 1940s, the son Floyd’s discrimination at school (‘Bring your people up to British standards!’ is the schoolteacher’s slogan), the

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific 197

Figure 23 Tatau – Rites of Passage, 1996. Tattooing ceremony at the beginning of the play Source: Photo: Rob Dilley. By permission of the Zeal Theatre and Pacific Underground, unpublished Artistic Report, 1996.

mother’s incomprehension when he is expelled from school; his spell in Borstal. After his release and return home, he is beaten by other family members who cannot comprehend his failed integration. The family disintegrates: the daughter becomes pregnant and Floyd joins a youth gang who tattoo themselves as a sign of their group identity and even rob their own families. Only at this point does the family as a whole realize its disastrous state of loneliness and alienation so that the process of reintegration can begin. The play ends as Floyd prepares himself for the pe’a, the tattooing ritual for Samoan men, the prerequisite for full integration into Samoan society. The boy’s mother explains to her son the significance of the ritual: There is a pe and he’s flying around and around and under the wing of the pe, he’s carrying his children. And when he’s flying in the trees or crawling on the ground, the children is under the wing so it can protect the children, because that is what he is doing all the time. He is always looking after the young one. That is what Daddy is always trying to do to you, he is always trying to protect you.13 In his study of Polynesian tattooing, the English anthropologist Alfred Gell provides two explanations for the term pe’a. The first refers to the flying fox

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(pe), the second to the expression ‘la ta sau pe’a’, ‘You must get yourself a tattoo’. The flying fox is the fruit bat found throughout the Pacific. It has a special place in Samoan mythology as it symbolizes protection – females envelop their young with their wings – as well as strength. The wings of the flying fox are therefore incorporated into the upper half of the tattoo, where they have the same symbolical significance: The resting flying fox is archetypally a ‘two-skinned’ animal, protecting itself with a natural cloak from which only its head is seen to emerge. It seems entirely appropriate, therefore that the flying fox, wrapped in its wings, should be metaphorically associated with the wrapping of the body with a tattoo.14 According to Gell, the pe’a is perceived as a process of social completion. The male is ‘sealed’ as it were and becomes a fully closed entity. Only once a man has been completed in this way can he take his place in Samoan society.15 Older Samoans in New Zealand criticized the public exhibition of the tattooing ceremony in the frame of a play. Ony when the production team secured the participation of the respected tattoo artist Tafuga, Su’a Paolo Suluape II, could the New Zealand Samoan community accept the public performance of the ritual. He was a member of an acknowledged tattooing family in Samoa going back four generations, which has done much to preserve the tradition. At the end of the evening, the ‘human canvas’, the tattooed person, addressed the audience: This pe’a, it grows on me and will be completed tonight. It’s had a profound effect and I have gone through all sorts of emotions and I am finding myself again, that’s it. I didn’t know what a Samoan should be.    It has been a real life experience for me. I am not an actor I am just the canvas.    I wanted some changes in my own personal life. More than that. You’ve not only got to talk the talk, but walk the walk as well. And it’s a heavy decision for me. But I have walked the other way and it is time to walk the other way. This pe’a is the other way. Thank you for coming tonight. (He hobbles off the stage assisted by the tattooer and his assistants.) In this speech, the ‘human canvas’ establishes an analogy between himself and the character of the son in the play, who at the end is ready for initiation by tattooing. The tattooing on stage occupies only a fraction of the time the whole process requires. During the two-week performance season the body is decorated throughout the day, so that by the end of the run the ritual can be completed. In this way the spectator is witness to a genuine ‘work in progress’. Although the son is already marked by other tattoos – a result of his involvement with street gangs and imprisonment – these signs mark him

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific 199

as a social outsider. The Samoan initiation ritual, on the other hand, has precisely the opposite function. It enables an individual to be fully socially integrated. Applied to the situation of Samoan diaspora in New Zealand, it means that the son is prepared to assume responsibility for himself and Samoans in New Zealand. It symbolizes the assumption of responsibility for the comunitas in the diaspora.

The Pacific is burning Every Friday or Saturday night somewhere in the Pacific Rim cities of Auckland, Sydney, Honolulu, but also in the local centres such as Apia in Western Samoa, Pago Pago in American Samoa, in Nuku‘alofa, capital of the Kingdom of Tonga, one can encounter a performance of a special kind. Young Polynesian men dressed as glamorous women will swish along the catwalk to catcalls and cheers of encouragement in what can be regarded as a particularly Polynesian performance form. These ‘beauty pageants’ or in some cases fashion shows go under names such as Miss Galaxy, Rosa Pasifika, or Style Pasifika. Alternatively, similar performances can be found in nightclub and cabaret acts such as Cindy of Samoa or Diva Siva. Wherever they take place, these performances are transgressive and ironical, as they play outrageously with popular clichés regarding the Pacific and especially Polynesian women. Many Polynesian societies support a category of male persons who not only comport themselves, and frequently dress, like women but identify with the female sex to the extent that they seek relationships with ‘normal’ men. This identification with the opposite sex frequently begins before puberty and such individuals are often labelled as such by their extended family or village. Local terms include m¯ahu¯ in Tahiti and Hawai‘i, fakaleiti in Tonga or fa’afafine in Samoa. The latter translate literally as ‘in the fashion of a woman’.16 Both emic and etic commentators are in agreement that Western labels such as homosexuality or transvestism cannot encompass the Polynesian categories, although overlap certainly exists. Fa’afafine may indeed cross-dress but many do not. They have little or no interest in sexual contacts with other fa’afafine. Sex changes are rare, but this may be due to economics and opportunity rather than a fundamental opposition to such a permanent alteration. Some fa’afafine actually relinquish the identity later in life when they assume important social roles.17 From the earliest contacts Europeans were fascinated and repulsed by an overt behaviour that seemed to openly condone ‘sodomy’. As Polynesia was Christianized the behaviour seemed to disappear from Western discourse (but presumably not from the societies themselves) only to reappear in the late twentieth century. The last two decades have witnessed an unprecedented growth in popular media attention paid to transgendered people in Polynesian societies. From New Zealand to Germany, France to Australia, documentaries, short stories,

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novels, newspaper and magazine articles have emerged, aiming to ‘document’ the lives of individuals, or to represent ‘the category’ of Polynesian transgenderism. The phenomenon is the most recent addition to the history of Western preoccupations with the Pacific and more specifically Polynesia. ¯ hitherto known Over the past ten years terms such as fa’afafine and m¯ahu, only to local people and a small number of anthropologists, have begun to enter popular parlance in Pacific Rim countries and cities with Polynesian migrant populations. One of the main reasons behind this sudden surge in ‘popularity’ is a steady and growing media presence, particularly of fa’afafine, the Samoan term. The term ‘media presence’ is understood here in its widest sense to include newspaper and magazine articles, television documentaries, theatre and other forms of live performances, as well as an Internet presence. It is necessary to interrogate this ‘global’ interest in what was until recently a very local phenomenon. It is necessary to investigate the tension between structures of representation and ‘locations of agency’ on the part of the represented ‘objects’. How do transgendered persons use such performances for their own purposes? How do transgendered persons represent themselves by performative means in new polysemic contexts which cannot be grasped just by elucidation of cultural semantics along the axes of ‘traditional’ versus ‘modern’. Indeed, the notion of ‘tradition’, as will be demonstrated, is itself a highly contested one in the contexts to be discussed here, with transgendered persons and their performative practices occupying a crucial nexus in current debates. As we shall see, the overt theatricality that these performances employ follows a clear strategy of performative citationality – to borrow Judith Butler’s term – whereby the subject of performance is a complex of clichés and perceived projections that are refracted back in the form of parodic comic distortion. The very first contacts between Europeans and Pacific peoples seemed to have involved moments of gender trouble. Although of doubtful veracity, Diderot relates in his Supplément au voyage de Bougainville the story of an officer’s cabin boy who is discovered by the Tahitians to be a young woman: ‘Undiscovered by any of the crew, during the whole long voyage, the Tahitians had divined her sex at the first glance.’18 Diderot’s anecdote is designed to illustrate the unmediated insight of the Tahitian philosophes nus and to provide a typical example of rococo titillation in the tradition of his own erotic novel, Les Bijoux indiscrets. More directly ethnographic and theatrical is an anecdote related by George Mortimer, an officer of the marines on the ship Mercury during a stay at Tahiti in 1789: I cannot help relating a very droll occurrence that happened in consequence of one of their nocturnal Heivas [i.e., dance performances]. Attracted by the sound of drums, and a great quantity of lights, I went on shore one night with two of our mates to one of these exhibitions. We seated ourselves among some of our friends, whom we found there;

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when one of the gentlemen who accompanied me on shore took it into his head to be very much smitten with a dancing girl, as he thought her; went up to her, made her a present of some beads and other trifles, and rather interrupted the performance by his attentions; but what was his surprise when the performance was ended, and after he had been endeavouring to persuade her to go with him on board our ship which she assented to, to find this supposed damsel, when stripped of other theatrical paraphernalia, a smart dapper lad. The Otaheiteans on their part enjoyed this mistake so much, that they followed us to the beach with shouts and repeated peals of laughter; and I dare say this event has served as a fine subject for one of their comedies.19 This is the earliest reference to the special connex between m¯ahu¯ (the Tahitian equivalent of fa’afafine) and performance. From the earliest contacts, we also find, however, a construction of the Polynesian body in feminine or androgynous terms on the part of Western travellers. Even Johann Forster, the German naturalist on Cook’s second voyage whose prose is tersely scientific, described Tahitian men as ‘beautifully feminine’.20 Recently, scholars have begun to reread the classic texts of South Seas cultural encounters such as Melville and Gauguin to rediscover previously overlooked homoerotic structures of desire.21 Most other references in the early contact literature are to the sexual implications of the category, to what early visitors and particularly missionaries saw as overt sodomy.22 It is no doubt due to the influence of the latter that there are, as Niko Besnier has noted, very few records of fa’afafine in the post-missionary years. The category does not really resurface until the post-war period. In the late 1970s, Polynesian transgenderism began to slowly emerge as a performative phenomenon. Locally, fa’afafine, it seems, had always been part of family structures, but their sexual proclivities of course had not endeared them to the missionaries and then later to local churches. Anthropologists had been aware of the category but not accorded it much attention. The first detailed discussion was provided in the early 1950s by Bengt and Marie Daniellson in their now classic perpetuation of the South Seas myth, Love in the South Seas.23 In 1978 they co-authored an article in the Pacific Islands Monthly that explicitly documented the transition from a covert domestic category to an extroverted performance phenomenon.24 In Tahiti, Tonga and Samoa the authors observed fa’afafine increasing their public visibility through beauty pageants but also nightclubs. Until the mid-1990s fa’afafine were a local phenomenon or present on the fringes of Pacific island diasporas in larger cities such as Auckland, Sydney or Los Angeles. This situation changed within a few years as fa’afafine literally gained centre stage in a number of high profile stage and media productions.25 In 1995 the International New Zealand Arts Festival commissioned Pacific Underground writers and performers Oscar Kightley and David Fane to write

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a play about fa’afafine in collaboration with the Samoan actor and director Nat Lees, who had attained prominence with his much-lauded production of John Kneubuhl’s Think of a Garden. The result, A Frigate Bird Sings, premiered in March 1996 in Wellington during the festival. In 16 scenes, A Frigate Bird Sings develops the story of Vili ‘Atafa, a Samoan fa’afafine in his mid-thirties and eldest son of a Samoan family living in Auckland. The play revolves around familial conflicts with Vili’s younger brother Sione and alcoholic father Tapili. After the death of their mother, Vili has assumed the role of family caregiver, and increasingly nurse, for their father who is devastated by the death of his wife. As his domestic duties increase, Vili becomes increasingly drawn to the bohemian lifestyle of two older fa’afafine, Dejavu and Shaninqua, who provide orientation in the world of transgendered existence between sexes and cultures. Vili’s affair with a young straight palagi (European), Hugh, a rugby friend of his brother Sione, ultimately fails as Hugh realizes the impossibility of such a liaison. The play, and more so its acclaimed production by director Nat Lees, eschews a straight naturalistic ‘analysis’ of a social ‘problem’. Rather it interweaves wider questions of diasporic existence – the loss of home and partial integration in the host country – with the specific problems related to fa’afafine, who are, as it were, subjected to double discrimination. Samoan tradition, as represented by the father, prevents them from actively presenting their female orientation to the outside world, while the host society discriminates against them as Samoans and at best tolerates their transvestite persona. The questions of sexuality posed by fa’afafine, however, play only a minor role compared to the complexities of cultural adjustment and integration faced by the immigrant family. In this respect, the father is a failure: he is unable to adjust after the death of his wife, and is obsessed with a growing nostalgia for the idealized Samoa of his childhood. The ‘straight’ son Sione works towards integration via rugby. In this oppositional structure, Vili, the fa’afafine, takes on a number of liminal positions. As eldest son and ersatz ‘mother’, he is forced into feminine and masculine roles. He must also negotiate his fa’afafine identity in the context of a society that does not recognize the category. The play opens with a somewhat surreal overture in which Vili hallucinates disconnected phrases that will feature prominently throughout the play. It culminates in a mock version of Samoan genealogical oratory: ‘I am Vili ‘Atafa, son of Tapili and Siana Atafa, brother of Sione. I am the provider and the oppressed. I am the caretaker and the teacher. I am the role model and embarrassment. I am fa’afafine.’26 The paradoxes in the speech – ‘the provider and the oppressed    the role model and embarrassment’ – are central to the play’s approach, which locates the central character in the very sexual and cultural ‘inconsistencies’ that contribute to the appeal fa’afafine continue to exert on Western audiences. In this reading, the fa’afafine seem

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to be perfectly postmodern – transient, and impervious to integration into fixed models of identity. The play’s narrative follows Vili’s journey of cultural and gender self-fashioning, as s/he comes to terms with the task of being a fa’afafine in a Western society. This journey to self-consciousness is encapsulated in the final scene, when Vili importunes his father again to tell him and his brother the story of the frigate bird. The father reluctantly accedes: Dad: The bird is seen as a messenger from the gods. Whenever you saw the bird, it was like a sign that the cyclones were coming. Everyone would work to prepare for it. Sure enough the winds would come and smash the trees down, the rains make a flood and everyone would go hide, even the frigate bird would hide high up on the cliff. And when the cyclone go, so did the bird. Some see it as a blessing, some see it as a curse. Kill it and he’ll never tell anything else ever again.    When the frigate bird sings, the only song you hear is the pain of its loneliness.27 It is clear that the ambivalent mythological figure of the frigate bird functions as a metaphor for the fa’afafine in the diaspora. The double figure of a ‘blessing and a curse’ is mirrored in Vili’s final acceptance of his own role, not in unitary terms but in the realization that he lives in a state of doubleness. The final words of the play are a reprise of his opening speech but with the addition of female roles: ‘I am Vili ‘Atafa, son and daughter of Tapili and Siana Atafa, brother and sister of Sione. I am fa’afafine.’28 It is to the play’s credit that it eschews an exclusionary focus on the histrionic dimension of the fa’afafine, although this is also present in the figures of Dejavu and Shaninqua, who represent the extroverted theatricality of the drag queen. Vili, on the contrary, is primarily a character in a conventional diasporic drama that characterizes much of the work of Pacific Underground. Yet this ‘kitchen-sink’ drama is only one layer of what in production became literally multi-layered in visual terms. Director Nat Lees set out to create programmatically a ‘Pacific Island’ theatre. This pan-Polynesian concept was reflected in the set, lighting and costume design. In place of the usual clutter and appurtenances of box-set domestic drama, the story was enacted in the round on a circle of sand, which also acted as textured screen for lighting projections. Apart from a few rocks the actors performed in a totally ‘empty space’. This spatial concept, however, had only accidental parallels with the playing areas of Peter Brook’s Paris productions. As Lees explained in an interview, the set (designed by Michael Tuffery) was conceived as a counter-model to palagi theatre. Its central principle was influenced by Pacific Island cultural practices, mainly the village meetings and kava ceremonies: ‘here everyone has input, even those watching; their energy is part of the performance.’29 The translation of Pacific Island cultural practices into theatrical signs was echoed in the costuming as well. With the exception of the extroverted drag queen fa’afafine, the all-male cast all wore lava lavas, the skirt-like cloth worn

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by both sexes in the islands. This costume transcended straight naturalism, however, and was not intended as a token of cultural affinities. Semiotically, the costume created structures of opposition and analogy between sets of characters. The straight male characters wore just the lava lava and were otherwise bare-chested, whereas the fa’afafine Vili wore a shirt or blouse as an index of her female orientation. Particularly interesting in this context was the palagi character, Hugh, Sione’s rugby friend. He too wore the lava lava so there was no attempt made to distinguish him visually from the Samoan characters except for his natural skin colour. As his relationship with Vili deepened, he assumed the shirt and blouse as well to indicate a sexual, but not necessarily cultural reorientation. The mise en scène thus visually absorbed the one European character into the cultural world of the Samoan family because, as Lees stressed, the production was designed for a Pacific Island audience. This statement is of course somewhat disingenuous in the light of the commission for an international arts festival, but the programmatic position was nevertheless realised aesthetically with considerable consistency. The flamboyant drag queens Dejavu and Shaninqua reflect popular conceptions in the Pacific of fa’afafine and their cognates on other islands. In their hyberbolic campness they represent a category of theatricality that ‘performs’ both on and off the stage. The origin of these performance activities lies probably in the organization of beauty contests. Fa’afafine were before that involved in tourist performances, but not as a discrete category. As already noted, in the mid-1970s Miss Tane contests were organized in Papeete, Tahiti’s capital and the practice spread to Samoa and Tonga. These shows and established nightclub acts make explicit use of parody and irony, a performative device that lies at the heart of fa’afafine theatricality. The annual Miss Galaxy pageant in Tonga, organized in the country’s capital Nuku’alofa, provides a platform for local fakaleiti, the Tongan equivalent of the Samoan fa’afafine, to present themselves publicly in an explicitly theatrical context. This long-running performance event has been analysed in detail by the anthropologist, Niko Besnier. He argues that the contest reveals the complex cultural dynamics that merge apparently ‘global signs’ of popular culture with highly localized references: Every year, at the conclusion of month-long Heilala Festival in Nuku’alofa, the capital of Tonga (Western Polynesia), ‘men who act like women’ organize the Miss Galaxy beauty pageant, an extravagant and glamorous show of fashions, bodies, inventiveness, fantasy, and humor. One of several comparable events staged across urban centers of the island nations of the Western Pacific, Miss Galaxy has gradually become, since its inception in the early 1990s, increasingly spectacular, assertive, and innovative. Held in one of the most prominent public venues in the country, the pageant is the subject of a considerable organizational mobilization: organizers and sponsors sell tickets in advance, a designated

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hospitality business sets up a bar and brings in waiters and waitresses are hired, discjockeys secure and test sound systems, organizers decorate the hall, and workers set up seating for several thousand people. For several weeks before the two-day show, families and friends assemble and fit the contestants’ often elaborate outfits while contestants rehearse individual performances, group songs, and dance steps.30 Particularly noteworthy in this description is the cultural importance Besnier attributes to the event. Miss Galaxy, as the name suggests, is not confined to a backstreet upstairs club, but is part of the nation’s major performance festival; it takes place in a classy hotel and is attended by members of the royal family. Contestants parade in various costumes, ranging from familiar South Pacific clothing such as pule taha (ankle-length skirts and matching short-sleeved top) as a form of evening dress to highly individual and imaginative creations. As Besnier notes, each costume is ostensibly designed ‘to allow contestants to present themselves as attractive and feminine persons’, following the model of beauty pageants around the world. Indeed, the beauty pageant follows very closely the international model. There are several judged events, including an individual talent display, a brief interview and catwalk parades. More particular to transgendered beauty pageants are the interspersed entertainment routines, ‘which may include a hula performance by the emcee, a rock-and-roll standard sung by a local talent, a dance routine performed by all contestants to a popular Tahitian or disco tune, and a short classical and torch-song concert by non-transgendered performers.’31 The performances themselves, the presentation of the contestants, the inevitable interviews, the dance and song routines, however, are anything but culturally affirmative, at least in terms of the official line concerning cultural self-representation in performance. Neither are they simply imitative of perceived ‘international’ practices, but rather poised between the local and the global. To understand the cultural dynamics of such performances, it is first of all necessary to stress that Miss Galaxy is a kind of carnivalesque counterpart of the real Miss Tonga beauty contest which takes place during the same festival. The winner of this contest feeds into the Miss Universe beauty competitions and is thus part of a global network of media presence. It would, however, be reductive to see Miss Galaxy merely as a parody of its straight counterpart. Although it is highly reflexive, the pageant and the mini-performances it occasions define frames of reference beyond its sister pageant. Already the choice of costumes signals a move towards staging what Besnier has termed ‘translocality’, meaning dislocation from Tongan society ‘while at the same time remaining in place. This imagined mobility forms a useful fantasy space in both symbolic and sometimes material terms’ [emphasis added]. We see exotic costumes that have global resonances, such as a veiled damsel from an oriental harem, a flamenco number and others

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besides. But we also see a folkloristic Maori costume – this being a kind of inner Polynesian or pan-Pacific reference not immediately recognizable to the non-Pacific outsider. More subtle are the variations on Tongan traditional costume which are only decodable for the local audience. Even more striking and potentially subversive are the various performance routines. An example is of a Tongan war-dance accompanied by the prerequisite drumming, but performed and costumed in an entirely inappropriate manner. Performed in its proper context, such a dance is a typical metonym of traditionalist culture. It is usually danced by men in pre-contact attire consisting of grass skirts and headpiece plus fighting stick or burning torches. The fakaleiti version includes a spectacular leap finishing on the stage floor in very occidental splits and is clearly designed as a spoof of the traditionalist original. Less local than pan-Pacific is the Tahitian-style dance that has come to be almost metonymic of Pacific dance in general, at least as far as tourist performances are concerned. In normal contexts, the former is an exclusively male dance, the latter exclusively female. The gender-bending inherent in all cross-dressing performances of whatever provenience is extended in the Miss Galaxy context to include play with culturally specific gender conventions. In the Tongan case, these references that are communicated primarily by movement or costume also include a range of politically loaded discourses about local culture. The transgressive nature of the fakaleiti version of a Tongan war-dance can only be understood if one factors in the current discussion over traditionalism in the Pacific Island context. Generally speaking, we can say that the affirmation of traditional values on the part of island peoples has been crucial to their political survival. Traditionalist discourse has also contributed to the entrenchment of local political elites who often derive their power more from hereditary claims than democratic legitimation. Phrases such as fa’a Samoa or faka Tonga (Samoan or Tongan way) have become more than slogans and are today political and cultural credos of considerable power and influence, ranging from material questions of land title to niceties of performance practices. The ruling elites set the tone. It is therefore not surprising that occidental critical discourses which question terms such as identity or discuss questions concerning the ‘invention of tradition’, well founded as they may be, have been vigorously opposed by local intellectuals and politicians.32 The crucial question in our context pertains to the position transgendered persons occupy in these traditionalist discourses. In both the anthropological literature and the increasing number of media representations, the ‘traditional’ place of transgendered persons is a paradoxical one. On the one hand, they are apportioned a place in fa’a Samoa, for example. Here their place is in the extended family, cooking, cleaning, providing care for children or elderly parents, and also carrying out a variety of male chores as well. This ‘culture of acceptance’ is promulgated by most local voices.33 On

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the other hand, the Christian discourses have extreme difficulty in accommodating the sexual activity that fa’afafine also imply. It is now safe to say that Christianity in the Pacific, or at least in the Polynesian, context is also a traditionalist discourse, representing ‘society’ as do the ruling and economic elites. It stands usually for strong family and tribal cohesion. Within this set of values, the fa’afafine are both in and out. Their liminal position is thus both gendered and cultural and this liminality – so I would argue – enables us to scrutinize traditionalist discourses. In fact, performances such as those executed at Miss Galaxy, but also many similar ones in the Pacific diasporas in Auckland or Sydney, are framed in reflexive modes in which these very discourses are cited. In her analysis of the documentary film Paris is Burning, about black and Hispanic gay fashion balls, Judith Butler argues that the theatricality of queerness often involves the exaggerated miming of homophobic citations as a means of contesting and opposing the dominant discourse: ‘This kind of citation will emerge as theatrical to the extent that it mimes and renders hyperbolic the discursive convention that it also reverses.’34 This strategy can easily be applied to wider cultural as well as just gender contexts. With regard to performance and representation of fa’afafine, we must ask what is being cited and for what purpose? Rather than trying to account for the specific ‘identity’ of fa’afafine within the context of queer discourse, the beauty pageants and nightclub shows render hyperbolic cultural and political discourses as much as purely gender-related ones. The citationality that Judith Butler regards as characteristic of queer theatricality attains in the Pacific context an added cultural and political dimension specific to local contexts. The extrovert theatricality of the beauty pageants, shows and other performance forms welds together the ‘citationality’ of drag with the discourse of cultural identity. Currently, fa’afafine performances show all the signs of ‘going global’ in the two realms with the largest appetite for culturally rooted performance forms: tourism and the international theatre festival market. On 3 February 2002, a long article appeared in New Zealand’s major Sunday paper, the Sunday Star. Entitled ‘Having a fa’afafine time in Samoa’, the article reiterated the major points we have encountered. The article documents of course the sustained interest in the phenomenon, even in New Zealand, where some might say one has heard too much about them. The intriguing but logical thing about this article is that it appeared under the travel section and in fact was the major article in that issue. The article ends with the following information: ‘Mary Ann Percy flew to Samoa courtesy of Polynesian Airlines which flies to Samoa four times a week. She stayed at Aggie Grey’s Hotel in Apia.’35 The sustained media attention has ultimately made the fa’afafine – along with siva dancing, Aggie Grey’s Hotel and the Papasea waterfalls – into a further tourist attraction. Fa’afafine participation in the tourist industry as travel guides, hotel staff and in the entertainment business has resulted in the productive paradox where fa’afafine are

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suspended between tradition and transgression. Tourism in Polynesia still feeds off discourses of tradition and its sibling, authenticity. Fa’afafine, it would seem, have come to be another unique selling point, where they can represent something ‘traditional’ through transgressive performances that ultimately lose their transgressive potential through incorporation into touristic commodification. The fa’afafine have also entered the field of aesthetic performance. In 2003 the House of World Cultures in Berlin (Haus der Kulturen der Welt) featured in its very diverse programme a show called Diva Siva – Fa’afafine Cabaret as part of its annual performance and art festival In Transit. The festival publicity material promoted the group calling itself Island Divas as a collective of performance-artists, dancers, musicians and DJs. The ensemble fused traditional island culture with contemporary fashion, sounds and visuals. By their own account ‘feeling more at home in a nightclub than a gallery’, they presented the manifold talents of fa’afafine from Auckland and Samoa. The show was curated by Lisa Taouma, an art historian and multimedia artist of Samoan origin based in Auckland, who currently works as a director for the Pacific Islands television programme Tagata Pasifika. The performers’ biographies indicate the remarkable diversity of interests and performance styles that the show integrated. They include Shigeyuki Kihara of mixed Japanese and Samoan descent who goes by the pseudonym of ‘dusky-geisha’. She presented a piece of ‘live ethnography’, looking at the different ethnic notions of royalty and the Western idea of royalty that was brought to the islands in the Victorian era. ‘Buckwheat’, a two-metre tall, larger than life Polynesian ‘mama’, represented the urban Pacific drag queen. Siaosi Mulipola is a contemporary dancer who is also a member of the theatre group Pacific Underground. Like ‘Buckwheat’, his alter ego is ‘Shanene’ a Polynesian doyenne of drag. Siaosi’s many credits include the travelling stage production ‘Popo the Fairy Queen’ and the contemporary dance troupe Black Grace. Most of the singing was provided by the transgendered fa’afafine Lindah E, a Samoan soul and R & B singer who is also a renowned fashion designer in Auckland. In many ways, the performance consisted of a more formalized and aesthetically structured version of the popular beauty pageants and nightclub shows. The combination of fashion parades, traditional and modern dance, political cabaret and multimedia reflect current performance practices. Images of Christianity, colonialism and the Western iconographical tradition à la Gauguin were translated into the irreverent Samoan clowning genre of fale aitu. The main theme of the performance was the exotic Pacific of the Western imagination and its attendant erotic fantasies. The individual performers employed different genres, but the acts had in common a reinvention of clichés of the Pacific. They engaged in a ‘politics of parody to usurp that most popular icon of “paradise” – the dusky maiden, the South Seas siren, the hula girl, the velvet vixen’.36 Like the beauty pageants, the

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imagery and performances provided a mixture of global and local references. The most important message of the performance, however, was the forum itself. InTransit, a high-profile international performance festival in Berlin, documented the artistic coming out of the fa’afafine. Clichés of the Pacific also provide a red thread in the irreverent humour of the successful comedy group The Naked Samoans. Constituted in 1998 by Oscar Kightley and Dave Fane of Pacific Underground together with Shimpal Lelisi and Mario Gaoa, the comedy act has gone on to attain much popularity in New Zealand but also abroad where at the Edinburgh fringe festival in 2002, the show Naked Samoans The Trilogy won critical accolades. Although the group is not entirely Samoan (members also hail from Niue and Rotuma), their brand of humour has been linked to the Samoan tradition of fale aitu, lampooning sketches that have survived colonization and continue to be practiced.37 The defining aspect of the fale aitu is its practice of imitating and burlesquing people in positions of power. In pre-contact times these would have been the matai (chiefs). With the onset of colonialism, the Europeans also became a favourite subject of ridicule. Vilsoni Hereniko has documented a number of examples since the late nineteenth century of this shift in focus. A performance recorded in 1893 describes two or three clowns performing exaggerated gestures, movements and facial expressions representing Germans, the dominant settler group at the time.38 He also cites Donald Sloan, a traveller in the 1940s, who observed a comic performance of himself by a large Samoan clown ‘wearing my best white suit, my sun helmet and a pair of tennis shoes – on the wrong feet’. The wrong-footed ‘tourist’ then produced an imitation camera from a large basket held by a small boy: With great ado he pushed and twisted at imaginary knobs and gadgets on it to satisfy himself that it was ready for the first shot. He then tripped daintily to where I sat and contorted himself into every position imaginable, getting from the crowd a twitter of ill-concealed giggles, before he pressed the trigger of a big bamboo clapper, flattened on one side that was supposed to be the shutter release. It went off with a bang like a firework, and the clown fell down backwards as if he had been bowled over by the kick of a double-barreled shotgun. The crowd roared with laughter, and I joined in too, laughing till my sides ached.39 The symbol of touristic intrusion, the camera, is restaged as a mock ‘weapon’ which is turned against the visiting European. Although they draw on this type of lampooning comedy, The Naked Samoan shows transcend the sketch form and construct linear stories with interconnected characters. The first three productions followed the fortunes of the same family; the fourth show, Naked Samoans: The Trilogy, featured

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highlights from the previous three. The fifth addition, Naked Samoans Go Home (2003), creates a new set of characters while exploring the same thematic concerns. The latter focuses on the Pacific Island experience in the diaspora garnished with an irreverent attitude to inter-racial conflicts. Racist Indian shopkeepers, sacred Maori ceremonial protocol as well as the usual European prejudices against ‘dark’ people receive equally satirical treatment. The title of the most recent show, Naked Samoans Go Home, is a double entendre, referring both to the frequently heard exhortation to immigrant people and to the fact that the story begins in Samoa. The Samoan setting provides a frame for various references to the genealogy of Pacific representations that has been the subject of this book. The loosely structured story revolves around a group of six brothers who have formed a hapless guitar band (they use their guitars mainly as percussion instruments). Their main focus is on New Zealand, where ‘the streets are paved with gold’ and ‘every week they pay you for not working’.40 One brother, Sione, a better rugby player than musician, is offered the chance to go to New Zealand to try out for a professional rugby team in Ponsonby, Auckland. The second half of the show follows his ultimately tragic experiences there, as he is dismissed from the team and finally loses his job on a building site. Having pledged to be a success in New Zealand and unable to face the shame of failure, he takes his own life. The final scene is set once again in Samoa, as the other brothers gather around Sione’s body to perform the customary eulogies. The road to this lamentable end is paved, however, not only with gold and disappointment but also with many jokes, both verbal and physical. The first half of the show, set in Samoa, focuses on clichéd touristic responses to Samoa and the Pacific Islands in general. Enervation is the dominant topic of conversation. The first entrance of each character is introduced by the running gag, ‘It’s so hot here in Samoa’. The eldest of the Tapa’a brothers is a bossy ‘lesbian’ fa’afafine played by Dave Fane, who remarks impatiently while waiting for others to arrive: ‘It’s lucky we have such a hazy concept of time here in the islands.’ They reiterate the importance of their family ties – ‘All we have is family’ – while mercilessly exploiting their youngest brother who has a stammer. The latter complains that he has to do the cooking, cleaning, massage people’s feet and ‘people in Samoa have feet like dinosaurs’. The installation of a traffic light in Apia is regarded as a major sensation. The highlight of the first half is an intermezzo by the guitar band as they perform a medley of ‘original songs’ comprising tunes such as ‘She’s a maniac’ and ‘Macho Man’. This is followed by a spoof of Pacific Island tourist shows, as the brother called Boogie Wonderland demonstrates dances from the Cook Islands, Samoa, Tonga and ‘Las Vegas’ in quick succession, employing slight variations in hand and leg movements. Nevertheless, to a diaspora audience (such as the one present during the taped performance analysed here), each change is greeted with hoots of laughter based on recognition. Dave Fane as the ‘lesbian’ fa’afafine performs a delicate poi dance

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Figure 24 The ‘lesbian’ fa’afafine brother performs a Maori poi dance Source: Video print from The Naked Samoans Go Home. Courtesy of Armstrong Creative, Wellington.

from ‘the beautiful islands of New Zealand’, but ends with the characteristic Maori grimace of poked tongue ferocity. The ‘climatic climax’ is a botched rendition of the famous Samoan fire-dance (‘please do not try this at home; try it at someone else’s home’). In place of the dangerous burning sticks, the brothers can only manage a pole with red cellophane, which finally falls off. The second half of the show takes place in Auckland, New Zealand, mainly at a downtown Auckland building site. Sione has failed to make the rugby team, has lied to his brothers that he is studying medicine, whereas in fact he is now a labourer. The other workers are Pacific Islanders who are bullied by a cricket-bat wielding Maori foreman played by Oscar Kightley. The humour changes focus to highlight inter-racial prejudice. It alternates between the eschatological (Sione’s dialogue with his deceased parents) and the scatological as one character is forced to wear brown, soiled underpants over his shorts. Mainly, however, the comic attacks revolve around redefining older clichés in new configurations of power. Familiar European prejudices regarding the ‘lazy Maori’ are refocused as the Maori foreman excoriates the lazy ‘coconuts’ for their idleness and lack of education. In these scenes the Naked Samoans live up to their reputation of performing transgressive humour that is ‘fearless in the face of race, sex, political correctness and good taste’.41

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific 213

Equally fearless, but more in terms of radical artistic vision, is the New Zealand-based Mau ensemble, founded in 1995 by Lemi Ponifasio. Mau (the name derives from the Western Samoan independence movement Mau, which in Samoan means ‘vision’ or ‘belief’) was set up with the intention of creating a company of artists from various regions of the Pacific area to present stories, myths and legends of that geographical area. The director, Ponifasio, was born in Samoa and moved to New Zealand at age 15 to continue his schooling. There followed a long apprenticeship in dance and theatre in Japan, Europe and the Pacific. A formative influence was his training in Butoh, the Japanese experimental dance form that emerged in the late 1950s, which manifests itself both in terms of physical style as well as radical artistic ethos. Mau’s work is based on a spirit of collaboration with Pacific artists and performers of diverse backgrounds and performance traditions.42 The first of these collaborations, Lo’omatua (The Old Woman), was created in Apia in 1995 with local people. In 1999, Mau developed Rise with a Maori kapa haka group, and in 2000 Ponifasio collaborated with the Maori composer Hirini Melbourne to create a series of performances under the title of Bone Flute. It was presented at the eighth Festival of Pacific Arts, New Caledonia, in 2000, and after touring New Zealand, Bone Flute presented its final version, Bone Flute ivi ivi at the Adelaide Festival in 2002. In the same year, Ponifasio curated the first exhibition of Pacific theatre and scenography at the Prague Quadriennale. Boneflute ivi ivi was based around what Ponifasio regards as Pacific concepts with spiritual resonance. At its centre is the notion of va or space but in Samoan, or perhaps Ponifasio’s cosmology, it is extended to include antithetical notions such as animate and inanimate, natural and supernatural which should be seen as imbricated in one another. The production also made use of the metaphorical resonances of Polynesian architectural nomenclature. Most Polynesian languages correlate sections of a building to parts of the body: the ridge beam of a house is the ‘spine’ and the supporting rafters are the ‘ribs’. It also made use of the marae, the public place of encounter in front of the meeting-house. The production attempted to explore variations on the notion of Pulotu, the place of the dead, a parallel world of the aitu, the spirits, both benevolent and maleficent, who coexist with the living.43 Mau’s most recent and internationally acclaimed production Paradise (which premiered in Auckland in June, 2003) continues some of the themes and spatial ideas of Boneflute. It is divided into three parts, which reflect the architecture of Polynesian ceremonial encounter. The place of performance (which was adapted for various festival appearances in Venice, Stuttgart and Amsterdam as well as New Zealand) is divided into a marae-like structure. The audience is welcomed into an informal space In the setting at the Holland

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Dystopic paradise

festival in Amsterdam the audience sat on benches or on the floor and a bar had been set up behind. The performance began with a Maori powhiri, the ritual of welcome consisting of chants, dances, oratory and rubbing noses. The audience were figured as manuhiri or guests who are required to undergo a ritual of tapu removal before entering the space of the hosts (tangata whenua). In the performance I saw, the vice-chancellor of Amsterdam University and his wife, assuming the role of the manuhiri, were confronted with an intimidating challenge (wero) performed by a spear-wielding warrior. The oratory of welcome was conducted in the Kanak language of New Caledonia.

Figure 25 Dancer from Paradise by Mau ensemble, directed by Lemi Ponifasio Source: Publicity photo courtesy of Holland Festival.

On the completion of the ceremony the audience moved through a curtain into a conventional performance space where the second part, Inside the Va, took place. It began with a single figure in lava lava and white shirt seated on the stage. He was joined by another who proceeded to shave his head. High up on the left-hand side of the stage a human torso, seemingly suspended in mid-air, became visible. It was dimly lit so as to highlight the sculptural contours of the back. It was a form suspended not only in space but also between the animate and inanimate, human and non-human. The ensuing performance was structured around a narrative beginning with images from Polynesian creation myths, and culminating in colonial encounter and beyond. Almost total darkness represented the beginning of the world when in Polynesian cosmology there was eternal

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214 Pacific Performances

night caused by the seamless embrace of Rangi the sky god and Papa the earth goddess. Their son Tane forced them apart and caused light to stream into the world. Into this world emerge semi-human shapes represented by near-naked dancers trailing between their legs an umbilical cord-like appendage (Figure 25) The umbilical cord evokes associations of the whenua, the afterbirth that in Polynesian cultures is always buried near the child’s home immediately after birth in order to cement metonymically the tie between an individual and the land. The audience often has to strain to discern the shapes in the darkness. The lighting, by Helen Todd, gives them a strange monochromatic appearance, drained, as it were, of colour. The effect is sculptural, part abstraction, part Butoh and part Polynesian iconography. Composer Marc Chesterman a provides a suggestive soundtrack with an unmistakable ‘Pacific’ sound, transcending folklorism and evoking instead oceanic rhythms of wave beats and wind murmers. In one remarkable sequence, three dancers squat on aquarium-like structures that create a mirror effect evoking associations with the crouching figures of Polynesian wood carving. The arrival of the Europeans – the pig men as they are known in Kanak languages – sees a change in visual effect. The iconography becomes more blatant and less crepuscular with projections of nuclear explosions reminding us of the Pacific’s role as a nuclear testing ground. The title Paradise now alludes to the term’s dystopic history as a place of Euro-American phantasms, both scientific and artistic. In another Butoh-inspired sequence, an emaciated spirit-like female figure moves across the stage with excruciating slowness to disappear into a cavern as though the aitu were abandoning the changed world. The cultural impact of colonialism is represented by the sequence ‘Falesa’ (church). Performers line up on the front of the stage in starched white shirts and lava lavas, thoroughly Christianized and ‘praying to the white Gods’. The amplitude of white is a sight familiar on any Sunday in Western Samoa as the whole island seems to make its way to church. In the closing sequence of Part 2, ‘mirroring the Sky’, a kava bowl – the quintessential image of Polynesian ceremony – is highlighted by a spotlight centre stage. A performer scoops up the liquid in a coconut shell and moves out into the audience where he drinks it, suggesting that a reconciliation of sorts is taking place. The stage performance closes with a remarkable image as a performer crawls vertically up a wall evoking the ubiquitous gecko and, like his reptilian counterpart, suddenly disappears in a flash. The final part of the performance Poroporoaki (translated in the programme as ‘Space in Repose’) returns the audience to the benches and bar. Food and drink are provided in the Polynesian manner to farewell the guests. Performers join the spectators; speeches are made, and incantations sung to complete the communal ritual. The work of Lemi Ponifasio and Mau provides a fitting completion to this book, as a performance such as Paradise draws together many of the strands and concerns this study has dealt with. It stages – quite literally – cross-cultural encounter by adapting Polynesian ceremonial protocol to

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific 215

provide a frame in which spectators encounter the embedded performance. While the framing performance is mainly Maori in origin, the aesthetics of the embedded performance eschew clear cultural reference. On a formal level, there is little to suggest a ‘Pacific’ style. Yet thematically, the whole piece, as the title suggests, is an exploration of Pacific history from mythic origin to postcolonial present, evoked through aural and visual images of remarkable suggestiveness. The ceremonial encounters enacted here echo those that Captain Cook and the first explorers experienced 200 years ago. The ensemble’s success on the international festival circuit suggests that, above and beyond the usual demand for novelty that the festival economy demands, Ponifasio has found a balance between cultural specificity, with its attendant danger of repetitiveness, and artistic freedom to utilize whatever expressive forms he desires. ∗

∗

∗

The plays and productions discussed here represent only a small cross-section of contemporary Pacific performance. They are nevertheless representative of significant trends in what we have termed here ‘diasporic theatre’ and demonstrate that a Pacific consciousness is being explored through the medium of performance in its widest sense. On a formal level, Pacific theatre follows the general trend towards syncretism in postcolonial theatre. It incorporates traditional indigenous cultural texts into the framework of European theatre to achieve a bi- or multicultural communication situation. On a thematic level it focuses on the characteristic diasporic concerns of memory, cultural loss and disorientation, and at the same time outlines strategies of redress and reincorporation. Although the diasporic nature of Pacific theatre will remain, it is clearly reformulating what has traditionally been seen as a situation of lack and loss into a new cultural space with considerable creative and recuperative potential. Located within global transmission processes, Pacific performances are re-entering the international circulation of cultural signs and texts. In terms of the overall argument of this book, contemporary performances, especially those practised by the fa’afafine and comedy acts such as the Naked Samoans, but also the more avant-garde groups such as Mau, provide continuity with what I have defined as cross-cultural theatricality. They understand that cross-cultural experiences, especially those defined within the power structures of colonialism and its neo-colonial extensions, are encapsulated as much by performance practices as by written texts. While all the groups mine the mimetic capital that has accrued since the first contacts between Europeans and Pacific Islanders, their performances do not just cite the European histories of representation. They demonstrate that the cultural equation has become more complex. Imitation and citation are fundamental to these processes but they are now being deployed within

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216 Pacific Performances

changing power structures. A Samoan-New Zealand comedian performing a burlesque version of Maori dances indicates that cross-cultural theatricality has transcended clear binary structures of colonizer and colonized. It can be adapted to any situation of perceived inequality. On the other side of the equation, a performance such as Paradise is framed almost entirely by Maori protocol which is approached with utmost respect. Performative theatricality will remain, it seems, a potent means to continually question and renegotiate the lines of encounter between cultures.

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Translocations and Transgressions: The Postcolonial Pacific 217

Notes

1. Louis-Antoine de Bougainville, A Voyage Round the world Performed by Order of his most Christian Majesty in the Years 1766, 1777, 1768, and 1769, trans John Reinhold Forster (London: Nourse & Davies, 1772), 214. 2. Ibid. 3. Joseph Roach, Cities of the Dead: Circumatlantic Performance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), esp. introduction, 25–31. 4. Ibid., 25. 5. The epistemological and ideological complexities surrounding the historical anthropology of reconstructing the ‘native’ point of view were demonstrated in the famous Obeyesekere-Sahlins debate revolving around the question of Captain Cook’s divinity in the eyes of the Hawaiians; see Chapter 1, note 24. For a discussion of the broader historiographical implications of integrating the indigenous point of view, see the editor’s introduction to Robert Borofsky (ed.), Remembrance of Pacific Pasts: An Invitation to Remake History (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000). A recent exhibition at the Victoria and Albert museum provides a sustained attempt to show both perspectives of cross-cultural encounters; see Anna Jackson and Amin Jaffer (eds), Encounters: The Meeting of Asia and Europe, 1500–1800 (London: V&A Publications, 2004), esp. chs 15, 25 and 26. 6. See Erika Fischer-Lichte, ‘Theatricality: A Key Concept in Theatre and Cultural Studies’, Theatre Research International, 20:2 (1995), 85–9. 7. Introduction to Tracy Davis and Thomas Postlewait (eds), Theatricality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 3. 8. Ibid., 4. 9. Foreword to Josette Féral (ed.), Substance, 31: 2/3 (2002), special number on theatricality, 3. 10. Mieke Bal, Travelling Concepts in the Humanities: A Rough Guide (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002), 23. 11. For a more comprehensive survey, see the introduction to: Davis and Postlewait, Theatricality, 2003. 12. Fischer-Lichte, ‘Theatricality: A Key Concept’. 13. Tracy Davis dates the coinage of the noun ‘theatricality’ to the year 1837, when Thomas Carlyle used the term to denote insincerity or inauthenticity; see Davis and Postlewait, Theatricality, 130. 14. Elizabeth Burns, Theatricality (London: Longman, 1972), 13. 15. See Jonas Barish, The Antitheatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981). 16. For a discussion of the rise of theatricality and eighteenth-century culture see John O’Brien in his introduction to a special issue on theatre and theatricality of the journal The Eighteenth Century: Theory and Interpretation, 43:3 (Fall 2002), esp. 191–4. See also my article, ‘Metaphors of Spectacle: Theatricality, Perception and Performative Encounters in the Pacific’, in Erika Fischer-Lichte et al. (eds), Wahrnehmung und Medialität (Tübingen/Basel: Francke, 2001), 215–31. 17. Jonathan Culler, ‘The Semiotics of Tourism’, The American Journal of Semiotics, 1:1/2 (1981), 137. 218

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Introduction

219

18. See Jürgen Habermas, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity: Twelve Lectures, trans Frederick Lawrence (Cambridge, MA.: MIT Press, 1987); Niklas Luhmann, The Reality of the Mass Media, trans Kathleen Cross (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000). 19. Stephen Greenblatt, Marvellous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 91. 20. Ibid., 6. 21. Ibid. 22. Graham Huggan, The Postcolonial Exotic: Marketing the Margins (London: Routledge, 2001), 13. 23. Bernard Smith, Imagining the Pacific: In the Wake of the Cook Voyages (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1992), 189–90. 24. Ibid., 191. 25. Denis Diderot, ‘Supplement to Bougainville’s Voyage or Dialogue between A. and B.’, Diderot Interpreter of Nature: Selected Writings, trans Jean Stewart and Jonathan Kemp (Westport, CT: Hyperion Press, 1937; rep. 1979). 26. David Lodge, Paradise News (London: Penguin, 1991), 163. 27. This point was made at the time by no other than Herman Melville, who, in a lecture entitled ‘The South Seas’ (1858) argued that ‘South Seas’ and ‘Pacific Ocean’ were ‘equivalent terms’ but with quite different associations. The former, he suggests, connotes ‘a name with many pleasant and venerable books of voyages, full of well-remembered engravings’. The Piazza Tales and Other Prose Pieces, 1839–1860 (Evanston and Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 1987), 410. Rod Edmond argues that by the mid-nineteenth century the term ‘South Seas’ had become outmoded because of shifts in geographical perceptions and trade practices; see his Representing the South Pacific: Colonial Discourse from Cook to Gauguin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 16. 28. Paul Sharrad, ‘Imagining the Pacific’, Meanjin, 49:4 (Summer 1990), 597–606. 29. Ibid., 597. 30. Ibid., 601. 31. The Tongan writer Epeli Hau’ofa suggests replacing the old triad of Polynesia, Melanesia and Micronesia by the more precise geographical and less racially loaded terms, ‘East Oceania’, ‘West Oceania’ and ‘North Oceania’ respectively; ‘Epilogue: Pasts to Remember’, in Robert Borofsky (ed.), Remembrance of Pacific Pasts: An Invitation to Remake History (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000), 471. 32. Bill Pearson, Rifled Sanctuaries: Some Views of the Pacific Islands in Western Literature (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1984). 33. Neil Rennie, Far-Fetched Facts: The Literature of Travel and the Idea of the South Seas (Oxford. Clarendon Press, 1995); Vanessa Smith, Literary Culture and the Pacific. Nineteenth-Century Textual Encounters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1998); Edmond, Representing the South Pacific. 34. C. Geertz, ‘History and Anthropology’, New Literary History, 21:2 (1990), 324. 35. Marshall Sahlins, Historical Metaphors and Mythical Realities: Structure in the Early History of the Sandwich Islands Kingdom (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1981); Islands of History (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1985), and How ‘Natives’ Think: About Captain Cook, for Example (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1995). 36. Mr Bligh’s Bad Language: Passion, Power and Theatre on the Bounty (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 37. G. Dening, Performances (Chicago University Press, 1996), 105.

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Notes

38. Anne Salmond, Two Worlds: First Meetings between Maori and Europeans, 1642–1772 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1991), and Between Worlds: Early Exchanges between Maori and Europeans, 1773–1815 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997). 39. See N. Thomas, In Oceania: Visions, Artifacts, Histories (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), and Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel and Government (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1994). 40. N. Thomas, Double Vision: Art Histories and Colonial Histories in the Pacific (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 41. Johann Reinhold Forster, Observations made during a Voyage round the World, ed. Nicholas Thomas, Harriet Guest and Michael Dettelbach (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1996); George Forster, A Voyage Round the World, ed. Nicholas Thomas and Oliver Berghof, 2 vols (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000). 42. See, in particular, N. Thomas, Cook: The Extraordinary Voyages of Captain James Cook (New York. Walker, 2003); and Anne Salmond, The Trial of the Cannibal Dog: Captain Cook in the South Seas (London: Allen Lane, 2003).

Chapter 1 women

Pacific overtures: trumpets, beaches and

1. Anthony Pagden, European Encounters with the New World from Renaissance to Romanticism (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1993), 2. 2. See, for example, Gerhard Neumann, ‘Erkennungs-Szene: Wahrnehmung zwischen den Geschlechtern im literarischen Text’, in Kati Röttger and Heike Paul (eds,) Differenzen in der Geschlechterdifferenz/ Differences within Gender Studies (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1999), 202–221. 3. Andrew Sharp, The Voyages of Abel Janszoon Tasman (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), 121. 4. Anne Salmond, Two Worlds: First Meetings Between Maori and Europeans, 1642–1772 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1991), 22. 5. Ibid., 73. 6. Stephen Greenblatt, Marvellous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 90–1. Greenblatt also notes that Vasco da Gama employed similar devices a few years later when trying to communicate with the natives of South Africa, p. 180, n.10. 7. Sharp, Voyages of Tasman, 44–5. 8. Ibid., 45. 9. Sharp glosses this term from a Malay word Orangkaja, ‘meaning an East Indies chief’. Evidently it was used by the Dutch as a generic term for natives, comparable to the ‘Indians’ used in the first accounts of Cook, Banks and others before local terms were developed; ibid., 44, note 1. 10. Ibid., 44. 11. Nicholas Thomas, Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific (Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press, 1991), 108–9. 12. For more on Omai, see Chapter 2. 13. William Anderson, ‘Journal’, in J. C. Beaglehole (ed.), The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyages of Discovery: The Voyage of the Endeavour, 1768–1771 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1955), iii. 838. 14. J. C. Beaglehole (ed.), The Journals of Captain James Cook: The Voyage of the Resolution and Adventure, 1772–1755 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961), 208.

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220 Notes

221

15. Ibid. 16. Ibid., 190 and 207. 17. George Forster, A Voyage round the World, ed. Nicholas Thomas and Oliver Berghof (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000), i. 375. 18. James Cook and James King, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean; Undertaken by Command    Performed under the Direction of Captains Cook, Clerke,    (London: T. Cadell, 1784), iii. 174. 19. Greg Dening, Mr Bligh’s Bad Language: Passion, Power and Theatre on the Bounty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 179. 20. Ibid. 21. James Cook, A Voyage Towards the South Pole, and Round the World    , 3rd edn (London: T. Cadell, 1779). 22. Ibid., i. 192–3. 23. Ibid., ii. 47–8. 24. The question of whether Cook was actually perceived as a divine being was the subject of one of the famous intellectual debates between the Sri Lankan-born anthropologist Gananath Obeyesekere and the American anthropologist Marshall Sahlins. Obeyesekere took issue with Sahlin’s claim that Cook had been deified by the Hawaiians as the god Lono. See Gananath Obeyesekere, The Apotheosis of Captain Cook: European Mythmaking in the Pacific (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), and Sahlins’s reply: How ‘Natives’ Think: About Captain Cook for Example (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1995). The dispute has engendered its own metacommentary, see, for example, Rod Edmond, Representing the Pacific, esp. ch. 2; and Greg Dening, Performances (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996), 76. 25. Bernard Smith, Imagining the Pacific: In the Wake of the Cook Voyages (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1992), 73. 26. George Forster, A Voyage round the World, i. 427–28; cited in Smith, Imagining the Pacific, 72. 27. Smith, Imagining the Pacific, 73. 28. In a recent study, Lee Wallace has taken issue with the resolutely heterosexual perspective that South Seas’ encounter narratives and their commentators have assumed. See her Sexual Encounters: Pacific Texts, Modern Sexualities (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2003), in which she argues the anxieties induced by these encounters were directed more at the native and European male than at the female body. I will return to this provocative argument in the final chapter. 29. Louis–Antoine de Bougainville, A Voyage Round the World Performed by Order of his most Christian Majesty in the Years 1766, 1767, 1768 and 1769, translated by John Reinhold Forster (London: Nourse & Davies, 1772), 218–19. 30. Charles–Félix–Pierre Fesche, ‘Journal’, in Etienne Taillemite (ed.), Bougainville et ses compagnons autour du monde 1766–1769: Journaux de navigation, 2 vols (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1977), ii. 80; my translation, C.B. 31. Apart from the failure of the Europeans to overcome the strictures of civilization, Fesche is also, and perhaps most concerned that the French failed as Frenchmen to live up to their popular reputation as gallant and passionate lovers. 32. George Robertson, The Discovery of Tahiti: A Journal of the Second Voyage of the H.M.S ‘Dolphin’ round the World, 1766–1768, ed. Hugh Carrington (London: Hakluyt Society, 1948), 148. 33. Ibid., 154.

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Notes

34. Robertson, Discovery, 166. Bougainville records some months later almost exactly the same scene in almost the same turn of phrase: Bougainville, Voyage Round the World, 217–18. 35. Ibid. 36. Robertson, Discovery, 180. 37. Bougainville, A Voyage Round the world, 219. 38. Ibid., 227–8. 39. Philibert Commerson, ‘Notes de Commerson’, in Taillemite, Bougainville et ses compagnons, ii. 496–7; my translation, C.B. 40. Fesche, ‘Journal’, 81–2. 41. Ibid., 82. 42. Ibid. 43. See Sahlins’s essay ‘Supplement to the Voyage of Cook, or: le calcul sauvage’, in Islands of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985). 44. The reference here is to Marcel Mauss’s famous study, Essai sur le don (1925) and its subsequent development by Claude Lévi–Strauss. Both Mauss and Lévi– Strauss cite extensively ethnographic literature documenting women as objects of ‘archaic’ gift economies which have been cited in turn by feminist scholars as proof of underlying gender inequalities. The locus classicus of this critique is Gayle Rubin’s article, ‘The Traffic of Women: Notes on the Political Economy of Sex’, in Rayna R. Reiter (ed.), Toward an Anthropology of Women (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1975), 157–210. 45. Anne Salmond, The Trial of the Cannibal Dog: Captain Cook in the South Seas (London: Allen Lane, 2003), 382. 46. Sahlins, Islands of History, xii. 47. Ibid., 19. 48. This ‘mixed economy’ must be compared to the exchange of nails, toys, trinkets and iron tools for foodstuffs (in the main pigs, fowls and fruit), which went on almost every day during the sojourns of the various ships that called. While this was certainly an economy of material goods from the European perspective, the Polynesians doubtlessly integrated it into a political economy of status. 49. J. C. Beaglehole (ed.), The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1962), i. 277. 50. J. C. Beaglehole, The Journals of Captain James Cook, i. 93–4. A great deal of commentary has accrued around this scene. Beaglehole agrees with Cook that it was probably some kind of ceremony. However, he also quotes a critical contemporary William Wales, who, on the basis of an eyewitness from the Endeavour, blames ‘that old demirep’ Purea for contriving the whole thing, which was not even consummated as the couple in question were too terrified. He also reports that ‘Purea’ suffered severe reprobation from ‘most of the natives’ for her actions. William Wales, Remarks on Mr. Forster’s Account of Captain Cook’s last Voyage round the World   (London 1778), n.52; cited in Beaglehole, The Journals of Captain James Cook, i. 94, n.1. 51. Neil Rennie, Far-Fetched Facts: The Literature of Travel and the Idea of the South Seas (Oxford: Clarendon Press,1995), 99. 52. John Hawkesworth (ed.), An Account of the Voyages    , 3 vols (London: W. Strahan & T. Cadell, 1773), ii.128. 53. Rennie notes that Hawkesworth made the man slightly smaller and the girl somewhat older, which ‘suggest some concern to moderate, if not expurgate, the ‘Spectacle’ for the British public’; Far-Fetched Facts, 99. 54. Ibid., 101.

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222 Notes

223

55. Ibid., 100. 56. While Charlotte Hayes actually existed, the events related in the book cannot, for obvious reasons, be historically verified. In Westminster’s Magazine, March 1774, 111, there is a reference to Charlotte Hayes. Referring to a debuting actress cum ‘Gentlewoman’: ‘she was very lately a boarder with the celebrated Charlotte Hayes; a circumstance which will inform our readers that her figure is pleasing and also that she is young and handsome.’ Cited in The London Stage, 1660–1800, pt 4, vol. 3, under 26 March 1774, Covent Garden. My thanks to Martin Meisel for providing me with this reference. 57. Anon., Nocturnal Revels (London: Goadby, 1779), ii. 21–2. Further citations will be given in the body of the text. 58. Hawkesworth, Account, ii. 128. 59. Beaglehole suggests that the word is derived from ti moro–iti or te ai moro iti, both of which refer to copulation, The Journals of Captain Cook, i. 127. 60. Hawkesworth was at this point relying more heavily on Banks’s journal than on Cook’s. In his long description of Tahitian customs from 17 July 1769, Banks notes: ‘Besides this they dance especialy the young girls whenever they can collect 8 or 10 together, singing most indecent words using most indecent actions and setting their mouths askew in a most extraordinary manner, in the practise of which they are brought up from their earlyest childhood; in doing this they keep time to a surprizing nicety, I might almost say as true as any dancers I have seen in Europe tho their time is certainly much more simple. This excercise is however left off as soon as they arrive at Years of maturity for as soon as ever they have formd a connection with a man they are expected to leave of Dancing Timorodee as it is calld.’ J. C. Beaglehole (ed.), The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks, 1962, 351. 61. Hawkesworth, Account, ii. 207. 62. J. C. Beaglehole, ed., Journals of Captain Cook, iii. 978. 63. Beaglehole, Journal of Joseph Banks, 351. 64. G. Forster, A Voyage Round the World, ii. 1777, 400–1. 65. This is evidently a reference to the dance interludes and divertissements which were a standard part of opera performances. 66. Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses (New York: Routledge, 1993), xvii. 67. For a discussion of colonial mimicry, see Chapter 7. 68. Robertson, Discovery, 193. 69. Greenblatt, Marvellous Possessions, 3. 70. In Polynesian cultures mana refers to a complex system by which prestige and authority are attained and lost. 71. ‘This morn several Canoas came on board among which were two in which were people who by their dress and appearance seemd to be of a rank superior to those who we had seen yesterday. These we invited to come on board and on coming into the Cabbin each singled out his freind, one took the Captn and the other me, they took off a large part of their cloaths and each dress’d his freind with them he took off: in return for this we presented them with each a hatchet and some beads.’ The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks, entry for 14 April 1769. For Jonathan’s reappearance, see Robertson, Discovery, 193. 72. William Pearson has attempted to systematize first encounters between Europeans and Polynesians. According to his topology, the exchange of clothing could be the third stage in a possible six-stage process beginning with the display on shore of white tapa cloth and culminating in full-scale festivities on land; ‘The reception

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Notes

73.

74. 75. 76.

of European voyagers on Polynesian islands, 1568–1797’, Journal de la Société des Oceanistes, 26 (1970), 121–54. J. C. Beaglehole (ed.), Journal of Joseph Banks, entry for 9 June, 1769, i., 288. Beaglehole transliterates the Tahitian term as Heiva no metua, literally a ceremony for a parent, meaning here the funeral for the deceased mother. Ibid., 289. Ibid. Works of P. Pindar, i. (London: 1816), 464. See also Bill Pearson, Rifled Sanctuaries: Some Views of the Pacific Islands in Western Literature to 1900 (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1984), 18.

Chapter 2 Staged authenticity: the South Seas and European theatre, 1785–1830 1. See, for example, William Ellis, An authentic narrative of a voyage performed by Captain Cook, 2 vols (London 1782); and, A[n] authentic narrative of four years residence at Tongataboo, one of the Friendly Islands,    by Vason George    in 1796, with an appendix by an eminent writer (London 1810). 2. For the importance of visual verification in travel accounts, see Barbara Stafford, Voyage into Substance: Art, Science, Nature, and the Illustrated Travel Account, 1760–1840 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press 1984); and Judith Adler, ‘Origins of Sightseeing’, Annals of Tourism Research, 16:1 (1989), 7–29. 3. In a recent article, Paul Ranger has discussed theatrical representations of Cook’s voyages to advance the argument that in Georgian London the stage was just such a medium of documentation, ‘Transformations and Theophanies: Documentary on the Georgian Stage’, Theatre Notebook, 56:3 (2002), 156–172. 4. Astrid Betz records at least half a dozen further performances of Muzzarelli’s ‘dance pantomime’ between 1784 and 1791; see her, Inszenierung der Südsee (Munich: Herbert Utz, 2003). Muzzarelli was a leading choreographer and disciple of Angiolini. I am assuming that Vassallo is the author of the libretto, although it is not made entirely explicit in the extant copy. The libretto contains no mention of the composer, which is entirely consistent with the approach to musical performance of the time. 5. See p. 37. 6. Greg Dening, Performances (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996), 148–49. 7. Hawkesworth, An Account of the Voyages    (London: W. Strahan & T. Cadell, 1773), ii. 168–9. 8. On Vico, see Edward Said, ‘We must take seriously Vico’s great observation that men make their own history, that what they can know is what they have made and extend it to geography’, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1978), 4–5. 9. Sergio Moravia, Beobachtende Vernunft: Philosophie und Anthropologie in der Aufklärung (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1989), 12. Italian original: La Scienza dell’uomo nel Settecento (Bari 1970). 10. Denis Diderot, ‘Sur les femmes’, Oeuvres, ed. André Billy (Paris: Gallimard, 1951), 987; my translation. 11. Both Rousseau and Diderot were intrigued by what could be called feminine theatricality in the area of ‘staging’ or faking orgasm. See Rousseau’s Lettre à d’Alembert for an extended discussion of the subject and Diderot’s essay ‘Sur les femmes’.

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224 Notes

225

12. See Das weinende Saeculum: Colloquium der Arbeitsstelle 18. Jahrhundert, ed. die Arbeitsstelle 18. Jahrhundert Gesamthochschule Wuppertal (Heidelberg: Winter, 1983). 13. Umilissimo Vassallo, Cook o sia Gl’Inglesi in Othaiti Dramma per Musica (Naples: 1785). All page references to quotations from the text will be given immediately afterwards in brackets. Translations are mine. 14. Hawkesworth, Account, ii. 479. 15. George Robertson, The Discovery of Tahiti: A Journal of the Second Voyage of the H.M. ‘Dolphin’ round the World, 1766–1768, ed. Hugh Carrington (London: Hakluyt Society, 1948), 227. William Pearson remarks: ‘Such tenderness at the departure of visitors, which embarrassed later English travellers and made them suspect hypocrisy, was not universal to Polynesia, but it was the practice in the Society group.’ ‘European Intimidation and the Myth of Tahiti’, in Barrie MacDonald (comp.) Essays from the Journal of Pacific History, (Palmerston North: Massey University, 1979), 132. First published in The Journal of Pacific History 5 (1969), 199–217. 16. Hawkesworth, Account, ii. 104f. 17. Cook o Gl’Inglesi in Otahiti: ballo storico-pantomimo in cinque atti, inventato, composto e diretto dal Lauchlin Dusqueney / Cook oder die Engländer auf Otahaiti: ein historischpantomimisches Ballett in fünf Akten, erfunden und zusammengesetzt von Lauchlin Dusquesney (Berlin, no publ., 1801). 18. Omai is by far the most intensively studied theatrical text to treat a Pacific theme. William Huse first pointed out the link between the illustrations of John Webber, the official artist on Cook’s third voyage, as the basis of the scene and costume designs; ‘A Noble Savage on the Stage’, Modern Philology, 33:3 (1936), 303–16. Ralph G. Allen focused more on de Loutherbourg’s contribution: ‘De Loutherbourg and Captain Cook’, Theatre Research, 4:3 (1962), 195–211. Bernard Smith, European Vision and the South Pacific, 2nd edn (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985) (first pub. 1960); and Rüdiger Joppiens, ‘Philippe Jacques de Loutherbourg’s Pantomime Omai, or, a Trip round the World and the Artists of Captain Cook’s Voyages’, in T. C. Mitchell, ed., British Museum Yearbook 3 (1979), 81–136, have provided considerable extra information on de Loutherbourg’s designs. Joppien was the first to study intensively the recently discovered costume-designs by de Loutherbourg, see 107, n.50. The most recent addition to the growing literature on the pantomime is an exhibition catalogue from the National Library of Australia curated by Michelle Hetherington, Iain McCalman and Alexander Cook, Cook & Omai: The Cult of the South Seas, exhibition catalogue (Canberra: National Library of Australia, 2001). See also Paul Ranger, ‘Transformations and Theophanies: Documentary on the Georgian Stage’, Theatre Notebook, 56:3 (2002), 156–72. 19. Jean François Arnould, La Mort du Capitaine Cook, à son troisième voyage au nouveau monde. Pantomime en quatre actes (Paris: Lagrange, 1788), 3. My translation. 20. Ibid. 21. The Death of Captain Cook: A Grand Serious-Pantomimic-Ballet,    (London: T. Cadell, 1789). Page references to quotations from the English version will be given in brackets in the body of the text. 22. For an account of the historical persons, see Marshall Sahlins, How ‘Natives’ Think, About Captain Cook for Example (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1995), 49, 67–68. 23. Arnould, La Mort du Capitaine Cook, 9–10; italics in the original; all translations from the French are my own. 24. Ibid., 17.

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25. James Cook and James King, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean    (London: T. Cadell, 1784), 172. 26. Marshall Sahlins, How ‘Natives’ Think, 85. 27. The Mutiny on the Bounty was also the subject of a pantomime, The Pirates, Or the Calamities of Captain Bligh, produced only seven weeks after Bligh’s return, on 3 May 1790. For an account, see Greg Dening, Mr Bligh’s Bad Language: Passion, Power and Theatre on the Bounty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 286ff. 28. This is not to say that the theatrical treatment ends here. A pantomime entitled La mort du Capitaine Cook, ou, Les insulaires d’O-Why-E was premiered at the Théâtre Olympique in 1814, authored by François Jeune. For a by no means exhaustive overview of Captain Cook dramatizations, see Marlies Thiersch, ‘Cook Plays Now and Then’, in Walter Veit (ed.), Captain James Cook Image and Impact: South Seas Discoveries and the World of Letters (Melbourne: Hawthorn Press, 1972), vol. 2, 43–53. See also Astrid Betz, Inszenierung der Südsee, 73–75. 29. Intelligenzblatt der Allgemeinen Literatur-Zeitung, 15.4.1795, cols 314–18; 20 June1795, 498–500; here 500. 30. Augustus von Kotzebue, La Perouse: A Drama in Two Acts, trans. Benjamin Thomson, (London: Vernor & Hood, 1799), 3. A rival translation appeared the same year by Anne Plumptre, who, like Thomson, translated several of Kotzebue’s better known plays into English. All page references to quotations are from Thomson’s version and will be given in parentheses after the citation. 31. See Jürg Mathes (ed.) August von Kotzebue, Schauspiele (Frankfurt a.M.: Athenäum 1972), 566. 32. Ibid., 115f. 33. Ibid., 569. 34. Ibid., 569–70. 35. On the tradition of the sacrificial woman in Western literature, see Elisabeth Bronfen, Over her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1990); and in the opera, Catherine Clément, Opera, or the Undoing of Women (Minneapolis. University of Minnesota Press, 1989). 36. John Fawcett, Obi; or, Three Finger’d Jack (London, 1800). Reprint in Peter J. Kitson and Debbie Lee (eds), Slavery, Abolition, and Emancipation: Writings in the British Romantic Period, vol. 5, Drama, ed. Jeffrey Cox (London: Pickering & Chatto, 1999). John Davy (1763–1824) joined the orchestra of the Covent Garden theatre in the 1790s, John Moorehead (?-1804) was an Irish violinist. 37. The Times, 2 March 1801, 3. 38. London Chronicle, 28 Feb.–3 March, 1801; cited in Betz, Inszenierung der Südsee, 97. 39. This summary is based on an account given in The Dramatic Censor, 28 February 1801, 133–6. 40. Ibid., 138. 41. Ibid., 139. 42. Evening Paper, 19 May 1824. 43. Gavan Daws, Shoal of Time: A History of the Hawaiian Islands (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1968), 73. 44. The Times, 20 May 1824, 2 col.e. 45. The reference here is to General James Oglethorpe, who took a party of Creek Indians to London as a publicity stunt for the new colony of Georgia. Even more noteworthy were the famous ‘Four Indian Kings’ with ties to the Iroquois confederacy, who created a genuine sensation in the London of the early eighteenth

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226 Notes

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55.

56.

227

century. Their ‘progress’ has many parallels to that of the Hawaiians. See Eric Hinderaker, ‘The “Four Indian Kings” and the Imaginative Construction of the First British Empire’, William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd series, 53:3 (1996), 487–526; and Joseph Roach, Cities of the Dead: Circumatlantic Performance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), ch. 4, ‘Feathered Peoples’. Unidentified newspaper clipping held by the National Library of Australia, accession number s8467. Citations from this source will be marked NLA. Ibid. See The Times, 31 May 1824, 2 col. c. NLA. The description of the performance at Covent Garden is taken from a clipping in NLA. Cited in Johann N. Schmidt, Ästhetik des Melodramas (Heidelberg: Carl Winter 1986), 54. See Martin Meisel, Realizations: Narrative, Pictorial, and Theatrical Arts in Nineteenth Century England (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983). According to Meisel, a ‘realization’ is a frozen moment of significant action. The Times, 12 July 1824, 5, col. c. Daws, Shoal of Time, 74. See Neil Rennie, Far-Fetched Facts: The Literature of Travel and the Idea of the South Seas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995); and Rod Edmond, Representing the South Pacific: Colonial discourse from Cook to Gauguin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). For a detailed discussion of the ballet, see Betz, Inszenierung der Südsee, 107–15.

Chapter 3 Comedians and crusaders: anti-theatrical prejudice in the South Seas 1. James Wilson, A Missionary Voyage to the Southern Pacific Ocean, 1796–1798, intro. by Imgrad Moschner (First pub. London 1799; Graz: Akademische Druck– und Verlagsanstalt, 1966), 73. 2. For a comparative overview of the different missions and islands, see I. C. Campbell, A History of the Pacific Islands (Christchurch: Canterbury University Press, 1989), ch. 5; for a discussion of the Catholic approach to missionization, see Andrew Hamilton, ‘Nineteenth–Century French Missionaries and Fa’a Samoa’, The Journal of Pacific History, 33:2 (1998), 163–77. 3. Niel Gunson, Messengers of Grace: Evangelical Missionaries in the South Seas, 1797–1860 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), 181. 4. Ibid., 48. 5. Ibid., 181. 6. Ibid. 7. Jonas Barish, The Anti–Theatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 317. 8. Gunson, Messengers of Grace, 181. 9. George Burder, Lawful Amusements: A Sermon, preached at the Thursday-Evening Lecture Fetter Lane January 10, 1805 (London: Biggs & Co., 1805). Page references will be given in brackets after the citation. 10. Gunson, Messengers of Grace, 183. 11. Cited in Vanessa Smith, Literary Culture and the Pacific: Nineteenth-Century Textual Encounters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 82.

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12. The best summary of the ethnographic material is still Douglas Oliver, Ancient Tahitian Society (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1974), ii. 913–64. 13. See Edward Handy, History and Society in the Society Islands (Honolulu: Bishop Museum, 1930), 62. The feather girdle became an object of considerable importance in internal Tahitian politics. It incorporated the pennant Samuel Wallis presented to Oberea, and later the hair of Richard Skinner, one of the mutineers of the Bounty. Its possession gave Pomare I substantial power when he finally assumed the role of king of the Tahitian group. See Oliver, Ancient Tahitian Society, iii. 1213–16; and Lamb, Preserving the Self in the South Seas, 1680–1840 (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2001), 150. 14. Lamb, Preserving the Self, 150. 15. Oliver, Ancient Tahiti, ii. 917. 16. William Ellis, Polynesian Researches, new edn, [1831] (Rutland, Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1969), i. 236. 17. See J. C. Beaglehole (ed.), The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyages of Discovery. The Voyage of the Endeavour 1768–1771 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1955), 128. Cook’s account is lifted practically verbatim from Banks’s journal, where he describes the arioi in the section ‘Manners & Customs of the South Sea Islands’. 18. For these and further epithets, see Oliver, Ancient Tahitian Society, ii. 913. 19. George Forster, A Voyage Round the World, in His Britannic Majesty’s Resolution. Commanded by Capt. James Cook, during the years 1772, 3, 4, and 5, 2 vols, (London: B. White 1777), ed. N. Thomas and O. Berghof, i. 392. 20. Ibid. 21. J. R. Forster, Observations made during a Voyage round the World, ed. Nicholas Thomas et al. (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1996), 289–90. 22. Ibid., 290. 23. Transactions of the Missionary Society (London 1801), i. 216–17. 24. Ellis, Polynesian Researches, i. 233–4; and Oliver, Ancient Tahitian Society, ii. 917. 25. Hiram Bingham, A Residence of 21 years in the Sandwich Islands; on the Civil, Religious, and Political History of those Islands, 3rd edn [1849] (New York: Praeger, 1969), 123. 26. Ibid., 124f. 27. For an account of hula in the second half of the nineteenth century, see Chapter 4. 28. Information on the baptism is taken from the annual circular of the Winward Division of Tahitian Mission, 18 May 1819. SOAS, South Seas Odds, Box 6. The text is by H(enry) Bicknell and was printed on the mission press. Cited hereafter as Bicknell. 29. Bicknell, n.p. 30. Bicknell. 31. Missionary Sketches, no. 3, [1818] 2nd edn August 1820, n.p. All subsequent quotations are from this article. 32. V. Smith, Literary Culture, 58. 33. Gunson, Messengers of Grace, 11. 34. V. Smith, Literary Culture, 58. 35. Ebenezer Prout, Memoirs of the Life of the Rev. John Williams, Missionary to Polynesia (London: John Snow, 1843), 537. 36. See Kati Röttger, ‘The Devil’s Eye: Goethe, Faust, and the Laterna Magica’, in Christopher Balme, Robert Erenstein and Cesare Molinari (eds), European Theatre Iconography (Rome: Bulzoni, 2002), 243–52.

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228 Notes

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

44. 45.

229

Prout, Memoirs, 537–8. Cited in V. Smith, Literary Culture, 59. Prout, Memoirs, 538. SOAS South Seas Odds Box 11, folder 8. Ship Ahoy!: The Story of the Missionary Ships John Williams I. to IV: A Demonstration for Boys. Arranged by rev. Hugh Parry (London: LMS, n.d.), 11. The list ‘Other John Williams Material’ is contained in SOAS South Seas Odds Box 11, folder 6. ‘The John Williams Tableaux: Pioneer Missionary to the South Seas, 1817–1839. Stage Plans and Prolocutor’s Notes’. Typescript (London: Livingstone Press, 1933), 3. Subsequent page references to quotations will be given in the text. ‘John Williams Moving Tableaux: Notes for Producing Moving Tabs; unpub. typescript, 4. SOAS South Seas, Odds, Box 11, Folder 6. John Williams, A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South Seas (London: J. Snow, 1837), 119. Williams probably borrowed the idea from a similar anecdote found in John Martin and William Mariner’s Account of the Natives of the Tonga Islands (1817), where King Finow of Tonga is astounded by a similar demonstration of the written word, in this case his own name; see preface to Neil Rennie, Far–Fetched Facts: The Literature of Travel and the Idea of the South Seas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), v.

Chapter 4 Dressing the hulas and taming the haka: performing identity in Hawai‘i and New Zealand 1. Peter Hulme, Colonial Encounters: Europe and the Native Caribbean, 1492–1797 (London and New York: Methuen, 1986), 2. 2. See, in particular, Homi Bhabha, ‘On other things’, in his The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994); Jonathan Culler, The Pursuit of Signs: Semiotics, Literature, Deconstruction (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981), 216. 3. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 62, 74. 4. Ibid., 55. 5. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1978), 63. 6. Augustin Krämer, Hawai‘i, Ostmikronesien und Samoa: Meine zweite Südseereise (1897–1899) zum Studium der Atolle und ihrer Bewohner (Stuttgart: Strecker & Schröder, 1906), 125–7. My translation. 7. For an account of the coup d’état, see Gavan Daws, Shoal of Time: A History of the Hawaiian Islands (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1968). Today, there is still ongoing discussion of reparations on the model of the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act of 1971, or the reparations paid to Maori tribes in New Zealand in the 1990s, but understandable reluctance on the part of the US authorities to begin such negotiations. In 1983, the Native Hawaiians Study Commission set up by President Ronald Reagan reported to Congress that there was no ‘official’ US government involvement in the coup d’état and hence no liability. 8. The discursive means by which this knowledge came about cannot be reflected on here. For a discussion of this question, see Elizabeth Buck, Paradise Remade: Politics of Culture and History in Hawai‘i (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1993). 9. Nathaniel Emerson, Unwritten Literature of Hawai‘i: The Sacred Songs of the Hula (Washington DC: Government Printing Office, 1909), 11–12.

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10. Ibid., 216. 11. For a critical discussion of the early sources, see Dorothy B. Barrère, Mary Kawena Pukui and Maron Kelly, Hula: Historical Perspectives, (Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1980), 22–55. 12. Martha Beckwith, ‘The Hawaiian Hula dance’, Journal Of American Folklore, 29:113 (1916), 410–11. 13. Beckwith notes: ‘Because of this artificial form of innuendo, many of the songs quoted by Dr. Emerson are to-day unintelligible without a key. Many depend not only upon knowledge of an historical allusion, but upon some specious analogy, either of sound or of image, which carries the trick of punning and metaphor to a very high pitch, and makes an art of riddling.’ Ibid., 412. 14. Barrère, et al., Hula: Historical Perspectives, 21. 15. For a theoretical discussion of the problem of representation of performance and theatrical iconography, see Christopher B. Balme, ‘Interpreting the Pictorial Record: Theatre Iconography and the Referential Dilemma’, Theatre Research International, 22:3 (October 1997), 190–201. 16. Roland Barthes, The Responsibility of Forms: Critical Essays on Music, Art, and Representation (New York: Hill & Wang, 1985), 92. 17. James Cook and James King, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean    (London: Strahan & Cadell, 1784), iii. 27; cited in Roger G. Rose (ed.), Hawai‘i: The Royal Isles, exhibition catalogue (Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1980), 186. 18. On this voyage Cook and his crew had little opportunity to witness ceremonial hula performances; see Rose, Hawai‘i: The Royal Isles, 185. 19. See also the drawings executed by Louis Choris while on board Otto von Kotzebue’s Pacific voyage (1815–18). Although not published until 1822, his drawings and the lithographs executed after them refer to a performance Choris witnessed in 1816. Female dancers are clad in what folklorists and ethnographers consider to be traditional costume: a skirt made of tapa cloth and anklets plus the hand-held rattle. Choris makes an interesting gender distinction between women and men: the former, he says, performing it ‘as an amusement; the men, on the contrary, are professional dancers, and are paid’. Louis Choris, Voyage Pittoresque autour du Monde (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1822), 18; cited in Johannes C. Andersen, Maori Music, with its Polynesian Background [AMS Reprint 1978] (New Plymouth: T. Avery, 1934), 103. 20. See Andersen, Maori music, 104; and Rose, Hawai‘i: The Royal Isles, 186, fig. 142. Arienne Kaeppler terms the image Hula kuhi lima in traditional attire; Adrienne Kaeppler, Polynesian Dance (Honolulu: Alpha, Delta Kappa, 1983), 37, fig. 13. 21. Jacques Arago, Souvenirs d’un aveugle: Voyage autour du monde (Paris: Hortet et Ozanne,1839), iii. 124. My translation. 22. Ibid., iii. 126. 23. Marshall Sahlins, Islands of History (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1985), xii. 24. Rose, Hawai‘i: The Royal Isles, 186. 25. Theodore-Adolphe Barrot, Unless Haste is Made, trans. Rev. Daniel Dole (Kailua: Hawai‘i Press 1978), 50. 26. See M. K. Costa, ‘Dance in the Society and Hawaiian Islands as Presented by the Early Writers, 1767–1842’, unpub. MA thesis, University of Hawai‘i, 1951, 58. The history of hula, particularly its ill fortune under the missionaries, has been extensively documented and need not be repeated here. For different perspectives, see also (in chronological order) Emerson Unwritten Literature of Hawai‘i, 1909; Barrère et al., Hula: Historical Perspectives, 1980; Kaeppler, Polynesian Dance, 1983; and most recently, Buck, Paradise Remade, 1993, 112ff.

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231

27. Ambrotype was one of the earliest photographic procedures and involved printing on glass a positive image on a wet plate collodion. It was superseded by negative plates and film. 28. Barrère et al., Hula: Historical Perspectives, 41. 29. Rose, Hawai‘i: The Royal Isles, 1980, 187. 30. Kaeppler, Polynesian Dance, 23. 31. For an in-depth study of the touristic context of hula, see Jane C. Desmond, Staging Tourism: Bodies on Display from Waikiki to Sea World (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999). 32. For the origin of the grass skirts, see Barrère et al. Hula: Historical Perspectives, 72. 33. As most tourists to Hawai‘i quickly learn, Hawaiian band music is closely linked to a Prussian Heinrich (Henri) Berger (1844–1929) who became the acclaimed bandmaster of the Royal Hawaiian Band, serving under both King David Kalakaua and Queen Lili’uokalani. Berger, a highly regarded musician in the Prussian army, was first sent to Hawai‘i in 1872 on loan from Germany to conduct the King’s band, but assumed full leadership in 1877 and became a naturalized Hawaiian subject in 1879. As well as conducting and composing, he also devoted himself to arranging and publishing traditional Hawaiian music. Among many other compositions he composed the national anthem, ‘Hawai‘i Pono‘i’. 34. Kaeppler, Polynesian Dance, 24. 35. Frank Davey specialized in producing photographs and stereos for the growing tourist market. See Lynn Davis, Na Pa’i Ki’i: The Photographers in the Hawaiian Islands, 1845–1900, Bishop Museum Special Publication No. 69 (Honolulu, Hawai‘i: Bishop Museum Press, 1980). See also Jane C. Desmond, Staging Tourism, ch. 2. 36. For a discussion of the image of the Maori as a warrior people as an invention catering to a European discursive construction, cf. the article by Toon van Meijl, ‘The Maori as Warrior: Ideological Implications of a Historical Image’, European Imagery and Colonial History in the Pacific, ed. Toon van Meijl and Paul van der Grijp (Saarbrücken: Verlag für Entwicklungspolitik Breitenbach, 1994), 49–63. 37. For a discussion of Seddon’s imperial ambitions, especially in the South Pacific, see Keith Sinclair, A History of New Zealand (Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 1980), 217–21. 38. R[obert] A. Loughnan, Royalty in New Zealand: The Visit of their Royal Highnesses The Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York, June 10th–27th 1901. A Descriptive Narrative (Wellington: John Mackay, Government Printing Office, 1902), v. 39. The relationship of the Maori to the British Crown has been, and still is, a vexed one and cannot be easily summarized. In the nineteenth century, a number of Maori leaders still viewed the British sovereign as an impartial place of appeal for their conflicts with the white-settler governments. 40. Jennifer Shennan has pointed out the importance of these early large-scale hui for the exchange of performance ideas: ‘Such gatherings may have sharpened an appreciation for the contrast between area styles and conventions within the dance forms, but there may also have been incentive for encouraging uniformity in some features.’ The Maori Action Song (New Zealand Council for Educational Research, Wellington,1984), 23. 41. Royalty in New Zealand, 63. 42. Ibid. 43. Ibid., 74. 44. The leader of the group is Mrs Kemp, wife of a Wanganui chief who fought with the NZ militia during the land wars of the 1860s.

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Notes

232 Notes

Chapter 5 Kindred spirits: spectacles of Samoa in Wilhelminian Germany 1. Theodor W. Adorno, Gesammelte Schriften (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1978), xvi. 281. My translation. 2. On Carl Hagenbeck, see Nigel Rothfels, Savages and Beasts (Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002). Despite Hagenbeck’s European-scale operations, there is not a lot of research available in English. The German literature on the other hand is considerable. The most comprehensive study to date is Hilke Thode-Arora, Für fünfzig Pfenning um die Welt: Die Hagenbeckschen Völkerschauen (Frankfurt am Main/ New York: Campus 1989). 3. Hermann Joseph Hiery, Das deutsche Reich in der Südsee (1900–1921): Eine Annäherung an die Erfahrungen verschiedener Kulturen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 26–34. 4. See the very early study by Emil Wächter, Der Prestigegedanke in der deutschen Politik von 1890–1914 (Aarau: Sauerländer, 1941). 5. Quoted in Hiery, Das deutsche Reich, 28–29 (my translations). Bennigsen’s conflation of Melanesians and Polynesians is intentional and caters to the prevailing discourse that saw ‘handsome’ Polynesians closer to Europeans than the ‘savage’ Melanesians. 6. E. F. Reye, Samoanische Zeitung, 13 January 1906, p. 6. My translation. 7. The positive connotations attached to the Samoans’ light skin colour should not be underestimated as a determining factor in the discursive construction of the Samoans in the European mind. Amateur anthropologists, such as the colonist W. von Bülow, were convinced of the Aryan origins of the Samoans; see Robert Tobin, ‘Venus von Samoa: Rasse und Sexualität im deutschen Südpazifik’, Kolonialismus als Kultur, ed. Alexander Honold and Oliver Simons (Tübingen: Francke, 2000), 197–220, here 203–4. 8. The proceedings of the Berliner Gesellschaft für Anthropologie, Ethnologie und Urgeschichte were published in the Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, 22 (1890), 387– 94. Henceforth cited as ZfE. Page references to quotations are given in text. All translations are my own. 9. For an account of the troupe, see Roslyn Poignant’s study of Cunningham’s activities: Professional Savages: Captive Lives and Western Spectacle (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2004), 198–201. 10. See Virchow’s complaints in ZfE 22 (1890), 404f.; and Sibylle BenninghoffLühl, ‘Die Ausstellung der Kolonisierten: Völkerschauen von 1874–1932’, Andenken an den Kolonialismus: Eine Ausstellung des Völkerkundlichen Instituts der Universität Tübingen, ed. Volker Harms (Tübingen: Attempo, 1984), 52–65, here 58. 11. Benninghoff-Lühl, ‘Die Ausstellung der Kolonisierten’, 59. 12. ZfE 22 (1890), 589. 13. For a critical view of Virchow, see Andrew Zimmerman, ‘Adventures in the Skin Trade: German Anthropology and Colonial Corporeality’, in Glenn H. Penny and Matti Bunzl (eds), Worldly Provincialism: German Anthropology in the Age of Empire (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press; 2003), 156–78, here

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45. Royalty in New Zealand, 76. 46. Ibid., 99. 47. Ibid., 99.

14.

15.

16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30.

233

158. Zimmerman discusses Virchow’s ‘antihumanistic’ stance more fully in his book-length study, Anthropology and Antihumanism in Imperial Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001). According to Carl Marquardt’s account, the dates were: 1895–96, 1897; 1900, 1901 and 1910–11, Carl Marquardt’s ‘Die Futa’: Ein Sittenbild aus dem dunklen Afrika, (Berlin: Selbstverlag 1905), n.p. Samoans also featured at American international expositions over roughly the same period. See Eawan Johnston, ‘ “Polynesien in der Plaisance”: Das samoanische Dorf und das Theater der Südseeinseln auf der Weltausstellung in Chicago 1893’, in Eckhardt Fuchs (ed.), Weltausstellungen im 19. Jahrhundert (Leipzig. Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2000), 89–102. Rudolf Virchow, 1896 quoted in Jutta Steffen-Schrade, ‘Exkurs: Samoaner im Frankfurter Zoo’, Talofa! Samoa, Südsee Ansichten und Einsichten, ed. Gerda KroeberWolf and Peter Mesenhöller (Franfurt am Main: Museum für Völkerkunde, 1998), 370. See Sierra Ann Bruckner, ‘The Tingle-Tangle of Modernity: Popular Anthropology and the Cultural Politics of Identity in Imperial Germany’, PhD thesis, University of Iowa, 1999, 376f. Denkschrift, 4. Bundesarchiv Potsdam, R1001, 5576, cited in Bruckner, 380; her translation. Bruckner, ‘The Tingle-Tangle of Modernity’, 378–9. Carl Marquardt, ‘Land und Leute der Samoa-Inseln’, Ausstellung Samoa: Unsere neuen Landsleute, programme booklet (Leipzig: Giesecke & Devrient, 1901), 2–3. Quoted in Bruckner, ‘The Tingle-Tangle of Modernity’, 422, note 90. A copy of this letter with Solf’s handwritten corrections is contained in the German Colonial Archives (GCA), folder 0454 and 0455, National Archives, Wellington. Most of the archival material cited in this chapter is found in the folder ‘Ceremonies and Etiquette’, 1906–1910, collected by German colonial officials in Apia. It contains several hundred pages of newspaper clippings, letters and assorted materials, documenting in the main officially organized celebrations. The very existence of such a bureaucratic category ‘Ceremonies and Etiquette’ testifies to the increasing importance laid on such events. Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theater: The Human Seriousness of Play (New York: Performing Arts Publications, 1982), 80. Don Handelman, Models and Mirrors: Towards an Anthropology of Public Events (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 7. Miinchner Neueste Nachrichten, 26 April, 1900, 2. My translation. Samoanische Zeitung, 26 February, 1910, nos. 9, 7. The following account of festivities is drawn mainly from a commemorative publication: Zur Erinnerung an die Festlichkeiten zur Feier der Wiederkehr des Tages der Deutschen Flaggenhissung 1900–1910 (Apia: E. Luebke, 1910). The author Erich Luebke was the publisher of the Samoanische Zeitung. Additional material has been drawn from newspaper reports. See here Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 4th edn (London: Verso, 1987). Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). On German festivity culture (Festkultur) of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, see George L. Mosse, Die Nationalisierung der Massen: Politische Symbolik und Massenbewegungen in Deutschland von den Napoleonischen Kriegen bis zum Dritten Reich (Frankfurt a.M. and Berlin: Ullstein, 1976); Reinhold Grimm

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Notes

31. 32.

33. 34.

35.

36.

37.

38.

39. 40.

and Jost Hermand (ed.), Deutsche Feiern (Wiesbaden: Athenäum, 1977); for the Sedan and Kaiser’s birthday celebrations, see Fritz Schellack, ‘Sedan- und Kaisergeburtstagfeste’, in Öffentliche Festkultur: Politische Feste in Deutschland von der Aufklärung bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, ed. Dieter Düding et al. (Reinbek: Rowohlt, 1988), 278–97. Most of these monuments (except the Bismarck memorial) are still extant on the Mulinu’u peninsular in Apia and have been joined by Samoan additions. See the article in the Samoanische Zeitung, 20 January 1906, announcing the Kaiser’s birthday celebrations: ‘As in former years, the anniversary of the birthday of His Imperial Majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm II, will be celebrated on the 26th and 27th, with the usual functions and festivities’ (my italics). Quoted in Zur Erinnerung an die Festlichkeiten, n.p. For vivid descriptions of ta’alolo of the period, see Siegfried Genthe, Samoa: Reiseschilderungen (Berlin: Allg. Verein für Dt. Literatur, 1908), 175f.; and Frank Lenwood, Pastels from the Pacific (London: Humphrey Milford and Oxford University Press, 1917), 56–9. Schulz went so far as to have himself tattooed in the Samoan fashion. See Hans Fischer, Warum Samoa? Touristen und Tourismus in der Südsee (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer 1984), 274–5, who cites N. A. Rowe, Samoa under the Sailing Gods (London and New York: Putnam, 1930), 85. The reference here is Erving Goffman’s concept of frame analysis, keying being the procedure whereby conceptual frames are changed. See his Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organisation of Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1974). See here the recent publication: Bilder aus dem Paradies: Koloniale Fotografie aus 1875–1925, ed. Jutta Beate Engelhard and Peter Mesenhöller (Cologne: Gesellschaft für Völkerkunde, 1995). Augustin Krämer, Die Samoa-Inseln: Entwurf einer Monographie mit besonderer Berücksichtigung Deutsch-Samoas (Stuttgart, E. Schweizerbart, 1902–03), ii. 315. My translation. Samoanische Zeitung, 8 January 1910, n.p. At the outbreak of World War I, New Zealand sent a military force to Western Samoa and occupied the islands. The German administration capitulated without putting up any significant armed resistance. For a detailed account of this period, see Hermann J. Hiery, The Neglected War: The German South Pacific and the influence of World War I (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1995).

Chapter 6 Birds of Paradise: American-Pacific dramas of displacement 1. For a discussion of other theatrical representations of the Pacific resulting from US military and political involvement in the region in the early twentieth century, see Margaret Werry, ‘The Greatest Show on Earth: Spectacular Politics, Political Spectacle, and the American Pacific’, Theatre Journal 58:3 (2005), 4–35. 2. Homi Bhabha, ‘The Postcolonial and the Postmodern: The Question of Agency’, in his The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994). 3. Despite the play’s popularity, there is very little literature on it. An early discussion of the play and its fortunes can be found in a now out-of-print account of Hawai‘i and the Pacific, Anatomy of Paradise, by the social historian and novelist J. C. Furnas, first published in 1937 and revised in 1948: Anatomy of Paradise:

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234 Notes

4.

5. 6. 7.

8. 9.

10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17.

18.

235

Hawai‘i and the Islands of the South Seas, rev. edn (New York: W. Sloane Associates, 1948). Jane C. Desmond provides a brief analysis in her study of hula, Staging Tourism: Bodies on Display from Waikiki to Sea World (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999), 65–6. For a more detailed discussion, see my article ‘Selling the Bird: Richard Walton Tully’s The Bird of Paradise and the Dynamics of Theatrical Commodification’, Theatre Journal, 57:1 (2005), 1–20. Richard Walton Tully, ‘A Bird of Paradise: An American play in three acts’, no place (1911). All quotations are from the typescript held in the Library of Congress, page references are given in parenthesis in the text. This appears to be the only extant copy. The indefinitive article of the title was later changed to ‘The Bird of Paradise’. Anon., ‘Bird of Paradise has Scenic Beauty’, The New York Times, 9 January 1912, VIII. 4. The Times, 21 August,1919, 8, col. d. On the eve of the London production, The Times reported that in the previous season, i.e., 1918–19, it brought in receipts of over £40,000, which converts to approximately $100,000 at the exchange rate of the time. The Times, ibid. See J. C. Furnas, Anatomy of Paradise: Hawai‘i and the Islands of the South Seas, rev. edn (New York: W. Sloane Associates, 1948), 416. Fendler v Morosco, Opinion of Court of Appeals of New York, 18 March 1930, 16. Source: . Accessed 6 April 2002. Hawaiian slack key guitar (ki ho’alu) is a unique acoustic guitar tradition developed in the islands. In this tradition, the strings (or ‘keys’) are adjusted or ‘slacked’ to produce many different tunings and the characteristic lingering sound. See Tim Gracyk and Frank Hoffmann, Popular American Recording Pioneers, 1895–1925 (New York, London and Oxford: The Haworth Press, 2000), 117–19. Also significant, according to the authors, was the appearance in 1915 of Keoki Awai’s Royal Hawaiian Quartette at the Panama-Pacific International Exhibition in San Francisco. In late 1915 Victor began issuing Hawaiian discs on a monthly basis. According to Library of Congress records, the poster was produced between 1936 and 1941. An exact date of the production is not given. There had of course been sporadic hula performances on the mainland before then; for an account, see Desmond, Staging Tourism, ch. 3. Marguerite Courteney, Laurette (New York: Atheneum, 1966), 113. Ibid., 113–14. In her determined pursuit of cultural authenticity, Taylor managed to acquire something like a Hawaiian accent which, in the ‘eyes’ of some reviewers, was detrimental to her diction. In a feature article on her in the New York Times, she relates how she cultivated the accent: ‘When I accepted the role [Tully] told me that the Hawaiian women were soft-spoken, that they fondled the vowels like all warm-climate people, and that they dropped the t’s and the d’s. And another friend said that Hawaiian women always seemed to be apologizing when they spoke in English. So I took all of the suggestions, and that’s why Luana speaks as she does.’ ‘Laurette Taylor Confesses: Actress Discusses Her Hawaiian Role and tells of Her Ambitions’, The New York Times, 9 January 1912, VII. 8. Furnas, Anatomy of Paradise, 115. Tully’s ‘expertise’ in matters of Hawaiian culture had been acquired in the course of two visits to the islands, one of which was financed by an advance from Morosco on the strength of the original scenario. The 1932 version was an RKO Radio production, produced by David O. Selznick. The rights to the stage play had been purchased by his predecessor at RKO

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Notes

19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31.

32.

33.

W. LeBaron. It was filmed again in 1952, directed by Delmer Daves, and featuring Louis Jourdan as a French sailor who falls in love with the sister (Debra Paget) of his Polynesian friend (Jeff Chandler). The similarity with the original is again the volcanic sacrifice. For the term ‘salvage paradigm’, see Chapter 7, note 18. Tully, ‘The Bird of Paradise’, 1. For an account of the coup d’état, see Gavan Daws, Shoal of Time: A History of the Hawaiian Islands (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1968). Cited in Fendler v Morosco, 13. See note 8. I do not want to argue that Tully was an active advocate of eugenics. His anxiety regarding racial ‘dilution’ with its attendant enervation of ‘the Anglo-Saxon race’ constitutes part of a wider set of beliefs that fed into the ‘science’ of eugenics. In his recent study, War against the Weak: Eugenics and America’s Plan to Create a Master Race (New York: Four Walls Eight Windows, 2003), Edwin Black demonstrates that the programme was not just racially motivated but was also directed at ‘inferior’ members of the ‘superior’ race, as the Nazi euthanasia programme so lethally demonstrated. Los Angeles Times, 12 September 1911, II. 5. See Robert J. C. Young, Colonial Desire: Hybridity in Theory, Culture and Race (London: Routledge, 1995). Melville’s anti-missionary diatribe can be found in Typee, ch. 26, where he excoriates the local American missionaries in Honolulu. Robert Lorin Calder, W. Somerset Maugham and the Quest for Freedom (London: Heineman, 1972), 138. See Neil Rennie, Far-Fetched Facts: The Literature of Travel and the Idea of the South Seas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 220. W. Somerset Maugham, ‘Rain’, in The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham (London: Heinemann, 1972), i. 38. For information on Colton and the background to the play, see Ward Morehouse, Matinee Tomorrow: Fifty Years of Our Theatre (New York: Whittlesey House, 1949), 194–5; and John Gassner, ‘Introduction’ to Rain, in Best American Plays, 1918–1958 (New York: Crown, 1961), 48. All quotations from the play refer to this edition, page references are given in parenthesis in the text. It was first published as Rain; a play in three acts, founded on W. Somerset Maugham’s story, ‘Miss Thompson’, by John Colton and Clemence Randolph (New York: Boni & Liveright, 1923). The passage in question reads: ‘Most of all we would need to intensify the illusion in reconstructing the environments, less for their picturesque quality than for their dramatic utility. The environment must determine the character.’ Émile Zola, ‘Naturalism in the theatre’, trans. Albert Bermel, in Eric Bentley (ed.), The Theory of the Modern Stage (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968), 368. It is perhaps not irrelevant to note that the real Sadie Thompson was deported back to Honolulu not for her past life as a prostitute or her flirtations with US Marines, but because she evidenced an inordinate interest in the local Samoan men. She even propositioned a local policeman. For an account of William Jennings Bryan and the Monkey Trial of 1925, see Sprague De Camp, The Great Monkey Trial (New York: Doubleday, 1968). The case returned to public consciousness in 1955 against the background of McCarthyism when the play Inherit the Wind by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee was premiered in Dallas, Texas, before transferring to New York. It was filmed in 1960, starring Spencer Tracy and Fredric March.

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236 Notes

237

34. For an account of moral ‘backsliding’ among the missionaries, see Niel Gunson, Messengers of Grace: Evangelical Missionaries in the South Seas. 1797–1860 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), 152–9. 35. Colton’s only other notable success was the melodrama The Shanghai Gesture (1926), which was filmed by Josef von Sternberg in 1941 with Gene Tierney in the leading role. 36. Morehouse, Matinee Tomorrow, 196. 37. John Corbin, ‘Rain’, New York Times, 8 November 1922, 18. 38. Gassner, ‘Introduction’ to Rain, in Best American Plays, 48. 39. A. Barnstone, et al. (eds.) The Calvinist Roots of the Modern Era (Hanover and London: University Press of New England 1997), xxi. 40. See Donald Denoun et al. (eds) The Cambridge History of the Pacific Islanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 314–15. See also the attempt to reconstruct the indigenous response to the Pacific war in: The Pacific Theater: Island Representations of World War II, ed. Geoffrey M. White and Lamont Lindstrom, Pacific Islands Monograph Series, no. 8, (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1989). 41. Not only did the stories win the Pulitzer Prize, but so too did the musical play. The film version, also directed by Joshua Logan, was linked with technical innovations, such as the use of Todd-AO and Cinemascope and colour filters. For a discussion of these and other media-related ‘breakthroughs’, see Philip D. Beidler, ‘South Pacific and American Remembering; or, “Josh, We’re Going to Buy This Son of a Bitch!”’, Journal of American Studies, 27:2 (1993), 207–22. 42. See Patricia McGhee, ‘South Pacific Revisited: Were we Carefully Taught or Reinforced?’, Journal of Ethnic Studies, 15:4 (1988), 125–30; here 129, note 8; and Beidler, ‘South Pacific and American Remembering’, for a discussion of the various technological innovations associated with South Pacific. 43. Bruce A. McConachie, ‘The “Oriental” Musicals of Rodgers and Hammerstein and the U.S. War in Southeast Asia’, in Marc Maufort (ed.), Cultural Pluralism in American Theatre and Drama (New York: Peter Lang, 1995), 57–74. 44. See Burgin’s discussion with Homi Bhabha in Visualizing Theory: Selected Essays from Visual Anthropology Review, 1990–94, ed. Lucien Taylor (New York: Routledge), 453. 45. On this point, see Beidler, who argues that Michener’s Tales reveal not only the ‘terse authority’ of the eye-witness but also intertextual debts to Melville, Maugham, Conrad, Stevenson and others, as well as the genre of the pre-war South Seas adventure movie; Beidler, ‘South Pacific and American Remembering’, 209–11. 46. Jonathan Culler, ‘Semiotics of Tourism’, American Journal of Semiotics, 1:1 (1981), 127. 47. James A. Michener, Tales of the South Pacific (London: Corgi Books, 1964), 157. 48. South Pacific, in Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, 6 Plays by Rodgers and Hammerstein (New York: Random House 1953). Page references to quotations will be indicated in brackets after the citation. 49. See the next chapter for a more detailed discussion of Bhabha’s theory of colonial mimicry. 50. Michener, Tales, 157–8. 51. The replacement of indigenous culture with signs of an Asian or ‘Oriental’ presence is reinforced in the stage version of the musical. The opening scene direction, describing the setting of Emile De Becque’s plantation, specifies a ‘teakwood pagoda’, presumably a shrine for the Tonkinese labourers: Rodgers and Hammerstein, South Pacific, 273.

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Notes

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

Michener,Tales, 164. Ibid. Ibid., 165. Ibid. Ibid., 168. Ibid. Ibid., 177. See McGhee, ‘South Pacific Revisited’; note 50. For a lavishly illustrated account of the visual culture of ‘Polynesian Pop’, see Sven A. Kirsten, The Book of Tiki: The Cult of Polynesian Pop in Fifties America (Cologne: Taschen, 2000).

Chapter 7 ‘As you always imagined it’: the Pacific as tourist spectacle 1. The official guide distributed in 1996, for example, featured prominently two attractive young women engaged in manufacturing tapa cloth. On the PCC Home Page we find the claim: ‘Visitors can experience the charm and beauty of seven authentically recreated South Pacific Island villages in just one day at the Polynesian Cultural Center’: http://www.polynesia.com/pcc/Info/Fact.html. Last accessed, 22 July 2004. 2. Dean MacCannell, ‘Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings’, Journal of American Sociology, 79:3 (1973), 589–603. MacCannell argues that the various forms of constructed tourist attractions dissolve the clear dichotomy between ‘staged’ and ‘authentic’, or between ‘front’ and ‘back’ situations as Erving Goffman terms them. In reality one should speak of a continuum linking the ideal poles of ‘staged’ and ‘authentic’ with at least four intermediary or crossover categories between them (598). These categories are by no means immutable because the insatiable tourist appetite for ‘sights’ seems to provoke redefinitions of space to cater for this need. 3. For anthropological perspectives, see particularly Nelson Graburn (ed.) Ethnic and Tourist Arts: Cultural Expressions from the Fourth World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976); and Valene L. Smith (ed.), Hosts and Guests: The Anthropology of Tourism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989). 4. Richard Schechner, Between Theatre and Anthropology (Philadelphia: Pennsylvania University Press, 1985), particularly chs 1 and 2. The most prominent performance studies scholar in this area is probably Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture: Tourism, Museums, and Heritage (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1998). Jane Desmond’s study of tourist destinations in Hawai‘i, Staging Tourism: Bodies on Display from Waikiki to Sea World (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999), is also an exemplary combination of performance and cultural studies. 5. The following analysis is based on a succession of visits to the Center since the early 1990s. Visits took place in 1992, 1996, 1998 and 2000. As the performances and exhibits are regularly changed, some of the observations may no longer correspond with the current offerings. 6. Terry Webb, ‘Highly Structured Tourist Art: Form and Meaning of the Polynesian Cultural Center’, The Contemporary Pacific, 6:1 (1994), 59–86; here 73. Webb is a Hawai‘i-based anthropologist who has devoted much research to the PCC. A Mormon view is provided by Max E. Stanton, ‘The Polynesian Cultural Center:

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238 Notes

7.

8.

9.

10.

11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

16. 17.

239

A Multi-Ethnic Model of Seven Pacific Cultures’, in Valene E. Smith (ed.), Hosts and Guests, 247–62. Stanton is a faculty member of the adjoining Brigham Young University. He argues that the PCC is constructed around the notion of ‘a model culture’ portraying ‘the best of those tangible, believable aspects of Polynesian culture with which the tourist can identify’ (251). See also James Whitehead, ‘The Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawai‘i, Journal of American Culture, 12:1 (Spring 1989), 1–6. Whitehead argues that the Mormon faith has had a beneficial effect on encouraging Polynesian dance forms at the Center in comparison to the early missionary repression of dance. For a more elaborate typology, see Smith, Hosts and Guests. I am principally concerned with those involving formalized performative elements in a crosscultural situation. Hence the commercially important theatre tourism involving organized trips to musicals and opera in Europe and the United States is not of interest here. See Schechner, Between Theater, ch. 2. Schechner differentiates this category into theme parks (Disneyland, Land of Oz), museum villages mixing fantasy and history (little or no authenticity factor) and historical museum villages concerned with presenting authentic recreations. The recreation of the historical past is either nostaglia-driven and/or concerned with cementing and staging myths of foundation. For a list, see Andrew Ross, The Chicago Gangster Theory of Life: Nature’s Debt to Society (London: Verso, 1994), ch. 1 ‘Cultural Preservation in the Polynesia of the Latter-Day Saints’, 44. In this chapter Ross provides arguably the most perceptive and critical assessment of the PCC published to date, in addition to a wide-ranging discussion of the cultural idea of the Pacific today. This text is based on a transcript of performances recorded on videotape by the author, on 14 April 1996 and March 1998. Although the performer was different, the text was the same except for minor details. My observation of performances on several different occasions suggests, however, that a representative ethnic cross-section of the audience is aimed at. Fanon’s ideas on mimicry are most succinctly formulated in his psychological study, Black Skin White Masks, trans. Charles L. Markman (1956, tr.1967; New York: Grove Weidenfeld, 1982). Homi Bhabha, ‘Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse’, in his The Location of Culture, (London: Routledge, 1994), 91. See also the discussion of mimicry in Chapter 1 in this volume. See Henry Louis Gates Jr., The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of African-American Literary Criticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). I would like to thank Marvin Carlson for drawing my attention to the similarity between the Polynesian performances and Gates’s theory. As mentioned in the previous chapter, there is little doubt that present perceptions of the Pacific in the West have been decisively influenced by the Allied– Japanese conflict in World War II. The Japanese invasion of the Pacific and its attempt to established a new sphere of influence was not just an invasion in military terms, but it signalled a geopolitical realignment of a great magnitude for the Pacific. The idea of Asia in the Pacific has today even more significance, although now in economic and cultural terms. For the term ‘Fourth World’, see Graburn, Ethnic and Tourist Arts, 1976. Both cultures have experienced intensive cultural revivals over the past decade, as suggested in Chapter 4. For an assessment of the Hawaiian cultural renaissance,

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Notes

18.

19. 20. 21.

22.

23.

24.

25.

26.

27. 28.

29.

see Elisabeth Buck, Paradise Remade: The Politics of Culture and History in Hawai‘i (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1993). See James Clifford, ‘Of Other Peoples: Beyond the “Salvage” Paradigm’, The Politics of Representations, ed. Hal Foster (Seattle: Bay Press, 1987), 121–50; here 121. See Webb, ‘Highly Structured Tourist Art’, and Stanton, ‘The Polynesian Cultural Center’, who both note the use of anthropologists from BYU. Diana Taylor, The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas (Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press, 2003), 19. Jonathan Culler, ‘Semiotics of Tourism’, The American Journal of Semiotics, 1:1/2 (1981), 127; see also John Frow, ‘Tourism and the Semiotics of Nostalgia’, October, 57 (1991), 125. John Urry notes: ‘Indeed acting as a tourist is one of the defining characteristics of being “modern” and is bound up with major transformations in paid work.’ The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies (London: Sage, 1990), 2f. MacCannell links the feelings of ‘shallowness’ and ‘inauthenticity’ of the ‘moderns’ with their interest in ‘the sacred in primitive society’; ‘Staged Authenticity’, 589f. Frow defines tourism among other things as a quest for an authentic domain of being: ‘It is thus a marker of the spiritual self-reflexivity of modernity and directly parallel to the self-consciousness of intellectuals about their own alienation’; Frow, ‘Tourism’, 129. There is in addition an IMAX cinema on site, which varies the Polynesian theme in another medium. Andrew Ross notes: ‘I was intrigued by the contradictory presence of this massive high-tech film complex on a site dedicated to theatrical ex-primitivism’; ‘Cultural Preservation’, 81. The IMAX cinema features very prominently in all the publicity material and is evidently considered by the management to be a major draw-card. The shift in gender roles from the aggressive male Maori warrior to the demure, domesticated Polynesian women underlines basically traditional topoi in the history of European perceptions and iconography of Polynesians. There is certainly no attempt to represent contemporary roles. A recent brochure from 2004 highlights a Tahitian female dancer, one of the oldest Pacific topoi. See: http://www.polynesia.com/travel_agents/brochures_images.html. Last accessed 22 July, 2004. Pacific Island students make up in fact only about 30 per cent of students at the BYU campus and most are of Hawaiian origin. See Ross, ‘Cultural Preservation’, 44. See Webb on the function of the Marquesas as a symbol of cultural destruction. Since the publication of his article the Marquesan village has developed an elaborate performance routine involving a mock pig hut where (male) tourists are able to ‘hunt and kill’ a pig played by a Marquesan villager. Ross, ‘Cultural Preservation’, 51. By performative sign I mean more than the conventional definition of the sign in theatre semiotics, which views all signs on stage as signs of signs and is thus a special form of fictionalization. A performative sign is defined by its dependency on human agency and is closer to what Judith Butler, expanding on speech act theory, defines as performativity: the process of reiteration and with it, the potential for different modes of subjectivity. The term epistemological framing is derived from the notion elaborated by Erving Goffman that all social behaviour requires conceptual and perceptual frames within which human beings agree to regulate fundamental modes of behaviour.

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240 Notes

241

Goffman’s classic definition is as follows: ‘I assume that definitions of a situation are built up in accordance with principles of organization which govern events – at least social ones – and our subjective involvement in them; frame is the word I use to refer to such of these basic elements as I am able to identify.’ Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1974), 10. 30. See Frederik Errington and Deborah Gwertz, ‘Tourism and Anthropology in a Post-Modern World’, Oceania, 60:1 (1989), 37–54; here 49. The ‘hazers’ are the four members of the initiation ritual who carry out the procedure, consisting mainly of berating and humiliating the initiates. 31. Ross, ‘Cultural Preservation’, 47.

Chapter 8 Translocations and transgressions: the postcolonial Pacific 1. Although it is difficult to establish a fixed set of criteria for postcolonial theatre, the two fullest studies of the phenomenon, Helen Gilbert and Joanne Tompkins, Post-Colonial Drama: Theory, Practice, Politics (London: Routledge, 1996); and Christopher Balme, Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-Colonial Drama (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), independently of each other identify shared formal strategies. 2. For a detailed discussion of the term ‘syncretic theatre’, see Christopher B. Balme, Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-Colonial Drama (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1999). 3. These plays represent only a fraction of the production of Pacific Island drama produced over the past decade. The most detailed survey to date is the Germanlanguage dissertation by Astrid Betz, Die Inszenierung der Südsee, pt 3. See also Christopher Balme and Astrid Carstensen, ‘Home Fires: Creating a Pacific Theatre in the Diaspora’, Theatre Research International 26:1 (2001), 35–46; David O’Donnell and Bronwyn Tweddle, ‘Naked Samoans: Pacific Island Voices in the Theatre of Aotearoa/New Zealand’, Performance Research, 8:1 (2003), 51–60; David O’Donnell and Bronwyn Tweddle, ‘Toa Fraser: Shifting Boundaries in Pacific Island Comedy’, Australasian Drama Studies, 42 (April 2003), 123–37. For an account of the Hawai‘i scene, see Dennis Carroll, ‘Hawai‘i’s “Local” Theatre’, The Drama Review, 44:2 (2000), 123–51. 4. James Clifford, ‘Diasporas’, Cultural Anthropology, 9:3 (1994), 302–338; here 311. 5. See, for example, Emmanuel S. Nelson (ed.), Writers of the Indian Diaspora: A BioBibliographical Critical Sourcebook (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1993). There has been little research into the specifics of theatre in diasporic situations. A first attempt can be found in the special number of Theatre Journal, 50:1 (March 1998), ‘Theatre, Diaspora and the Politics of Home’, ed. Loren Kruger. 6. The term diaspora should not be restricted to Pacific Island migrants. The Indian population in Fiji constitutes a diaspora as do the various Chinese populations in the Pacific. 7. All but one of the island states named here (Tonga) were either colonial territories or protectorates of New Zealand and enjoy the status of a ‘special relationship’ to the former colonial power. 8. See Christopher Balme, ‘New Maori Theatre in New Zealand’, Australasian Drama Studies, 15/16 (1989/90), 149–66.

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Notes

9. John Kneubuhl, Think of a Garden and Other Plays (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997), 23. Page references to further citations will be given in brackets. 10. For the production in Wellington, the Samoan-born director Nathaniel Lees won the prestigious Chapman Tripp Theatre Award for Best Director. 11. It’s mission statement reads: ‘Pacific Underground’s aims and objectives include: to use the entertainment industry to tell the stories of Pacific Islanders who live here to create an awareness of issues facing them, to promote the talents of young Polynesian artists, and to develop Polynesian Theatre which is accessible to the whole community, Polynesian and non-Polynesian.’ Since 1992 it has produced theatre in education shows as well as acclaimed main bills such as Fresh Off The Boat, Sons, and A Frigate Bird Sings. Zeal Theatre is a theatre company founded in 1988 which creates original, devised productions dealing with relevant social issues for a cross-section of Australian society. 12. Goffman notes: ‘Expecting to take up a position in a well-framed realm, he finds that no particular frame is immediately applicable, or the frame that he thought was applicable no longer seems to be.    He loses command over the formulation of viable response. He flounders.’ Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organisation of Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1974), 378f. 13. All quotations from Tatau are transcripts from a videotape of the production, kindly provided by Pacific Underground. 14. Alfred Gell, Wrapping in Images: Tattooing in Polynesia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 97. 15. Ibid., 93f. 16. Henceforth the word fa’afafine will be used as an overall term and not just as a designation of and for Samoan transgendered persons. 17. For a detailed discussion of the category, see Niko Besnier, ‘Polynesian Gender Liminality Through Time and Space’, in Gilbert Herdt (ed.), Third Sex, Third Gender: Beyond Sexual Dimorphism in Culture and History (New York: Zone Books, 1994), 285–328. For a discussion within the context of cross-dressing, see also Laurence Senelick, The Changing Room: Sex, Drag and Theatre (London: Routledge, 2000), 460–1. 18. Denis Diderot, ‘Supplement to Bougainville’s Voyage or Dialogue between A and B’, in Diderot Interpreter of Nature: Selected Writings, trans. Jean Stewart and Jonathan Kemp (Westport, CT: Hyperion Press, 1937; rep. 1979), 160. 19. George Mortimer, Observations and remarks made during a voyage to the islands of Teneriffe, Amsterdam, Maria’s Islands near van Diemen’s land, Otaheite, Sandwich Islands, Owhyee, the Fox Islands on the North West Coast of America, Tinian, and from thence to Canton (Dublin 1791; facs. edn., Amsterdam: N. Israel and Da Capo Press, 1975), 47. 20. Referring to the inhabitants of the Friendly Isles (Tonga), Forster notes: ‘The outlines of their bodies are not so beautifully feminine, as those of the chiefs in the Society-Isles [i.e. Tahiti, C.B.]’ J. Forster, Observations, ed. Nicholas Thomas et al. (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1996), 157. 21. See Lee Wallace, Sexual Encounters: Pacific Texts, Modern Textualities (Ithaca and ¯ see Stephen London: Cornell University Press, 2003). On Gauguin and the m¯ahu, F. Eisenman, Gauguin’s Skirt (London: Thames and Hudson, 1997). 22. See Bligh’s description of m¯ahu¯ in: William Bligh, The Log of the Bounty, 2 vols ed. and introduced by Owen Rutter (London: Golden Cockerel Press, 1937), ii. 17. 23. Bengt Danielsson, Love in the South Seas, trans. F. H. Lyon (London: Allen & Unwin, 1956).

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242 Notes

243

24. Bengt Danielsson et al., ‘Polynesia’s Third Sex: The Gay Life starts in the Kitchen’, Pacific Islands Monthly, 49:8 (August 1978), 10–13. 25. There is no space to chart the wider story of media representations of fa’afafine. Apart from a spate of magazine articles, two longer film documentaries contributed to publicizing and popularizing fa’afafine among television and film audiences: Fa’afafine: Queens of Samoa, directed by Caroline Harker, was first broadcast on New Zealand Television One, on 29 September 1995. For a critique, see Wallace, Sexual Encounters, ch. 6. The independently produced documentary film Paradise Bent: Boys will be Girls in Samoa was directed by the Australian-based filmmaker Heather Croall. It was shown around the world at various ethnographic and gay/lesbian film festivals before being broadcast on television in Australia and Europe. For a discussion, see Johanna Schmidt, ‘Redefining Fa’afafine: Western Discourses and the Construction of Transgenderism in Samoa’: http://www.the-sisterhood.net/transworldnews/id56.html. Last accessed 19 May 2006. 26. Oscar Kightley and David Fane, ‘A Frigate Bird Sings’, unpublished typescript, 1995, 1. The following analysis is based on the script and a video of the original production, recorded on 29 February 1996. 27. Ibid., 53. 28. Ibid. 29. Transcript of an interview with Nat Lees, Television New Zealand, 29 February 1996. 30. Niko Besnier, ‘Transgenderism, Locality, and the Miss Galaxy Beauty Pageant in Tonga’, American Ethnologist, 29:3 (2002), 534–66; here 534. The following remarks draw on Besnier’s article as well as video footage of the beauty pageant. My thanks to Niko Besnier for making this material available. 31. Ibid., 540. 32. See Jocelyn Linnekin, ‘Cultural Invention and the Dilemma of Authenticity’, American Anthropologist, 93:2 (1991), 446–9. 33. Within this ‘traditional’ frame there appears to be a comfortable coexistence between fa’afafine and women as well. Generally speaking, as Niko Besnier notes, Polynesian gender-liminal persons form friendship networks with other women in the first instance and not with men, Besnier, ‘Polynesian Gender Liminality’, 297. 34. Judith Butler, Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’ (New York and London: Routledge, 1993), 232. 35. Mary Ann Percy, ‘Having a fa’afafine Time in Samoa’, in the Sunday Star, 3 Feburary 2002, n.p. 36. Lisa Taouma in programme notes, cited in: http://www.in-transit.de/2003/ content/en/program/divasiva.html. Last accessed 19 April 2004. 37. For this argument, see O’Donnell and Tweddle, ‘Naked Samoans’; see note 3. On the fale aitu, see Caroline Sinavaiana, ‘Comic Theater in Samoa as Indigenous Media’, Pacific Studies, 15.4 (1992), 199–209. 38. Vilsoni Hereniko, ‘Clowning as Political Commentary: Polynesia, Then and Now’, Contemporary Pacific, 6:1 (1994), 1–28; here 13. 39. Donald Sloan, Polynesian Paradise: An Elaborated Travel Journal Based on Ethnological Facts (London: Robert Hale, 1941), 78. Cited in Hereniko, ‘Clowning as Political Commentary’, 13. 40. All citations from Naked Samoans Go Home are from a videotape of a live performance kindly provided by Armstrong Creative, whom I would like to thank for their assistance.

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Notes

244 Notes

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41. Laurie Atkinson, ‘Crazy Samoans Pack a Punch’, The Dominion Post, 26 September 2003: http://www.nakedsamoans.com/reviews.html. Last accessed 24 April 2005. 42. There is still little scholarly discussion of Mau. See their website: www.mau.co.nz. 43. The use of Maori rituals of encounter in performance was pioneered by the Maori theatre movement in the 1980s. See my book, Decolonizing the Stage, especially chs 2 and 7.

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Selected Bibliography

Primary sources Anonymous, Nocturnal Revels: or, The History of King’s-Place and other Modern Nunneries containing their Mysteries, Devotions, and Sacrifices. Comprising also, the Ancient and Present State of Promiscuous Gallantry: with the Portraits of the most Celebrated Demi-reps and Courtesans of this Period: as well as Sketches of their Professional and Occassional Admirers. By a Monk of the Order of St. Francis. 2 vols (London: Goadby, 1779). Arnould, Jean-François Mussot, La Mort du Capitaine Cook, à son troisieme voyage au Nouveau Monde. Pantomime en quatre actes (Paris: Lagrange, 1788). ——, The Death of Captain Cook: A Grand Serious-Pantomimic-Ballet, In Three Parts. As now exhibiting in Paris with uncommon Applause with the original French Music, New Scenery, Machinery, and other Decorations (London: T. Cadell, 1789). Colton, John and Randolph, Clemence, Rain, in John Gassner (ed.), Best American Plays: Supplementary Volume, 1918–1958 (New York: Crown Publishers, 1961). Hammerstein, Oscar and Joshua Logan, South Pacific, in Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, 6 plays by Rodgers and Hammerstein (New York: Random House, 1953). Hassell, Gladys M., The Ship of Peace: A South Sea Dialogue for three adults, three boys and two girls (London: The Livingstone Press, no date). O’Keeffe, John, A Short Account of the New Pantomime called Omai, or, A Trip round the World; performed at the Theatre-Royal in Covent Garden (London: T. Cadell, 1785). Kightley, Oscar, and Fane, David, ‘A Frigate Bird Sings’, unpublished typescript (Wellington: Playmarket, 1995). Kneubuhl, John, Think of a Garden and Other Plays (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997). Kotzebue, Augustus von, La Perouse: A Drama in Two Acts, trans. Benjamin Thomson (London: Vernor & Hood, 1799). ——, Schauspiele, ed. Jörg Matthes (Frankfurt a.M.: Athenäum, 1972). Parry, Rev. Hugh, Ship Ahoy! The Story of the Missionary Ships John Williams I. to IV: A Demonstration for Boys (London: Missionary Society, no date). ‘The John Williams Tableaux: Pioneer Missionary to the South Seas, 1817–1839: Stage Plans and Prolocutor’s Notes’. Typescript (London: Livingstone Press, 1933). Tully, Richard Walton, ‘The Bird of Paradise. A Love Story of Hawai‘i. Unpublished MS. 1911. Vassallo, Umilissimo, Cook o sia Gl’Inglesi in Othaiti Dramma per Musica (Naples, 1785).

Secondary sources Anderson, Benedict, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 4th edn (London: Verso, 1987). Arago, J., Souvenirs d’un Aveugle. Voyage autour du monde par M.J. Arago Ouvrage enrichi de soixante Dessins et de Notes Scientifiques (Paris: Hortet et Ozanne, 1839). 245

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Further sources are cited in the notes.

——, Narrative of a Voyage round the world in the Uranie and Physicienne Corvettes, commanded by Captain Freycinet, during the years 1817, 1818, 1819, and 1820, on a scientific expedition undertaken by order of the French government. In a series of letters to a friend (First pub. London 1823; repr. Amsterdam: N. Israel & Da Capo Press, 1971). Bal, Mieke, Travelling Concepts in the Humanities: A Rough Guide (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002). Balme, Christopher B., ‘Selling the Bird: Richard Walton Tully’s The Bird of Paradise and the Dynamics of Theatrical Commodification’, Theatre Journal, 57:1 (2005), 1–20. ——, ‘Metaphors of Spectacle: Theatricality, Perception and Performative Encounters in the Pacific’, in Erika Fischer-Lichte et al. (eds), Wahrnehmung und Medialität (Tübingen and Basel: Francke, 2001), 215–31. ——, ‘Sexual Spectacles: Theatricality and the Performance of Sex in Early Encounters in the Pacific’, TDR: The Drama Review, 44: 4 (T168) (Winter 2000), 67–85. ——, Decolonizing the Stage: Theatrical Syncretism and Post-Colonial Drama (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1999). ——, ‘Staging the Pacific: Framing Authenticity in Performances for Tourists at the Polynesian Cultural Center’, in Theatre Journal, 50 (1998), 53–70. Barish, Jonas, The Antitheatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981). Barnstone, A., Manson, M. T., and Singley, C. J. (eds), The Calvinist Roots of the Modern Era (Hanover and London: University Press of New England, 1997). Barradale, Victor Arnold, Pearls of the Pacific: Being Sketches of Missionary Life and Work in Samoa and Other Islands in the South Seas (London: LMS 1907). Barrère, Dorothy B., Pukui, Mary K., and Kelly, M., Hula: Historical Perspectives (Honolulu: Bernice Pauahi Bishop Museum, 1980). Beaglehole J. C. (ed.), The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyages of Discovery: The Voyage of the Endeavour 1768–1771 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1955). ——, (ed.), The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks, 1768–1771, 2 vols (Sydney: Angus & Robertson 1962). ——, (ed.), The Voyage of the Resolution and Adventure, 1772–1775 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961). ——, (ed.), The Journals of Captain James Cook on his Voyage of Discovery, 1776–1780 (Cambridge: Hakluyt Society 1967). Beckwith, Martha, ‘The Hawaiian Hula-Dance’, Journal of American Folklore, 29:113, (1916), 409–12. Beidler, Philip D., ‘South Pacific and American Remembering; or, “Josh, we’re Going to Buy this Son of a Bitch!” ’, Journal of American Studies, 27:2 (1993), 207–22. Bennett, Tony, ‘The Exhibitionary Complex’, New Formations, 4 (Spring 1988), 73–102. Besnier, Nico, ‘Polynesian Gender Liminality Through Time and Space’, in Gilbert Herdt (ed.), Third Sex, Third Gender: Beyond Sexual Dimorphism in Culture and History (New York: Zone Books, 1994), 285–328. ——, ‘Transgenderism, Locality, and the Miss Galaxy Beauty Pageant in Tonga’, American Ethnologist, 29:3 (2002), 534–66. Betz, Astrid, Die Inszenierung der Südsee: Untersuchung zur Konstruktion von Authentizität im Theater (Munich: Herbert Utz, 2003). Bhabha, Homi, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge 1994). Bingham, Hiram, A Residence of 21 Years in the Sandwich Islands; on the Civil, Religious, and Political History of those Islands (New York: Praeger Publishers 1969). Bligh, William, The Log of the Bounty, ed. and introduced by Owen Rutter, 2 vols (London: Golden Cockerel Press, 1937).

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246 Selected Bibliography

Borofsky, Robert (ed.), Remembrance of Pacific Pasts: An Invitation to Remake History (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000). Bougainville, Louis-Antoine de, A Voyage Round the World Performed by Order of his most Christian Majesty in the Years 1766, 1767, 1768 and 1769, trans. John Reinhold Forster (London: Nourse & Davies, 1772). Bruckner, Sierra Ann, ‘The Tingle-Tangle of Modernity: Popular Anthropology and the Cultural Politics of Identity in Imperial Germany’, PhD thesis (University of Iowa, 1999). Buck, Elizabeth, Paradise Remade: The Politics of Culture and History in Hawai‘i (Philadelphia: Temple University Press 1993). Butler, Judith, Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’ (New York: Routledge, 1993). Burder, George, Lawful Amusements: A Sermon, preached at the Thursday-Evening Lecture Fetter Lane January 10, 1805 (London: Biggs, 1805). Clifford, James, ‘Of Other Peoples: Beyond the “Salvage” Paradigm’, in Hal Foster (ed.), The Politics of Representations (Seattle: Bay Press, 1987), 121–50. Cook, Captain James, A Voyage Towards the South Pole, and Round the World. Performed in His Majesty’s Ships the Resolution and Adventure, in the years 1772, 1773, 1774, and 1775, 2 vols, 3rd edn (London: Strahan & Cadell, 1779). ——, Cook, James, and King, James, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean; Undertaken by Command of his Majesty for making Discoveries in the Northern Hemisphere, 3 vols (London: T. Cadell, 1784). Culler, Jonathan, ‘The Semiotics of Tourism’, The American Journal of Semiotics, 1:1/2 (1981), 127–40. Davis, Tracy, and Postlewait, Thomas (eds), Theatricality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). Daws, Gavan, Shoal of Time: History of the Hawaiian Islands (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1968). Desmond, Jane C., Staging Tourism: Bodies on Display from Waikiki to Sea World (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999). Dening, Greg, Performances (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996). ——, Mr. Bligh’s bad language: Passion, Power and Theatre on the Bounty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). ——, ‘The Theatricality of History Making and the Paradoxes of Acting’, Cultural Anthropology, 8:1 (1993), 73–95. ——, ‘Writing, Rewriting the Beach: An Essay’, Rethinking History, 2:2 (1998), 143–72. Diderot, Denis, ‘Supplement to Bougainville’s Voyage’, in Jonathan Kemp (ed.), Diderot Interpreter of Nature: Selected Writings, trans. Jean Stewart and Jonathan Kemp (Westport, CT: Hyperion Press 1937; repr. 1979). Edmond, Rod, Representing the South Pacific: Colonial Discourse from Cook to Gauguin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). Emerson, Nathaniel B., Unwritten Literature of Hawai‘i: The Sacred Songs of the Hula (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1909). Engelhard, Jutta Beate, and Mesenhöller, Peter (eds), Bilder aus dem Paradies: Koloniale Fotografie aus 1875–1925 (Cologne: Gesellschaft für Völkerkunde, 1995). Fischer-Lichte, Erika, ‘Theatricality: A Key Concept in Theatre and Cultural Studies’, Theatre Research International, 20:2 (1995), 85–9. Fiske, Roger, English Theatre Music in the Eighteenth Century (London: Oxford University Press 1973). Forster, George, A Voyage round the World, in His Britannic Majesty’s Resolution. Commanded by Capt. James Cook, during the years 1772, 3, 4, and 5, 2 vols (London: B. White 1777).

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Selected Bibliography 247

——, A Voyage round the World, in His Britannic Majesty’s Resolution. Commanded by Capt. James Cook, during the years 1772, 3, 4, and 5, ed. Nicholas Thomas and Oliver Berghof, 2 vols (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000). Forster, Johann, Reinhold, Observations made during a Voyage round the World, ed. Nicholas Thomas, Harriet Guest and Michael Dettelbach (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1996). Furnas, J. C., Anatomy of Paradise: Hawai‘i and the Islands of the South Seas, rev. edn (New York: W. Sloane Associates, 1948). Gell, Alfred, Wrapping in Images: Tattooing in Polynesia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). Greenblatt, Stephen, Marvellous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992). Gunson, Niel, Messengers of Grace: Evangelical Missionaries in the South Seas, 1797–1860 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978). Hawkesworth, John (ed.), An Account of the Voyages undertaken by the order of his present Majesty for making Discoveries in the Southern Hemisphere, and successively performed by Commodore Byron, Captain Wallis, Captain Cateret, and Captain Cook, in the Dolphin, the Swallow, and the Endeavour: drawn up from the Journals which were kept by the several Commanders, And from the Papers of Joseph Banks, Esq., 3 vols (London: W. Strahan & T. Cadell, 1773). Hereniko, Vilsoni, ‘Clowning as Political Commentary: Polynesia, Then and Now’, Contemporary Pacific, 6:1 (1994), 1–28. Hiery, Hermann, Joseph, Das deutsche Reich in der Südsee (1900–1921): Eine Annäherung an die Efahrungen verschiedener Kulturen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995). Hoare, Michael E. (ed.), The Resolution Journal of Johann R. Forster, 1772–1775, 2 vols (London: Hakluyt Society, 1982). Hobsbawm, Eric, and Terence Ranger (eds), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). Huggan, Graham, The Postcolonial Exotic: Marketing the Margins (London: Routledge, 2001). Jolly, Margaret, ‘From Point Venus to Bali Ha’i: Eroticism and Exoticism in Representations of the Pacific’, in Geneve Manderson and Margaret Jolly (ed.), Sites of Desire: Economies of Pleasure: Sexualities in Asia and the Pacific (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). Kaeppler, Adrienne L., Polynesian Dance: With a Selection for Contemporary Performance (Honolulu: Alpha Delta Kappa, 1983). Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara, Destination Culture: Tourism, Museums, and Heritage (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). Krämer, Augustin, Die Samoa-Inseln: Entwurf einer Monographie mit besonderer Berücksichtigung Deutsch-Samoas, 2 vols (Stuttgart. E. Schweizerbart, 1902–03). ——, Hawai‘i, Ostmikronesien und Samoa. Meine zweite Südseereise (1897–1899) zum Studium der Atolle und ihrer Bewohner (Stuttgart: Strecker & Schröder 1906). Lamb, Jonathan, Preserving the Self in the South Seas, 1680–1840 (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2001). Linnekin, Jocelyn, ‘Cultural Invention and the Dilemma of Authenticity’, American Anthropologist, 93:2 (1991), 446–9. ——, and Poyer, Lin (eds), Cultural Identity and Ethnicity in the Pacific (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1990). Loughnan, R. A., Royalty in New Zealand: The Visit of their Royal Highnesses The Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York, June 10th–27th 1901: A Descriptive Narrative (Wellington: John Mackay, Government Printing Office, 1902).

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248 Selected Bibliography

McConachie, Bruce, ‘The “Oriental” Musicals of Rodgers and Hammerstein and the War in Southeast Asia’, in Marc Maufort (ed.), Staging Difference: Cultural Pluralism in American Theatre and Drama (New York: Peter Lang, 1995). Meleisea, Malama, The Making of Modern Samoa: Traditional Authority and Colonial Administration in the History of Western Samoa (Suva, Fiji: Institute of Pacific Studies of the University of the South Pacific, 1987). Melville, Herman, ‘The South Seas’, in The Piazza Tales and other Prose Pieces, 1839– 1860 (Evanston and Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 1987). Moorehead, Alan, The Fatal Impact: An Account of the Invasion of the South Pacific, 1767–1840 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968). Mortimer, George, Observations and remarks made during a voyage to the islands of Teneriffe, Amsterdam, Maria’s Islands near van Diemen’s land, Otaheite, Sandwich Islands, Owhyee, the Fox Islands on the North West Coast of America, Tinian, and from thence to Canton (London, 1791; repr. Amsterdam: N. Israel & Da Capo Press: 1975). Moyle, Richard (ed.), The Samoan Journals of John Williams, 1830 and 1832 (Canberra: Australian National University Press, 1984). O’Donnell, David, and Tweddle, Bronwyn, ‘Naked Samoans: Pacific Island Voices in the Theatre of Aotearoa/New Zealand’, Performance Research, 8:1 (2003), 51–60. Oliver, Douglas, Ancient Tahitian Society, 3 vols (Canberra: Australian National University Press, 1974). Pagden, Anthony, European Encounters with the New World from Renaissance to Romanticism (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1993). Pearson, Bill, Rifled Sanctuaries: Some Views of the Pacific Islands in Western Literature to 1900 (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1984). Penny, Glenn H., and Bunzl, Matti (eds), Worldly Provincialism: German Anthropology in the Age of Empire (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press; 2003). Rennie, Neil, Far-Fetched Facts: The Literature of Travel and the Idea of the South Seas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). Roach, Joseph, Cities of the Dead: Circumatlantic Performance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996). Robertson, George, The Discovery of Tahiti: A Journal of the Second Voyage of the H.M. ’Dolphin’ round the World, 1766–1768, ed. Hugh Carrington (London: Hakluyt Society, 1948). Ross, Andrew, The Chicago Gangster Theory of Life: Nature’s debt to Society (London: Verso, 1994). Sahlins, Marshall, Islands of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985). ——, How ’Natives’ Think: About Captain Cook, for Example (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995). Said, Edward, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1978). Salmond, Anne, Two Worlds: First Meetings between Maori and Europeans, 1642–1772 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1991). ——, The Trial of the Cannibal Dog: Captain Cook in the South Seas (London: Allen Lane, 2003). Schechner, Richard, Between Theatre and Anthropology (Philadelphia: Pennsylvania University Press, 1985). Sharp, Andrew, The Voyages of Abel Janszoon Tasman (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968). Sharrad, Paul, ‘Imagining the Pacific’, Meanjin, 49:4 (1990), 597–606. Sinavaiana, Caroline, ‘Comic Theater in Samoa as Indigenous Media’, Pacific Studies, 15:4, (1992), 199–209. Smith, Bernard, European Vision and the South Pacific, 2nd edn (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985; first pub. 1960).

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Selected Bibliography 249

——, Imagining the Pacific: In the Wake of the Cook Voyages (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1992). Smith, Vanessa, Literary Culture and the Pacific. Nineteenth-Century Textual Encounters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Taillemite, Etienne (ed.), Bougainville et ses compagnons autour du monde 1766–1769: Journaux de navigation, 2 vols (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1977). Taussig, Michael, Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses (New York: Routledge, 1993). Taylor, Diana, The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas (Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press, 2003). Thode-Arora, Hilke, Für fünfzig Pfennig um die Welt. Die Hagenbeckschen Völkerschauen (Frankfurt am Main and New York: Campus, 1989). Thomas, Nicholas, In Oceania: Visions, Artifacts, Histories (Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press, 1997). ——, Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel and Government (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1994). ——, Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991). Vancouver, George, A Voyage of Discovery to the North Pacific Ocean, and Round the World; in which the coast of northwest America has been carefully examined and accurately surveyed; in three Volumes (1789; repr. Amsterdam & New York: N. Israel & Da Capo Press, 1967). Wallace, Lee, Sexual Encounters: Pacific Texts, Modern Sexualities (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2003). Webb, Terry, ‘Highly Structured Tourist Art: Form and Meaning of the Polynesian Cultural Center’, The Contemporary Pacific, 6:1 (1994), 59–86. Werry, Margaret, ‘The Greatest Show on Earth: Spectacular Politics, Political Spectacle, and the American Pacific’, Theatre Journal 58:3 (2005), 4–35. Williams, John, A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South Seas (London: J. Snow, 1837). Wilson, James, A Missionary Voyage to the Southern Pacific Ocean, 1796–1798, intro. Irmgard Moschner (First pub. London 1799; Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1996).

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250 Selected Bibliography

Index

A Frigate Bird Sings, 203–5 Adorno, Theodor W., 122, 133, 134 Anderson, William (ship’s surgeon), 39 Angiolini, Gasparo (choreographer), 56, 224 anthropology, 12–13, 50, 128–9, 232–3 Antitheatrical prejudice, 5, 75–6, 77, 93 Arago, Jacques (artist), 105–7 Souvenirs d’un aveugle: Voyage autour du monde, 106 arioi (Tahitian cult), 15, 75, 79–84, 87, 161, 163 Arnould-Mussot, Jean François (see Death of Captain Cook, The) authenticity, 5, 47–8, 55–6, 61, 175–6, 179, 181, 186–90 Bailey and Barnum circus, 127 ballet, 48, 50, 56, 58, 66, 67, 72 Banks, Sir Joseph, 12, 36, 40, 49 performing in a Tahitian rite, 44–5 on the arioi, 81 Barrot, Théodore-Adolphe (French consul), 108 Barthes, Roland, 104 Bartolozzi, Francesco (artist), 41 Beaglehole, J. C., 12 Belasco, David (theatre manager and author), 148 Benjamin, Walter, 42 Bennigsen, Rudolph von (colonial governor), 125 Berger, Henry (aka Heinrich, bandmaster in Hawai‘i), 111, 231 Berlin, Irving (composer), 151 Berliner Geselllschaft für Anthropologie, Ethnologie und Urgeschichte (Berlin Society for Anthropology, Ethnology and Prehistory), 127–9 Bhabha, Homi, 22, 96, 147, 182 Bicknell, Henry (missionary), 86

Bingham, Hiram (missionary), 84–5, 95, 109 Bird of Paradise, The (see also Richard Walton Tully), 16, 146, 147, 148–55 passim, 163, 174, 177, 235 passim adaptations, 153, 235–6 and Federal Theater Project, 152 and hula, 153–4 London productions, 149, plagiarism charges, 149–50 racial themes, 154–5 stage effects, 148 use of Hawaiian musicians, 149, 150–1 Bismarck, Otto von, 124, 142 opposition to colonialism, 125 Bligh, Captain William, 13, 60, 61 Botany Bay, 61, 65 Bougainville, Louis-Antoine de, 1, 7, 9, 10, 12, 14, 29, 32, 50, 72, 79 Bourdieu, Pierre, 7 Brook, Peter, 204 Bryan, William Jennings (US politician), 161 Burder, George (cleric), 77, 161 Butler, Judith, 17, 201, 208, 240 Butoh, 213, 215 Cannibalism, 79, 166 Catholicism (see missionaries) Choris, Louis (artist), 230 Cipriani, G. B. (artist), 27, 28 Clifford, James, 154, 186, 192–3 Collier, Jeremy (Anglican cleric), 77, 78 colonial ceremony (see also Samoa), 16, 135–6 colonial discourse, 12, 96 colonial mimicry, 8, 22, 42, 106–7, 167–8, 176, 182–4, 239 Columbus, Christopher, 19, 21, 26 Commerson, Philibert (naturalist), 33 commodification, 8–9, 17, 147, 153, 172 Comoran (German cruiser), 135, 140, 142

251

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Note: Figures in italics indicate illustrations.

252 Index

dance pantomime, 56 Dancing (see also haka, hula, Samoa, Tahiti) 41, 55–6, 59–60 and sexuality, 38–42 Death of Captain Cook, The, 48, 57–61, 67, 72 Dening, Greg, 13, 49 Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft, 130 diaspora, 191, 192–3, 196–7, 200, 204, 208, 241 Diderot, Denis, 50, 224 Supplément au voyage de Bougainville, 10, 53, 201 displacement, 16, 147, 149, 151, 153, 157–63, 165, 167, 169, 171, 173 Diva Siva – Fa’afafine Cabaret, 209 Dolphin, HMS, 30–1, 34, 35, 42–3 dramma per musica, 48, 50 Drury Lane Theatre, 70 Duff, HMS, 74, 79, 91, 159 Dusquesney, Lauchlin (choreographer), 56 Eagels, Jeanne (American actress), 161, 162 see also Rain Ellis, William (missionary), 80–1 Emerson, Nathaniel (folklorist), 102, 230 Endeavour, HMS, 43, 49, Erramanga, 25–7, 27, 28, 91 ethnographic spectacles (see Völkerschauen)

Evangelical movement (see missionaries), exoticism, 8–9, 47, 61, 155, fa’afafine, xiii, 17, 192, 200–10, 211, 243 passim fa’a Samoa, 207 fakaleiti, 200, 205 fale aitu, 192, 209, 210 Fane, David, 202, 210, 212 Fanon, Frantz, 182 Fawcett, John, 66, 67 Fendler, Grace Altman, 149–50, 155 Fesche, Charles-Félix-Pierre, 29–30, 33 Fiji, 11, 124, 164, 177, 178, 241 folkloristic performance, 97, 101, 113, 117, 119–20 Forster, Georg(e), 24, 27–8, 40, 74, 81, Forster, Johann Reinhold, 24, 202 on drama in Tahiti, 82 Foucault, Michel, 96 Freycinet, Louis, 105 Furneaux, Tobias (ship’s officer), 42 Gauguin, Paul, 11, 202, 209, 242 Geertz, Clifford, 12, 136 Genealogies of performance, 1–2, 6, 12, 13, 100, 172 Goddefroy & Son (German trading company), 124 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 64 Goffman, Erving, 143, 197, 234, 240–1, 242 Gore, John (ship’s officer), 49, 52–5 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere (see Japan and Pacific), Greenblatt, Stephen, 7–8, 22, 43 Hagenbeck, Carl (impresario) 15, 123, 126–7, 232 Haka (see also Maori), 15, 20–1, 94, 95, 115–21, 116, 118, 174, 185 and All Blacks, 95 Hau’ofa, Epeli, 193, 219 Hawai‘i, 11, 14, 15, 16, 67, 95–115 passim, 164 and tourism, 153 coup d’état of 1893, 101, 229 missionary activity, 84–5, 95, 103–4, 108, 114 Hawaiian Quintette, 150–1, 153

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Cook, Captain James, 5, 7, 9, 10, 12, 13, 14, 19, 20, 36, 38, 43, 49, 79, 105, 216 as a dramatic character, 51–5, 57–60 A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean, 58 A Voyage towards the South Pole, 25 death, 60, 218, 221 deification as Lono, 26, 58, 221 observes Tahitian sexual behaviour, 36 on the arioi, 81 use of music and fireworks, 23–4 Cook o sia Gl’inglesi in Othaiti, 14, 48–56 Covent Garden Theatre, 58, 66, 70–1 cross-cultural encounter (see theatricality) Cunningham, Robert A. (impresario), 127, 130

Hawkesworth, Dr John, 36–7 Account of the Voyages, 7–8, 37, 38, 39, 41, 48–9, 51, 53, 54–5, 79 Hayes, Charlotte, 37–8, 42, 48, 223 heiva (Tahitian ceremony), 7, 23, 44–5, 59, 74, 201 Hodges, William (artist), 25, 27, 28 hui (Maori ceremony), 116, 119 hula, xii, 15, 94, 98–115 passim, 106, 108, 174, 185, 230–1 passim and tourism, 95, 97, 110–11, 113–14, 121, 231 costume, 99–100, 104–15 from a missionary perspective, 84–5, 104, 230 halau (dance-houses), 103 hula kahiko (ancient hula), 101, 102–4, 115 iconography, 104–15 kumu hula (hula teachers), 110 mele (chants), 102 Merrie Monarch Festival, xii, 95, 111 religious character infanticide, 79–80, 87 invention of tradition, 142, 185, 187, 207 Japan and the Pacific, 16, 146, 164, 239 Ka’ahumanu (Hawaiian Queen regent) (1768–1832), 85, 95 Kaiser Wilhelm II, 125, 140 birthday celebrations, 137–8, 142, 143, 234 Kalakaua (Hawaiian king), 104, 110, 111–12, 120 Kamehameha I (Hawaiian king), 68, 101 Kamehameha II (see Liloliho) Kamehameha III, 108, 109 Kamehameha, (Hawaiian Queen), 69–72 Kauffmann, Angelica, 28 kava ceremony, 204, 215 Kealakekua Bay (Hawai‘i) (see also Captain Cook, death), 24 Kightley, Oscar, 202, 210–11, 212 Kneubuhl, John, 194 Think of a Garden, 192, 194–6, 202 Kolomoku, Walter (Hawaiian musician), 150

253

Kotzebue, August Friedrich Ferdinand von, 61, 78 Brother Moritz, the Eccentric, 62 La Perouse, 14, 62–6 Misanthropy and Repentance, 62 Pizzaro: The Death of Rolla, 62, 70–1, 78 The Stranger, 78 Virgin of the Sun, 78 Kotzebue, Otto von, 90 Krämer, Augustin, 98–101, 113, 114, 144 La Mort du Capitaine Cook (see Death of Captain Cook) La Pérouse, Jean François Galaup de, 61 La Pérouse: or, the desolate island (pantomime), 66–7 La Perouse (drama) see Kotzebue, August von La Perouse, Il naufragio di (ballet), 67 Lauvergne, Bathélemy (artist), 107–8, 108 Lees, Nathaniel, 203, 204, 205, 242 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 27 Lévi–Strauss, Claude, 222 lieto fine, 53 Liholiho (Hawaiian King Kamehameha II), 68, 84 visit to England, 14, 68–72 attending puppet theatre performance, 69, 70 attending theatre performance, 70–2, 71 funeral, 72 Liliuokalani, (Hawaiian Queen), 101, 146 Lodge, David, 10 Logan, Joshua, 165, 166, 168 London Missionary Society (LMS) (see missionaries) Loti, Pierre, 72, 165 Loughnan, Robert (NZ historian), 117–18, 120 Loutherbourg, Philippe Jacques de, 225 Madame Butterfly, 155, 171 Magellan, Ferdinand de, 20 m¯ah¯ u, 200, 201, 202, 242 Mai (aka Omai), 23 mana, 43, 223 Maori, 95, 185, 194, 212, 216, 231 passim and 1901 Royal tour, 115–21 and attack on Abel Tasman, 20–1

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Index

marae, 213–14 maro’ura (Tahitian cult object), 80, 228 Marquardt brothers, Carl and Fritz (impresarios), 16, 122, 123, 129–30, 132–3 Marquesas Islands, 13, 124 at the Polynesian Cultural Center, 188, 240 Marsden, Samuel (missionary), 88 Marx, Karl, 7, 8 Mata’afa Josefo (Samoan chief), 124, 127, 136, 137, 138, 140 Matavai Bay (Tahiti), 1, 19, 23, 32, 43, 48, 74 Mau (NZ performance group), 18, 192, 213–16 Boneflute, 213 Paradise, 213–16, 214 Mau (political movement), 194, 195 Maugham, W(illiam) Somerset, 16, 93, 146, 155–6 Miss Thompson (aka Rain), 156 East of Suez, 159 The Trembling of the Leaf: Little Stories of the South Seas, 156, 165 Mauss, Marcel, 222 Melanesia, compared to Polynesia, 11, 232 Melville, Herman, 72, 155, 160, 165, 202, 219, 236 Mencken, H. L., 163 Metonymy (in performance), 96–8, 119, 144, 174, 191, 207 Meyerbeer, Giacomo, L’Africaine, 155, 171 Michener, James, 166–7 Tales of the South Pacific, 164, 167 Mielziner, Jo (US stage designer), 171 Miller, Arthur, 194 mimesis (see also colonial mimicry), 91 and alterity, 20, 42–5 mimetic capital, 7–8, 14, 38, 42, 61, 65, 67, 106, 153, 216 Missionaries, 15, 73, 74–94, 162, 197 American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, 75, 84 and baptism, 85–7 and theatricality, 76–7 Catholic, 75, 86, 90 destruction of idols, 87–9, 88

Evangelical movement, 76–7 London Missionary Society (LMS), 74, 75, 79, 91, 92, 138 Marist brotherhood, 75, 139 opposition to dancing, 75, 77, 78, opposition to the arioi, 80–1, 83–4 opposition to theatre, 77–8 Spanish missionaries in Mexico, 86 use of drama and music, 89–93 use of magic lantern, 90–1 Morosco, Oliver (theatre manager), 148–9 Mortimer, George, 201–2 Murnau, Friedrich Wilhelm, 165 Mutiny on the Bounty, 60, 226 Muzzarelli, Antonio (choreographer), 48, 56, 224 Naipaul, V. S., 22 Naked Samoans (NZ performance group), xii, xiii, 17–18, 192, 210–12 New Caledonia, 124, 164 New Guinea (see Papua New Guinea) New Zealand, Aotearoa, 10, 13, 15, 18, 20–1, 95, 96, 115–21 passim, 124, 145, 185, 191–7 passim, 199–200, 208, 211–13 passim, 217 nose-flute, 41, 59, 113, 114, 185 Noverre, Jean-Jacques, 56 Oberea (aka Purea or Porea), 23, 36, 37, 41, 48, 51–5 and feather girdle (maro‘ura), 49 Obi, or Three-finger’d Jack, 66 Omai (see Mai) Omai, or a Trip around the World, 14, 48, 57, 67, 225 opera (see also dramma per musica), 48, 49, 50–1, 53, 55–6, 58, 65, 78–9 Ozai (ballet), 72 Pacific Arts Festival, xii, 213 Pacific Underground, 192, 196, 198, 204, 209, 210, 242 pantomime (theatrical genre), 48, 56–8, 59, 60, 61, 66–7, 71 pantomime as movement, 56, 80, 81, 105 Papasea waterfalls, 134, 143, 208 Papua New Guinea, 164, 179 and Chambri people, 188–90

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254 Index

Paradise, and the Pacific, 9–10, 53, 169 Paris is Burning, 208 Parkinson, Sydney (artist), 40 Pérouse (see La Pérouse) Pindar, Peter (pen-name of John Wolcot), 45 Plato, 77 poi (Maori performance form), 117, 120 Polynesia and Polynesians, 10, 17, 20, 22, 40, 75, 80, 84, 89, 99, 120, 125, 128–9, 147, 171, 172, 173, 181, 182, 190 compared to Melanesia, 11, 170 French Polynesia, 164 sexual practices in, 35, 45 Polynesian Cultural Center (PCC), 17, 175–6, 177–90, 191 and authenticity, 17, 175–6 and mimicry, 181–5 passim performance types, 177–9 relationship to Mormon church, 178, 239 Hawaiian demonstration and performance, 185 Maori demonstration and performance, 185 Samoan village and performance, 175, 180–4, 191 Tongan village and performance, 181, 184–5, 191 Polynesian transgenderism (see fa’afafine and m¯ah¯ u) Pomare I (Tahitian king, aka Tu, or Otoo) (c.1742–1791), 23, 74, Pomare II (Tahitian king Tu Tu-nui-ea-i-te-atua) (1782–1821), 83, 88 conversion, 86–7 Ponifasio, Lemi (see also Mau), 18, 192, 213 poula (Samoan dance), 144 powhiri (Maori welcome ceremony), 214 puppet theatre, 57, 58, 69–70 Purea (see Oberea) Raiatea, (see Tahiti) Rain (drama by John Colton and Clemence Randolph), 16, 93, 146, 156–63

255

and displacement, 157, 158, 160–2, 163 and naturalism, 157–8 anti-Calvinist tendencies, 163 plot summary, 156–7 premiere, 162–3 representation of Samoans, 158–9 see also Maugham, W. Somerset reciprocity (performative), 11–12, 23–4, 36, 39 Reeves, William Pember (NZ politician), 115 ritual and performance, 19, 21, 23, 24, 42, 55, 58, 60, 85–6, 135, 178–9, 186, 189–90, 192, 197, 199–200 Robertson, George (ship’s master), 31–2, 42–3, 51 Rodgers, Richard and Hammerstein, Oscar, 16, 146, 165, 166 see also South Pacific Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 50–1, 54, 79 Lettre à d’Alembert, 77, 224 Sahlins, Marshall, 13, 35, 107 Said, Edward, 96 Orientalism, 97–8 Salmond, Anne, 13, 20, 35 Samoa, 11, 174, 197–217 and American (Eastern) Samoa, 146, 156–7, 194–6 and ethnographic shows (see also Völkerschauen), 16, 122–3, 127–34, 131, 133 and missionaries, 89 and myth of paradise, 135–6 and tourist performances, 132, 143, 182 and colonial ceremonies, 133, 134–45, 137 and cricket, 132 and dance (siva, poula), 140, 142, 143–4, 208 as a German colony, 124–5, 135–6 at the Polynesian Cultural Center, 181–3 exploration, 61 Schechner, Richard, 176 Schröder, Friedrich Ludwig (actor-manager), 64–5 Schultz, Erich (German colonial officer), 138, 143

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Index

Seddon, Richard (NZ premier), 115 Sherwin, J. K. (artist), 27 siva (see Samoan dance) Smith, Bernard, 9–10, 12, 27 Society Islands (see Tahiti) Solf, Wilhelm (colonial governor), 125, 133, 134, 136, 138, 139, 140 Solomon Islands, 164 South Pacific (musical), 16, 146, 155 and commodification, 147, 165, 169, 172 and orientalism, 169, 171 interracial themes, 17, 171–2 Melanesian and Polynesian characters, 166, 170, 171 Tonkinese characters, 165, 165–6, 167, 168–70 Stevenson, Robert Louis, 72, 143, 237 ta’alolo (Samoan ceremony), 138, 140, 142, 143 Tahiti and Tahitians, 1, 11, 13–14, 15, 24, 53, 80–2, 86–7, 124, 174 and dancing, 23, 38–42, 55–6, 60, 201, 223 and emotions, 54 as erotic paradise, 30–4 tableaux vivants, 92 Tamasese Le Alofi (Samoan chief), 122, 129, 133, 134, 136, 138, 145 tapu, 35, 68, 103, 214 Tasman, Abel, 19, 20–3 Tatau – Rites of Passage, 192, 196–200, 198 tattooing, 80, 93, 105–6, 192, 197–9 Taussig, Michael, 42 Taylor, Diana, 186 Taylor, Laurette (see also Bird of Paradise, The), 149, 150, 151, 153, 235 The Pirates, Or the Calamities of Captain Bligh, 226 theatricality, 2–3, 218 passim and authenticity, 5–6, 174 and citationality, 201, 208, 216 and colonialism, 123, 135, 144–5, and cross-cultural encounter, 13, 22–3, 27, 43, 44, 216–17 and duplicity, 76, 77 and eighteenth century, 4, 27

and perception, 4–5, 29, 170 and sexuality, 29–35, 38, 201, 204, 205, 208 Thomas, Nicholas, 13, 22–3 Timorodee (see also dancing and sexuality), 39–40, 41, 81, 223 Tonga, 21–3, 124, 242 and Miss Galaxy beauty contest, 205–7 Tonkin, Tonkinese, 146, 164, 165–6, 167, 168–70 tourism and tourist performance, 153, 167, 174–90 passim, 209, 238 passim Treaty of Waitangi, 124 Tu (Tahitian chief and king, see Pomare I) Tully, Richard Walton, 16, 59–60, 146, 149, 153, 171, 235 see also Bird of Paradise, The Turner, Victor, 39 Ukeke, Ioane (hula master), 111, 112 United States of America, involvement in the Pacific, 16, 146–7 Vassallo, Umilissimo (librettist), 48, 49, 50, 52–3, 55, 224 vaudeville, 57 Vico, Giambattista, 49, 224 Vidor, King, 153 Virchow, Rudolf, 127–9, 130 Völkerschauen, 15, 122, 126–7, 130, 131, 174 Wallis, Samuel, 9, 30, 40, 41, 49, 51 waiata (Maori chant), 185 Webber, John, 105, 225 Wesley, John, 77 Wendt, Albert, 193 Wilder, Thornton, 194 Williams, John (1796–1839), 79, 89–91 A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South Seas, 93 as trader, 89–90 death, 91 dramatization of his life, 91–3 Williams, Tennessee, 194 Wilson, Captain James, 74 Zeal Theatre, 192, 196, 198, 242 Zola, Émile, 157–8

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256 Index