Tragedy, as a genre, is one of the oldest and well-known dramatic forms. Originating in Ancient Greece, it went onto define Western identity both within and without the theatrical tradition, developing into the Shakespearean tragedy, which dominates every sphere of western art and culture, shaping the way art and literature are received, as well as philosophical ideas on the human condition. It is famously outlined by Aristotle in his “Poetics” that “[tragedy] should produce the pleasure which comes from pity and fear, and should do so by means of imitation,” which is an idea defined as “catharsis,”: a “pain [that] awakens pleasure.]”1 Even with its development throughout history, the central thematic roots of suffering as the human condition, and discussions of fate and human agency, are still very much intact. The tensions between individual autonomy and exterior forces are constantly being explored, and are what help this genre ultimately endure. There is something about tragedy which tugs at audiences even up into the 21st Century, where ideas about destiny and fate have shifted drastically. Even when putting up a fight seems futile, characters and audience members alike gravitate towards finding a sense of empowerment in the human struggle and the fight against exterior forces pushing against us, whether it’s fate, or more contemporary worries such as political and social systems.
One of the most well-known Ancient Greek tragedies is Sophocles’ Antigone, where our main heroine opposes her uncle, Creon, and fights for the burial rights of her murdered brother. The play explores the tensions between the divine and physical, and the consequences which come from asserting human authority over the will of the gods. The tension of the play comes to a head towards the end when Haemon, Antigone’s betrothed, manages to convince his father to release Antigone from her imprisonment, only to find they were too late; Antigone has already taken her death into her own hands. It could be argued that Antigone’s personal agency, which placed her in harm’s way in the beginning of the play, also lead to her demise. However, the play invites us to question how much of this was truly within Antigone’s power. At the centre of the tragedy genre lies the Ancient Greek concept of fate, the cosmic order which determined every human’s life events, and which everyone, even the gods, had to answer to and follow. Characters in a tragedy were submitted to this power, and even when they tried to avoid their destiny, that exact action became the catalyst for them to reach it.
In Jean Anouilh’s version of Antigone, the Chorus delivers a meta-theatrical monologue on the nature of tragedy, saying “In a tragedy, nothing is in doubt and everyone’s destiny is known. That makes for tranquillity.”2 This is tragedy. Not only suffering, but the inescapability of it. Antigone was not only a character, but a symbol, a pawn in the game of Fate. She “decided” to oppose the law of the physical and follow the law of the divine, and whatever consequences unfolded before her were completely out of her control, yet also utterly aligned within her character. Everything which happened to her seemed to be exactly what should have: “The play is on Antigone has been caught. For the first time in her life, Antigone is going to be able to be herself.” Her death could have been avoided, in fact, everything in the play could have been avoided, but it wasn’t. Tragedy leaves no room for escape. This, then, leads us to the core question: what is the point, then? Of fighting, of rebelling, of opposing? The Chorus answers, “Tragedy is restful; and the reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it. There isn’t any hope. You’re trapped. The whole sky has fallen on you, and all you can do about it is to shout […] you can shout aloud; you can get all those things said that you never thought you’d be able to say — or never even knew you had it in you to say. And you don’t say these things because it will do any good to say them: you know better than that. You say them for their own sake; you say them because you learn a lot from them […] In melodrama you argue and struggle in the hope of escape. That is vulgar; it’s practical. But in tragedy, where there is no temptation to try to escape, argument is gratuitous: it’s kingly.” There is something about the process, the individual journey within a tragedy, which holds a great importance in the overall arc of the play. It doesn’t do well for everybody to just die, there has to be a climb, a struggle, and in the depth of that agony, there is enlightenment. In tragedy, truth and passion hold greater weight than a mere happy ending. Life itself matters less than the order of things which must be played out. There is a duty when it comes to a tragedy, and “when your name is Antigone, there is only one part you can play; and she will have to play hers through to the end.” Every character’s role is placed above their own personal interests, there is a devotion to a higher order in tragedy – whether it is fate, or one’s own personal will – which cannot be avoided. This, I believe, is the point.
Tragedy, although ancient, sits so closely to the human experience, that even centuries after its development, it feels so refreshing, and, dare I say, cathartic. On the surface, one could interpret it as depressing and bleak, but upon closer inspection, tragedy argues for the indomitable strength of humanity, and the need to holler and howl against what opposes us, even if it kills us, or possibly worse, changing nothing. Tragedy tells us that rebellion is possible, even necessary, and that we should make as much noise as possible for as long as we can, that there is freedom in having no control.
Image: Daria Kruchkova on Pexel