@prefix vivo: . @prefix edm: . @prefix ns0: . @prefix dcterms: . @prefix dc: . @prefix skos: . vivo:departmentOrSchool "Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies"@en ; edm:dataProvider "DSpace"@en ; ns0:degreeCampus "UBCV"@en ; dcterms:creator "Malone, Paul Matthew"@en ; dcterms:issued "2009-04-03T20:53:14Z"@en, "1997"@en ; vivo:relatedDegree "Doctor of Philosophy - PhD"@en ; ns0:degreeGrantor "University of British Columbia"@en ; dcterms:description """This dissertation takes as its premise the belief that privileging the text of a play as the site of meaning is inadequate, given the social nature of theatre. This privileging is evident in the low critical opinion of dramatic adaptations of prose works: the dramatic text, incomplete by nature, cannot compete with the self-sufficient narrative text which it adapts. Rather, as described in the introductory chapter, the socio-historical context of a production must be investigated to flesh out the meaning of the text. Four theatrical adaptations of Franz Kafka's novel Der Prozefi (1925) illustrate a history not only of Kafka reception, but also of society, politics and theatrical practice in Europe and North America. The first adaptation, Le Proces (1947), by Jean-Louis Barrault and Andre Gide, is interpreted in the second chapter in the context of post-Occupation tensions in France, including a sense of guilt left by collaboration. Against an intellectual backdrop of existentialism and absurdism, Le Proces renders Joseph K. as a Jewish victim of unjust authorities. The third chapter describes actor/playwright Steven Berkoff’s antipathy to the middle-class conformism of 1970s Britain, which turns his adaptation, The Trial (1973), into a highly personal protest in which K. is destroyed by bourgeois "mediocrity." Peter Weiss's German adaptation, Der Prozefi (1975), treated in the fourth chapter, attempts more sweeping Marxist social criticism, depicting Kafka's world as a historically specific Eastern Europe in the days leading up to the Great War: K. is a bank employee who, by refusing to ally himself with the workers, seals his own fate under exploitative capitalism. Finally, Sally Clark's Canadian The Trial of Judith K. (1989) is described in the fifth chapter as a cross-gender revision of the novel reflecting both a feminist critique of male oppression and the freedom of interpretation of canonical works enabled by North America's relative intellectual isolation from the canon's European roots. K., as a victim of patriarchy, is a woman. The diversity of these four adaptations pleads for the acceptance of dramatic adaptation as a creative form of interpretation, rather than as an ill-advised misappropriation, of its source."""@en ; edm:aggregatedCHO "https://circle.library.ubc.ca/rest/handle/2429/6790?expand=metadata"@en ; dcterms:extent "19676977 bytes"@en ; dc:format "application/pdf"@en ; skos:note "STARRING JOSEPH K.: FOUR STAGE ADAPTATIONS OF FRANZ KAFKA'S NOVEL THE TRIAL by PAUL MATTHEW MALONE B.F.A., The University of Calgary, 1987 B.A., The University of Calgary, 1988 M.A., McMaster University, 1989 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Individual Interdisciplinary Studies Graduate Programme [Theatre/Germanic Studies]) We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard THE llNJVERSiTY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA August 1997 © Paul Matthew Malone, 1997 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. Department of ' ' The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Date \\ \\ ku.j n JJ ^ Lenneweits streng der von Weiss geforderten Dreiteilung der Spielebenen folgendem Biihnenbild und mit einem aufwendig bewegten, oft in schiere Provinzialitat verfallenden Ensemble rauschte diese Premiere nach dem Luxusdampferprinzip einem umjubelten Ende entgegen, dem Autor Peter Weiss einen schmerzenden Triumph und Kafkas—laut Thomas Mann—'grundeigentumlichem Gebilde von sublimer Sorgfalt' eine gerauschvolle Vernichtung bescherend.\" 2 8 1 \"DaB der Suhrkamp-Verlag die Urauffuhrung dieses Stiicks in die Theaterprovinz nach Bremen und Krefeld vergab, sagt schon alles iiber die Einschatzung des Opus durch die Verlagslektoren.\" 2 8 2 \"DaB seine Dramatisierung am gleichen Abend in Bremen und Krefeld, also nicht gerade an einem Brennpunkt unseres Theaterlebens, vrraufgefuhrt wurde, sagt obendrein einiges iiber seinen sehr gekonnten, aber durch falsche Vorzeichen verfehlten Versuch.\" 283 n j n B r e m e n w j r ( j Kafkas O-Ton von robusten Theaterprovinzlern zu Banalitat heruntergeknattert. Wo Kakfas Held sich in eine Art realistischen Alptraum verlauft, verlauft sich sein Buhnendouble in die Mediokritat eines angestrengten, aber bewuBtlosen Subventionstheaters.\" 253 brief. With a shot in the back of the neck\" (Weiss/PM, Notizbucher I, 429).284 The Spiegel review was not even printed in the magazine's theatre pages: it occupied a small part of the general culture page Szene (\"scene\"), immediately above a selection of graffitti found in a New Yorkpissoir. The cumulative effect of these notices was to produce in Weiss a reaction worthy of Berkoffs combination of bile and lack of self-confidence: 4/6 [1975] . . . Spend the days in a numbness mixed with brief attacks of hatred. Raving hatred of murderous criticism. Impossible to defend oneself, the blows land on air, the judges have long since forgotten you. You don't matter to them, nothing you've done matters to them, they've eliminated you, that's enough. Onward—to the next one they can dispose of! (Weiss/PM, Notizbucher I, 429-43 0)285 As Burckhardt Lindner points out. \"[t]he notes attest... to the enormous vulnerability, by which the author sees himself at the mercy of his political malefactors and critics\" (Lindner, \"Hallucinatory Realism\" 130). Nonetheless, Weiss's reaction was brief and confined to the privacy of his Notebooks; in public, Weiss \"took [the unspectacular failure of the play] amazingly calmly. The work on the Aesthetics, then the controversy regarding Vietnam, which flared up anew in 1978 [when China invaded], took up all his strength\" (Howald/PM 193).286 By the autumn of 1978, Der Prozefi, which had long vanished from West German stages, was finally produced in East Germany. The production of Hanns Anselm Perten and the Rostocker 2 8 4 \"Auch Karaseks Rezension im Spiegel war eine Hinrichtung. Sehr kurz. Durch NackenschuB.\" 285 »476[i975].. .Verbringe die Tage in einer Betaubung, die von kurzen Anfallen des Hasses durchrnischt ist. Rasender HaB gegen die Kritik, die mordet. Unmoglich, sich zu wehren, Schlage in die Luft, die Richter haben dich schon langst wieder vergessen. Du bist ihnen gleichgiiltig, alles was du getan hast, ist ihnen gleichgiiltig, sie haben dich eliminiert, das geniigt. Weiter—zum nachsten, den sie fertig machen konnen!\" 2 8 6 \"Diese Urauffuhrung in Bremen wurde 1975 ein unspektakularer MiBerfolg. Peter Weiss nahm ihn fur seine Verhaltnisse erstaunlich gelassen. Die Arbeit an der Asthetik des Widerstands, dann die 1978 erneut aufgeflammten Auseinandersetzungen um Vietnam brauchten all seine Krafte.\" 254 Theater—who had a long history of producing Weiss's work, including the pivotal production of Marat/Sade—-was greeted with satisfied approbation by reviewer Gerhard Ebert, writing in the East German journal Theater der Zeit. Ebert, as might be surmised from the title of his review, \"Kafka entmystifiziert\" (\"Kafka demystified\"), enthusiastically endorsed Weiss's interpretation of the novel; he described Kafka's depiction of petty-bourgeois stupidity, conceit and submission as a \"perfect, intact ideological system of human thought,\"287 which still survived in such lands as West Germany and Austria as the grounds for anti-communism. \"Thus,\" Ebert continues, \"[Weiss] does not impoverish Kafka, on the contrary, he places him into a contemporary dimension, that is, he makes petty-bourgeois thought transparent for us, as an ideological force which unfortunately must still be taken bitterly seriously.\"288 In so doing, \"Weiss avoids the anonymous mystification of Der Prozefi. He illuminates it as the normal life process of the bourgeois world, into which the individual is set and out of which he cannot break, as long as he strives for petty-bourgeois solutions\" (Ebert/PM).289 Although Ebert's review is obviously as much guided by politics as the negative review of Beckmann in 1975, it can no more easily be entirely dismissed: in his praise for Perten's production (which unfortunately takes less space than the effusive recapitulation of Weiss's interpretation), Ebert describes a staging, sparely designed by Falk von Wangelin, which seems to correspond much more closely to Weiss's stage directions than the ill-fated Bremen premiere: \"There is no stopping for 2 8 7 \" . . . all das erwiest sich als perfectes, intaktes ideologisches System menschlichen Denkens.\" 2 8 8 \"So verarmte er Kafka nicht, im Gegenteil, er setzt ihn in eine aktuelle Dimension, namlich kleinbiirgerliches Denken uns Heutigen durchschaubar macht als eine leider noch bitter ernst zu nehmende ideologische Kraft.\" 2 8 9 \"Weiss meidet die anonyme Mystifikation des 'Prozesses'. Er erhellt ihn als den normalen LebensprozeB der Biirgerwelt, in den der einzelne gestellt ist und aus dem er nicht auszubrechen vermag, solange er kleinbiirgerliche Losungen anstrebt.\" 255 scene changes. The trial goes on inexorably. And the events are always represented as the ideas, fixed but born in his world, of Josef K.\" 2 9 0 As played by Siegfried Kellerman, K. \"takes the pictures of his imagination as possible real phenomena, conducts a running battle with them, loses himself ever more deeply in the tangle of his own, finally mercilessly real, fantasizing\" (Ebert/PM).291 If in fact the Rostock production was more successful than the productions of 1975, Weiss took no note of it. He was now deeply involved in finishing the final volume of the Aesthetics, and his only concern with theatre had been in the early spring of 1978, when he wrote despairingly, \"Several theatres in the Federal Republic (maybe even many—my plays are hardly produced any more) are closed to me. Established critics, even in reference works, deny my works any quality since a political position has been taken in them—What is common to both Germanies today is this insidious rejection by critics of those who think differently\" (Weiss/PM, Notizbiicher II, 699).292 Weiss may well have been correct in this criticism, but many of his own critics also had a point when they argued, as Kurt Klinger does, that, politics aside, \"Peter Weiss simply did not benefit from the didactic implementation of theatrical possibilities—he never again reached the liveliness and effect of his Sade/Marat play\"; as a result, Der Prozefi, like many of his later plays, suffered from \"a jury-rigged excess of overtness without convincing atmosphere\" (Klinger/PM 290 M g s gjkt k e m e n Aufenthalt durch Umbauten. Der ProzeB lauft unaufhaltsam ab. Und immer stellen sich die Begebenheiten dar als die fixen, aber in seiner Welt geborenen Ideen des Josef K.\" 2 9 1 \"Er nimmt die Bilder seiner Phantasie als mogliche Phanomene der Wirklichkeit, schlagt sich mit ihnen herum, verirrt sich immer tiefer im Gewirr seiner eigenen, letztlich erbarmungslos realen Phantasterei.\" 2 9 2 \"Einige Theater in der BRD (vielleicht sogar schon viele—meine Stiicke werden kaum mehr gespielt) verschlieBen sich vor mir. Etablierte Kritiker, bis in Nachschlagewerke hinein, sprechen meinen Arbeiten jegliche Qualitat ab, seitdem darin politische Stellung bezogen wird— \"Was heute gesamtdeutsch ist, das ist diese schleichende Ablehnung der Kritiker, der Andersdenkenden.\" 256 68).293 Howald is equally dismissive, arguing that \"[t]he topicalization [of the play] adds nothing new sociohistorically about the First World War, while the sociopsychological arrangements are already precisely laid out in Kafka's original\" (Howald/PM 194-195)294—an accurate remark, though it damns Weiss both for being unfaithful and for being faithful. Dissenting opinions, however, are registered by Robert Cohen, who feels that Weiss's \"ambivalent attitude [towards Kafka].. . led to a productive and creative rereading of an over-canonized and over-interpreted text\" (Cohen/Humphreys 172), and by East German critic Manfred Haiduk, who maintains that \"Weiss, with his Prozefi, gave the theatres a practical adaptation of Kafka's novel, although this was obviously not proven by the premiere\" (Haiduk/PM 238).295 Regardless of the play's merits, when the Aesthetics of Resistance was finally completed— the third and last volume was finished in 1980—its success rescued Weiss's reputation on both sides of the Iron Curtain; together with the Notebooks, which were published in 1981, it re-established Weiss as a prose author in his native language, winning several important West German literary prizes (Cohen/Humphreys 180). On the other side of the Iron Curtain, even the Soviet journal Voprosy Literatury was moved in 1985 to praise the combination of the Aesthetics and the Notebooks as \"a typical and brilliant example of contemporary realistic prose. [The Aesthetics] is rich in documentary content, but the documentary material is reworked in it with great artistic 2 9 3 \"TJberhaupt ist Peter Weiss der lehrmittelhafte Einsatz der theatralischen Moglichkeiten nicht gut bekommen—er hat nie mehr die Lebendigkeit und Werke seines Sade/Marat-Stucks erreicht.... eine zurechtgestutzte Uberpointiertheit ohne atmospharische Uberzeugungskraft eignet auch dieser \"ProzeB\"-Bearbeitung...\" 2 9 4 \"Die Aktualisierung fiigt nichts bei, was sich sozialhistorisch fiber den Ersten Weltkrieg lernen lieBe, wahrend die sozialpsychologischen Dispositionen alle schon in Kafkas Vorlage prazise angelegt sind.\" 2 9 5 \"Weiss hat mit seinem Prozefi den Theatern eine praktikable Adaption des Romans von Kafka geliefert, was allerdings durch die Urauffuhrung offensichtlich nicht bestatigt wurde . . .\" 257 originality. . . . In this novel are also displayed the typical features of the author's creative personality—intellectual integrity, straightforwardness of expression, tirelessness of quest\" (Motyleva/PM 78).296 With that very same tirelessness, an exhausted Weiss took up his examination of Kafka once again in 1980; he had never entirely given it up, as fragmentary notes from December of 1976, for example, demonstrate (Weiss, Notizbiicher II, 546). Free of the novel at last, he now proceeded with a dramatic interpretation which made use of \"a more radical approach, both thematically and technically\" (Howald/PM 193-194).297 Only six years later was he able to comply with Bergman's desire for \"a personal interpretation,\" and to respond to various critics' demands that Weiss distance himself from Kafka. Rischbieter, for example, had asked, \"What if [Weiss] hadn't historicized Kafka's Prague of 1914, but rather had thrown his own biographical experience, Prague 1938/39, Sweden after 1940, into the scales? Then judgement would probably not have ended in condemnation as quickly as it does now\" (Rischbieter/PM, \"Kafka-Studien\").298 Rather than following Rischbieter's directions closely (since at any rate, some of Weiss's biographical experience is very much present in Der Prozefi), Weiss produced a sort of fantasia, 296 '\"Estetika Sovrtivleniya' vmeste s neotryvno s nei svyazannymi 'Zapicnymi knizhkami'—kharakternoye i yarkoye yavlenie sovremennoi realisticheskoi prozy. Ona bogata dokumental'nym soderzhaniem, no dokumental'nym material pererabotan v nei s vysokoi khudozhnicheskoi original'nost'yu.... V etom romane proyavilis' vmeste s tern kharakternye cherty tvorcheskoi lichnosti avtora—intellektual'naya chestnost', pryamota rechi, neutomimost' poiska.\" 2 9 7 \"Erst nach Abschlufi des Romans wurde er wieder frei fur anderes und wurde die erneute Auseinandersetzung mit Kafka eine Notwendigkeit. Sie stand unter einem radikalisierten Ansatz, nicht nur thematisch, sondern auch arbeitstechnisch.\" 2 9 8 \"Wie denn, wenn er sich nicht gegentiber Kafkas Prag von 1914 historisierend verhalten hatte, sondern seine eigene biographische Erfahrung, Prag 1938/39, Schweden ab 1940, in die Waagschale geworfen hatte? Da ware wohl das Urteil nicht so schnell in eine Verurteilung gemtindet wie jetzt.\" 258 dedicated to Kafka, set in no real historical time, and owing as much to Dante's Divine Comedy as to Der Procefi, as Cohen points out (Cohen/Humphreys 173). Written, again in the space of a few weeks, in early 1981, Der neue Prozefi (The New Trial) was described by Weiss as \"the most spontaneous and personal play I've ever written,\" without his usual extensive documentary research and preparation (Weiss/PM, Der neue Prozefi 109).299 In Der neue Prozefi, characters bearing the names of Kafka's characters in the novel act out the story of Josef K., a humanistic intellectual who allows himself to be co-opted by the machinations of a vague multinational corporation. K. rises through the ranks of the company because he is useful as a figurehead, who by his very presence disguises the destructive intentions of his employers. When war breaks out, to the company's profit, however, the unfortunate K. is one of the first casualties, shot down \"Like a dog\" (106). Unlike Weiss's previous plays, Cohen maintains, Der neue Prozefi \"seems to express Weiss's nascent doubts . . . that either the Eastern bloc countries or the leftist political parties in the West still represented the future of socialism\" (Cohen/Humphreys 178); as a result, socialism is no longer presented as an alternative in the play. On 12 March 1985, Der neue Prozefi debuted in the most prestigious venue in Sweden, Stockholm's Dramaten, as its precursor had been meant to. The director was not Ingmar Bergman, but Weiss himself, in his first solo directing venture (although his wife, Gunilla Palmstierna-Weiss, had a hand in the direction, as well as co-designing the production with Weiss). The reviews were generally favourable, and in conjunction with the success of the Aesthetics, Der neue Prozefi served to displace Der Prozefi and its failure even more. In fact, a mistranslation allows the entry for Weiss in The Cambridge Guide to Theatre to rename Weiss's \"final play\" as The New Investigation, as if \"Das spontanste und personlichste Stuck, das ich je geschrieben habe.\" 259 it were a sequel to his 1965 play Die Ermittlung (The Investigation), a ''return . . . to earlier themes\"; thereby the entry effaces Der Prozefi from history altogether (Innes, \"Peter Weiss\" 1063; Christopher Innes, author of this article, does in fact mention Der Prozefi in a chart at the end of his 1979 Modern German Drama: A Study in Form, 287). Weiss now seemed to be at a peak, with a new career as a director, the beginnings of a more personal style, and possibly—if Cohen's interpretation is correct—a new political direction before him. He was even nominated for the prestigious Georg Buchner Prize, which he had desired for years, but had felt shut out of for political reasons. This peak was a final one, however: Weiss died on 10 May 1982, aged sixty-five, less than two months after the premiere of Der neue Prozefi. A short time later, he was announced as the winner of the Buchner Prize. As for Der Prozefi, Ulrike Zimmermann writes that, given the wide range of opinions expressed in the reviews and their clear correspondence to a range of interpretations, both similar and dissimilar to Weiss's, It is also clear that the unsuccessful premiere in Bremen should be no reason to judge the play in principle as a dramatic failure. Perten's production obviously seems to have proved the contrary. As a dramatization of Kafka's novel alone, the drama has difficulties asserting itself in the face of a piece of \"World Literature\"; if one sees it above all as a drama that gives information about Peter Weiss and his reception of literature, the assessment is more satisfactory. (Zimmermann/PM 153)300 Zimmermann may be considered overcautious; in addition to the positive evaluations of Cohen and Haiduk, even so critical an observer as Kurt Klinger admits that \"the inflammatory 300 \"Einsichtig wird aber auch, dafi die miBlungene Urauffuhrung in Bremen nicht Grund dafur sein sollte, das Stuck prinzipiell als dramatische Fehlleistung einzuschatzen. Das Gegenteil scheint offenbar Pertens Inszenierung bewiesen zu haben. Einzig und allein als Dramatisierung von Kafkas Roman betrachtet, hat das Drama es schwer, sich gegen ein 'Stuck Weltliteratur' durchzusetzen, nimmt man es aber zu allererst als Drama, das AufschlufJ gibt iiber Peter Weiss und seine Art, Literatur zu rezipieren, wird die Beurteilung befriedigender ausfallen.\" 260 revision is not especially appealing to me, although I consider it professionally done and interestingly stageable\" (Klinger/PM 67).301 Though by no means Weiss's best work, Der Prozefi was quickly written off as a disaster beyond its failings, largely for reasons that had nothing to do with its fitness for the stage; nor did it have the benefit, as the Barrault-Gide and Berkoff versions had, of coming early in the career of an artist adept at self-promotion. Weiss, by contrast, was never able to overcome his sense of being an exile; in the 1980s as much as in the 1940s, he could write, \"I belong to those who have no fatherland\" (Weiss/PM, Notizbucher II, 653),302 and as much as he felt it allowed him a critical distance, it also made it too easy for him to alienate potential supporters. He embraced his position as an outcast as a political position and found, in the image of the apolitical outcast Kafka, an alter ego with which he could engage himself in debate. As Kurt Klinger remarks, explaining why Weiss chose a project which was neither \"original nor particularly necessary\": It might be surprising that Peter Weiss even encountered Kafka, that he did not push him aside, pass over him in silence. But that would probably be underestimating the attractive power of the myth formed around Kafka, and also no doubt underestimating the militant personality of the German-Swedish thinker/author who, in any matter of public interest, was never prepared to waive his right of appeal. (Klinger/PM 64)303 3 0 1 \"Ich gebe zu, die agitatorische Transscription ist mir nicht besonders sympathisch, obwohl ich sie fur professionell gemacht und fur interessant inszenierbar halte.\" 3 0 2 \"Ich gehore zu denen, die kein Vaterland haben.\" 3 0 3 \"Man mag es verwunderlich finden, daB Peter Weiss tiberhaupt an Kafka geriet, daB er ihn nicht beiseite stellte, uberschwieg und uberging. Aber wahrscheinlich unterschatzt man da die Anziehungskraft des Mythos, der sich um Kafka gebildet hatte, unterschatzt wohl auch den militanten Charakter des deutsch-schwedischen Denk-Dichters, der bei keinem Sachverhalt von offentlichem Interesse bereit war, auf sein Einspruchsrecht zu verzichten.\" 261 Toronto, 1989: The Trial of Judith K. There he is, lying on the beach, his long thin legs protruding at odd angles from one of those black gymnasium tank suits. Franz Kafka does not look good in a bathing suit. This is a fact. He sees me coming along the beach. I look like his father. Big. Burly. Stupid. He knows my intentions. I'm going to take his novel and adapt it for the stage. \"No, please!\" he shrieks. \"Don't come any closer!\" He clutches his towel and wraps it around him. He looks up at me with those large, dark, prisoner-of-war eyes. He implores. I laugh and kick sand in his face. (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial\" 20) Whereas Peter Weiss's Prozefi was first suggested by a third party but was nonetheless based heavily on Weiss's own interests and concerns, Sally Clark was commissioned to write an adaptation despite a lack of interest in, even some antipathy to, Kafka and his work: \"I'm sure Kafka-lovers exist,\" Clark writes, \"but they're probably the same people who like Egon Schiele paintings\" (20). The themes of Kafka's narrative text, however, were similar enough to those which Clark has continued to articulate throughout her career that the result of her commission, not entirely satisfactory to her, motivated her against her usual practice to revise her work. It is this second, revised version which is now available in published form, and the first version will be referred to here only as a step in the composition of the final dramatic text. Clark's adaptation is of particular interest because of its situation in an extremely complex socio-historical nexus, balanced between the problems of North American Kafka reception—during a period when the established canon seems to be ever more neglected—and the difficulties of women writers gaining success in a Canadian theatre business which is male-dominated, governed by conservative humanist criticism, and increasingly marginalized in respect to mainstream popular culture. 262 A New Career in Hard Times Sally Clark was born in 1953 in the well-to-do Vancouver district of Shaughnessy. The family was large and close-knit; but in 1973, Clark moved to Toronto, which became her home until her return to Vancouver in 1996. She had considered becoming a lawyer (Kirchoff C2), but studied painting at York University instead. Already during her studies, however, her interest in theatre competed and sometimes conflicted with her studies in art. In addition to her visual arts classes, she enrolled in a playwriting class, and ran a cabaret with a university friend (Clark, personal interview, 29 Feb. 1996). This early work in cabaret may have contributed to her writing style, for her plays often, at least at cursory examination, resemble extended skits in their wit and their fast pace. Influences of her training as a painter have also been seen in her work: Nigel Hunt, for example, compares her expansive plays to \"canvasses more extensive than most [playwrights] dare imagine\" (Hunt/Vais/PM 28).304 Almost a decade of frustration followed her graduation, however, as Clark's paintings failed to sell (Kirchoff C2). By the end of this period, Clark was not only frustrated with visual art, but bored as well (Rudakoff and Much 79; Morrow, \"Painter moooves career\" Cl 1); she began work on a novel, but discovered that she preferred the dramatic form of dialogue and action to the more descriptive medium of prose. She also valued the social aspects of theatre over what she had experienced as the solitary nature of painting: \"I like the idea of actually physically communicating with people\" (Interview, 29 Feb. 1996). The result of her efforts was a one-act play, Ten Ways to Abuse an Old Woman, first produced in 1983. Since then, her preference for writing over painting has led her to write eight full-length plays in fifteen years, with productions in prestigious venues 3 0 4 \"Sally Clark . . . est venue au theatre par la peinture, et ses oeuvres montrent qu'elle affectionne des canevas plus considerables que ceux que la plupart osent envisager.\" 263 throughout central and western Canada. Clark's entrance onto the theatrical scene, however, was not unproblematic, for several reasons. Above all, there have historically been a wide range of obstacles set before women who take up a literary or artistic profession in what has remained primarily a man's world. Yvonne Hodkinson affirms that this situation has also existed in the Canadian theatre: \"The female struggle for self-definition is no more apparent than in the medium of drama, for, unlike the private world of fiction, drama, due to its public nature, has traditionally been a male domain. Taking their place in drama is a task that does not come without struggle. The socio-political repercussions have kept women silenced, carefully tucked away in a domestic cocoon\" (156). It is in fact debatable whether fiction has been much more receptive to women than drama. In a wider cultural context, Dorothy Smith writes of \"women's exclusion from a full share in the making of what becomes treated as our culture\" as \"a silence, an absence, a non-presence\" (283). Smith describes the function of controlling access to intellectual, ideological and educational activities as \"gatekeeping\" (287), a term later taken up and elaborated by Dale Spender and Lynn Spender: \"While gatekeeping permits as part of the social reality information which favours males, and denies, dismisses and distorts women, women will remain silenced and oppressed\" (\"Editorial\" 467). This term is particularly apposite here. In the view of Smith and the Spenders, the woman artist or author is in a position analogous to that of Kafka's man from the country, who waits in vain to be admitted through the portal that is rightfully meant for him (and Elizabeth Boa points out that the absence of women from this parable, and their exclusion by the priest as a solution to Joseph K.'s situation, are themselves telling; Boa 41). As a result of the gatekeeping activities of male authors, publishers, reviewers and academics, women's literary production is denigrated and often effaced. For instance, the average representation of women authors published in university anthologies like 264 The Norton Anthology, or taught in literature courses, is calculated in several separate surveys in Britain, the U.S. and Australia during the 1970s and 1980s at an average of about 7%, never rising above 10% (Russ 77-79; D. Spender, Writing or the Sex? 19). Drama, incidentally, has also been disadvantaged in these same contexts: until the most recent edition, the two volumes of the Norton contained only eleven plays, some only in excerpts—and none of them by a woman (A. Wilson 16). True to this pattern, in 1981, about the time Clark began her writing career, a survey by Rita Fraticelli concluded that only about 10% of Canadian playwrights were women (Hodkinson 157)—despite the fact that, according to a bibliography compiled by Patrick O'Neill, the proportion of female to male playwrights in Canadian history from the 1600s to 1967 had been almost exactly fifty-fifty (H. Jones, \"Connecting Issues\" 81). Women's participation had been only marginally increased by the Canadian theatre boom of the 1970's. During this period, many women found their scripts were being produced because \"artistic directors might choose a Canadian woman playwright's work for a season to kill two birds with one large stone\" (Rudakoff and Much 9). This boom brought to the public the first generation of major contemporary Canadian women playwrights, including Sharon Pollock, who later writes that despite this apparent increase in acceptance, \"the talent, and vision, of women is so circumscribed, diminished, and diluted by the male's primary position as artistic director in the realm of mainstream theatre as to render their contribution essentially insignificant\" (Pollock 109); and Margaret Hollingsworth, who remarks in an essay titled \"Why We [i.e., women] Don't Write\" that critics tend to be particularly harsh when dealing with women playwrights, all the more if the playwright is obviously feminist (Hollingsworth 376). In this context of gatekeeping, the fact that most of the reviews of Clark's work cited in this chapter are male-authored—as is this dissertation—and are therefore not necessarily free of a vested interest in the status quo, must be kept in mind. 265 In any case, the period of \"growth\" ended in the recession of the early '80s, when government funding of theatre fell to an all-time low (Wallace 98). The situation did not improve significantly during the decade under discussion in this chapter, nor has it improved since. In spite of Richard Plant's claim, in 1989, that in Canada, \"theatre has moved into the late 1980s with renewed vigour, confidence, and immense variety\" (164), other observers have concluded that \"theatre in Canada—especially theatre in English-speaking Canada—has suffered severely during the past decade or so; many theatres have disappeared due to lack of funding, many have been unable to attract sufficient audiences, and many have had to reduce their operations\" (Brask 10). Faced with this increasingly difficult situation, by May 1989 the Playwrights' Union of Canada issued a press release demanding that a seven-year freeze in Canada Council funding for new play development be ended, and asking that cancelled playwriting programs somehow be reinstated without depriving functioning theatres of their funding (Wallace 121). Female membership in the PUC had risen to 30% by mid-decade, but their representation in terms of actual stage productions in Canada remained at only one in ten (Hollingsworth 379-380). In 1990, Judith Rudakoff and Rita Much looked back at the boom of the 1970s and wrote bitterly that \"today, the cachet of being a woman and a playwright isn't quite so painfully chic\" (9). This situation is very different from the relatively thriving circumstances under which Barrault and Gide, Berkoff, or Weiss created their respective adaptations. For example, a new playwright in postwar France, particularly in Paris, would have had access to a newly founded system of Centres dramatiques, competitions for newly-formed companies, and subsidies for first plays (Bradby, Modern French Drama 88). Berkoff, though often forced to take other jobs, began writing his Trial during a period when funding for alternative theatre in Britain underwent a steady, \"if not spectacular,\" increase; even though much of this funding was earmarked for building facilities 266 or siphoned into the established venues, the overall effect was growth in theatre activity (Bull 96-97), and in short order Berkoff was able to manage his own company full-time. Finally, though Weiss, in Germany in the mid-'70s, faced a climate similar to that in Canada—where conservative audiences were largely uninterested in new works and where the young playwright had difficulty making ends meet—he also had the advantage of an established career, the backing of a heavily state-subsidized theatre system, and the comfort of a large middle class culturally accustomed to theatregoing (Patterson 12-14). In practice, of course, all of these mechanisms served mainly to further the careers of men. Of the playwrights under discussion here, only Clark wrote her adaptation during a period of shrinkage, when in her country it was virtually impossible for more than \"a handful\" of well-established writers to make their living in the theatre without taking other jobs; named as members of this handful are Sharon Pollock—and four men (Wallace 46-47). It should be mentioned in passing that the situation has been somewhat different in Quebec, where the combination of fierce cultural pride and the European tradition of integrating the playwright into the systems of theatrical production, rather than institutionalizing and segregating them as \"literary\" creators as in the US and English Canada, seems to be more conducive to nurturing new talent (Wallace 49; 188-189). In both English Canada and Quebec, however, the difficulty of making a career as a woman playwright faced with the \"gatekeepers\" of male criticism has been exacerbated by a Canadian critical establishment perceived by some observers as reactionary. In 1988, for example, an issue of Canadian Theatre Review devoted to \"Critical Practice in Canada\" contained several articles which collectively charged that Canadian reviewers are bound to \"a bizarre hybrid of half-hearted New Criticism and modified Romanticism\" and trained as literary critics rather than critics of performance (Leonard 6); that the prototypical Canadian reviewer is \"a modern critic alienated by a postmodern age\" (Leonard 9); that \"criticism [is] mired . . . in the commodification of theatre as 267 an industry in Canada\" (Leonard 10); that reviewers \"tend to rely on humanist [and male-centred] ideologies without questioning the terms and implications of these assumptions\" (A. Wilson 16); and that \"critics today have inherited [their predecessors'] intellectual smugness but have abandoned the political mission that made it bearable\" (Filewod 52). Among these criticisms appeared Paul Leonard's claim that, \"as Canada becomes more genuinely multicultural, and as the social critiques of feminists, people of colour, the disabled, and the oppressed gain greater currency, it becomes difficult to maintain the illusion of homogeneity\" (Leonard 8), and that much theatrical criticism was motivated by a \"peevish nostalgia for vanished meta-narratives\" (10). Ann Wilson agreed, maintaining (in Catherine Belsey's terms) that the apparent \"common sense\" that grounds most contemporary reviewing is based in a nostalgic humanism in which \"'man' is the origin and source of meaning, of action, and of history\" (Belsey 7, quoted in A. Wilson, 16). The final result was a general claim that most reviewers valorize conventional writing which emphasizes \"unity and closure\" and which \"enlightens\" or uplifts without threatening the status quo (Leonard 8; A. Wilson 16). Such prejudices have indeed frequently been encountered by Clark's work in the course of her career thus far. Despite these inauspicious circumstances, however, Clark was fortunate enough to establish herself quickly as a playwright, thanks in part to her intriguing and characteristic ability to blend a deceptively comic approach with some very serious themes. The Investigative Theatre of Sally Clark One major theme in Clark's full-length plays has consistently been the mystery that she believes to be at the root of a good story. For Clark, the act of playwriting is an attempt—though it need not always be a successful one—to offer a solution: \"You're writing because you're 268 investigating\" (Rudakoff and Much 78-79). The mystery itself usually revolves around the question of identity, most often specifically of gender identity; and the play becomes structured by Clark's investigations of that identity and its implications, frequently in the form of either a quest or a trial, or indeed of both. Regarding her interest in the trial format, Clark says, \"I love legality, protagonist and antagonist, those two opposing views.... I like that argument\" (Interview, 29 Feb. 1996). My choice of the term \"investigative\" to describe Clark's theatre both refers to the importance of investigation as a formal means of structuring her plots and adapts Catherine Belsey's description of \"interrogative\" texts, as opposed to the \"declarative\" texts of classic realism and the \"imperative\" texts of propaganda (1980). Belsey posits, with the help of Lacanian theory, that the interrogative text \"disrupts the unity of the reader [i.e., makes clear the reader's position as both subject and object of his or her own conscious discourse] by discouraging identification with a unified subject of the enunciation. The position of the 'author' inscribed in the text, if it can be located at all, is seen as questioning or as literally contradictory.... In other words, the interrogative text refuses a single point of view, however complex and comprehensive, but brings points of view into unresolved collision or contradiction\" (91-92). Belsey's theory owes a certain debt to Brecht, in that laying bare the contradictory division in the reader's consciousness in this manner can become a force for social change (88-89); as examples of interrogative dramatic texts, Belsey mentions not only Brecht's Galileo but also Marlowe's Tamburlaine the Great and several of Shakespeare's plays (including Richard III, Macbeth, Julius Caesar and The Winter's Tale). In Clark's work, the fluidity of her characters' identity frequently prevents \"identification with a unified subject\" as Belsey describes. Clark employs such strategies as loss of memory, purposeful deception and role-playing to deepen the mystery for her characters and to \"disrupt the unity\" of the audience. British critic Coral Ann Howells finds exactly such anti-authoritarian \"disruption,\" based in 269 \"the refusal to privilege one kind of discourse or set of cultural values over others,\" to be not only typical of women's narratives, but particularly characteristic of modern Canadian women's fictional works (by such authors as Margaret Laurence, Margaret Atwood, Alice Munro and Joy Kogawa), \"with their mixed genre codes as well as their chronological and narrative dislocations\" (Howells 13). Like the fictions examined by Howells, Clark's plays usually avoid linear narrative structures, piecing together the story gradually from various points of view, in various time frames, or through a mixture of \"reality\" and fantasy sequences which defy generic typification. Additionally, the large number of characters in Clark's plays contributes to their difficulty as puzzles. As Clark says, \"Writing for a large cast is the difference between writing a symphony or a quartet.... Sure it's nice to write string quartets, but it's also nice to bring out more voices\" (P. Wilson D7). The malleability of characters' identity is often particularly apparent because many parts are obviously played by a single actor, with the manner of division of many roles among a small cast usually carefully specified by Clark. This idea of identity as fluid appears already in Clark's first full-length play, Lost Souls and Missing Persons, in which Canadian tourist Lyle Halstead badgers the New York police to track down his wife Hannah, as she roams the streets, feigning amnesia and speaking in gibberish. She meets an artist named Turner, who accepts her as a childlike being and names her \"Zombie.\" Throughout, the play shifts back and forth from the present to scenes from the course of Lyle's and Hannah's marriage. This plot is further counterpointed by the story of the pious Mrs. Cape, who drags her mentally handicapped son Nesbitt through various scenes, first searching for her own estranged husband, then giving him up for dead and staging a ludicrous memorial service. Finally, Mrs. Cape and Nesbitt meet and torment Lyle, while the mysterious Mr. Cape resurfaces in the last scene to murder Hannah in the very moment of her self-realization. 270 Lost Souls and Missing Persons juggles twenty-three characters in a variety of temporal and spatial locations. Lyle's fruitless tracing of Hannah is paralleled by Hannah's reliving her memories to find herself, on a quest to escape a stagnant marriage in a world where \"Husbands are inevitable\" (Clark, Lost Souls and Missing Persons 109). In further parallels, Hannah's recurring dream of waking up next to a stranger, metaphorically realized in her marriage, comes literally but happily true in her brief liaison with Turner; and the dreamlike quality of her real life as an unfulfilled mother shifts effortlessly into the nightmare of her final encounter, when she runs—\"the banner in my hand . . . already shouting 'Bully Ho!'\"—into Mr. Cape's upraised knife (140). Despite this ending, however, Clark considers the play life-affirming: \"It isn't sad that [Hannah] gets killed in the end, because she found out what she needed to know.\" Clark maintains that, despite appearances to the contrary, \"Lyle is partly Hannah's creation—she fell in love with him before she knew who he was. . . . Hannah decides that she wants Lyle and attaches herself to him. Then she starts to lose herself (in Rudakoff, Dangerous Traditions 76). This basic idea—the submergence of women's identities in men, especially in the wrong men, even as they affect men's identities in turn—would become a main thread in Clark's work. Self-destructive as their actions may be, Judith Rudakoff asserts, \"Clark never categorizes her heroines as victims. Their choices may not seem prudent, nor do they seem to be in the characters' best interests. Ultimately, these heroines are choosing Self over others. They are choosing the amoral path of self-discovery, opting to act on their strongest instinct instead of their most ingrained, socially correct intellectual impetus\" (Rudakoff, Dangerous Traditions 126). Remarkably complex for a full-length debut, Lost Souls was first produced at all only because Theatre Passe Muraille director Clarke Rogers was struck by its large scale during the 1981 recession, when many Canadian theatres were cutting back to smaller casts. As Clark later said, \"I 271 was lucky and [Rogers] was a bit of a lunatic\" (P. Wilson D7). When the play reached the stage in 1984, however, its complexity was seen by reviewers as a disadvantage. Though Clark herself garnered measured praise—\"Sally Clark is a new playwright with a touch for light, comic writing and a fascination with surrealism\"—the play drew such criticisms as: \"What exactly is it in aid of? . . . the point of it all is frustratingly vague\" (Conlogue, \"Clark's comedy\" M8). A 1989 Vancouver remounting prompted a similar mixed reaction: \"Despite some insightful writing . . . there is a greater sense of what is lost than found in Lost Souls\" (Moore, \"Lost Souls\" 38). The darkness of Clark's humour was also perceived as a failure, at least by Lloyd Dykk, who thought the play was \"a serious lament undermined by comedy\" (Dykk, \"Lots of laughs\" B8), though such generic ambiguity is in fact deliberately sought by Clark: \"I like to set up the problem of writing a tragedy and then constantly undermine the tragic elements\" (Rudakoff and Much 78). Not until the script was published in a 1992 Passe Muraille anthology did the play win a fully enthusiastic review—from Richard Paul Knowles, who admitted,\"... I thought I had been alone in admiring [Lost Souls] when it was first produced in 1984.\" With the benefit of Clark's later works as a compass, Knowles sees this early play in terms that partially fulfil Belsey's requirements for an interrogative text: \"A sprawling urban epic, the play makes effective use of a disjunctive and contrapuntal narrative structure and divided subjectivities to tell from the skewed angle typical of Clark's work the stories of Hannah and the Capes, the missing and the lost, in what its first director Clarke Rogers calls 'the ultimate bourgeois nightmare'\" (Knowles, \"Letters in Canada 1992,\" 104). Clark's Commission, its Background and its Result \"The ultimate bourgeois nightmare\" could also very easily describe Kafka's Procefi. It was purely by coincidence, however—and perhaps on the strength of Lost Souls, which was then being 272 workshopped by Theatre Passe Muraille—that in the sirmmer of 1983, Larry Lillo and Vancouver's Tamahnous Theatre commissioned Sally Clark to write a theatrical version of Kafka's novel as \"a one-woman show, sort of terror-based\" (Sally Clark, personal interview, 5 May 1993). Lillo's choice of Kafka as the source for a feminist project may seem strange, given that, as Daniela K. Pacher writes, \"The more or less traditional view of Kafka critics places the woman and literature at opposite ends of the spectrum, both in his life and in his writing.\" Pacher continues, however: \"We have fallen into the trap of taking Kafka too much at his word in assuming that the threat he felt actually existed\" (Pacher 57). It is true, she grants, that Kafka kept women whom he claimed to love at a distance, consistently \"transforming even real women into fictional characters\" in his diaries and correspondence; constructing for himself a fictive Felice Bauer and Milena Jesenska, for example, whose construction could itself only be maintained in the absence of their living counterparts (59-62). Nonetheless, Pacher argues, women serve in Kafka's works both as muses and as true artists whose creative powers outstrip those of men (72). Furthermore, in contrast to many among his friends and family, Kafka frequently demonstrated support for what would nowadays be called women's issues. As a young man, for example, he encouraged his summer acquaintance Selma Kohn to study, which was still unusual for women—and was moreover against her father's wishes, which Selma finally obeyed (Hayman 32). Years later, Kafka went against his own family, even his feared father, to persuade his sister Ottilie to many the man she loved, Josef David, who as a Gentile was regarded as thoroughly unsuitable; this time it was Kafka who won (242). These were not isolated incidents: time and again Kafka urged [women] to pursue their studies, to educate themselves, helped to guide their reading, later on ardently supported efforts by several of his women friends, including his youngest sister, to work as farmhands in preparation for life in a Palestinian kibbutz. He never shared the mordant, pseudo-urbane if sometimes elaborately masked contempt for women that afflicted most of the men in his circle, 273 and in later years he became even more critical of these fashionable attitudes. But whether the often almost comically earnest eagerness on his part to foster women's intellectual growth was prompted by progressive ideas or by the more unconscious need to desexualize them is hard to say. (Pawel 83-84) Whether his ideas were \"progressive\" or not, an incident recounted in Kafka's letters demonstrates how acutely conscious Kafka was of gender inequality in his society. When he suffered a fainting spell while at a Paris doctor's office, he lay on the couch, \"during which time—really curious, this—I felt so much like a girl that I tried to tug down my skirt with my fingers\" (Letter to Max and Otto Brod, 20 Oct. 1910; Kafka, Briefe 1902-1924, 82).305 While near fainting, Kafka realized that \"in a world which reduced male-versus-female to power-versus-submission, he was—with no manifest pleasure—on the female side of the equation\" (Pawel 215). A further example from Kafka's diary proves that concomitant with this realization, he did not act only in support of women with whom he was personally acquainted. At the same time, it demonstrates the ambivalence of Kafka's behaviour toward women. He records that he caught a boy in the act of throwing a large ball at a defenseless servant girl in the street; as it hit her from behind, the normally shy pacifist Kafka grabbed the boy, nearly throttled him, and pushed him aside with harsh words—though his solicitousness did not extend to paying any further attention to the servant (27 March 1910;Kafka, Tagebiicher 200). This same ambivalence is also reflected in the apparent disparity between how Kafka thought and what he wrote: Kafka's rational views about women, as about so many other issues, were eminently sensible, far more so than was common in his circle. But what the work records, the bedrock of his inner truth uncensored by reason, is a demonic vision of woman eerily consistent with the fanged monsters that hovered in the poison fumes of a twilight 3 0 5 \" . . . wahrend welcher ich mich—merkwiirdig war das—so sehr als Madchen fuhlte, daB ich meinen Madchenrock mit den Fingern in Ordnung zu bringen bemuhte.\" 274 culture—Weininger's syphilitic vampire, Nolde's Death as a Woman, Wedekind's Lulu, and Freud's hysterical virago seeking to avenge her loss. (Pawel 88) Elizabeth Boa further includes among these monstrous women \"the liberated sexual woman [who] displayed a monstrous virility which threatened male identity as in fin-de-siecle icons such as Salome, Delilah, or Judith\" (Boa 43), the last of whom would become important in Clark's work. Whether this \"demonic vision\" of woman is meant to be taken at face value, or is itself satirical or critical of his contemporaries, it is not without reason that Barbara Godard, in an article treating Clark's adaptation of Kafka as both a translation and a feminist reappropriation, points out that Der Procefi \"exhibits] the misogynistic traits of the dominant [Western literary] tradition in excess\" (Godard 25), where, as Dorothy Smith complains, only male characters are taken to be universal: \"They do not appear as themselves alone. They are those whose words count, both for each other and for those who are not members of this category\" (Smith 289). Kafka's works, as a landmark in that tradition, are indeed interpreted by that tradition in such a way as to exclude women further. We might recall here Martin Esslin's praise of Kafka: \"Kafka's novels [describe] the perplexity of man\" (Esslin 316-7), being \"the supreme expression of the situation of modern man\" (345; emphasis added). Previous adaptations had enacted the narrative text's \"misogynistic traits\" in different ways. The Barrault-Gide version had focussed on K.'s persecution to the point of marginalizing the gender relations in the text, in a manner that echos Barrault's worshipful marginalizing of his wife and co-star, Madeleine Renaud, in his own biographies. Fortunately, Le Proces did not follow the model of Gide's plays from forty years earlier, wherein, in mythological or Biblical surroundings, two men bond at the expense of a woman caught in the middle (as in Saul or Le roi Candaules). Berkoff, who wrote of his adaptation that \"The Trial is my life. It is anyone's trial\" (Berkoff, Trial 5), had deftly 275 layered his own misogyny onto Kafka's, making even the landlady Frau Grubach into a sex object by transforming her briefly into a lascivious Elsa. Only Peter Weiss had stated any intention of criticizing the patriarchal misogyny inherent in the novel—but in so doing he had also written the actress playing Fraulein Biirstner into an entirely gratuitious nude scene. If misogyny has often been found in Kafka, however, Pacher for one argues that \"clearly those literary critics who see Kafka as nothing more than a troubled misogynist are missing the point altogether\" (Pacher 72). Godard further claims that, as a member of a linguistic and religious minority, Kafka is a writer of \"liminal texts\" ripe for feminization (Godard 25). The sense of alienation and powerlessness within a system of arbitrary laws which permeates Kafka's work corresponds perfectly to the construction of patriarchal oppression which feminism posits as the social context within which women are forced to exist. This sense of powerlessness may exist because Kafka, as Roman Struc remarked at the 1989 University of Calgary Faculty of Humanities Symposium, felt himself to be a victim of patriarchy in the most literal sense of the word. Sally Clark agrees that Kafka is unusual in his perception of this victimization: \"It's interesting, because he had huge social pressure, too. I never think of men as being victimized by social pressure; I often think of single women as being victimized, but... he was\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Kafka's reaction to this pressure, in the interpretation of Elizabeth Boa, was to write Der Procefi as a critique of the gender dynamic of his society, in which by design, \"[wjomen appear marginal to the action: the accused are all men, as are the lawyers and judges\" (Boa 186); the formal sign of this critique in the narrative text is a \"blurring between the psychic, the social, and the metaphysical\" which, like the Canadian women's fiction described by Howells, \"corresponds to generic blurring between fantasy, realism and symbolism so that the reader is left uncertain how to read\" (181). Given Clark's ability to write in this mode, she would seem to have 276 been an apt choice to receive Larry Lillo's commission for an adaptation. Clark's own ideological position is also problematic, however, in that she has—as we shall see—variously been constructed by others as either feminist or anti-feminist. She herself often refers to \"feminists\" in the third person. This is not an unusual phenomenon in a period when feminism has become a broad spectrum of political and cultural philosophies, many of them mutually incompatible, while the advances won by previous generations of feminism have led many women to assume that the need for action is no longer present. Women who choose to reject the stridency and militancy of the more extreme varieties of feminism (often presented by conservative observers as the norm) nowadays often reject the title itself, with its perceived negative connotations. Nonetheless, many of these so-called \"post-feminists\" share the broad ideals of mainstream feminism, such as legal and economic equality between the genders and valuation of female experience on a par with male experience. Since Clark also recognizes the existence of unjust social pressure on women, as her work makes abundantly clear, I regard her work as broadly feminist, although she is at odds with particular strains of feminism on many points. The discrepancy between Clark's personal approach to feminist issues and Tamahnous's expectations of her adaptation, however, would cause some minor difficulties in the reception of Trial, as the first version of the play was titled. Clark's motivation in accepting the commission, it must be pointed out, was far from ideological: \"Had I gone mad? Was I that desperate for money? Or did I just want to get revenge on some poor dead author that I was forced to read in university? Ah, those grudges formed in one's youth. Yes, to all of the above\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20). The flippant phrasing should not distract the reader from the fact that the need for money was a significant consideration. Still a fledgling playwright, Clark was working at day jobs, including work as an emergency librarian, to 277 pay the bills. By contrast, pecuniary interests play little role in the work of previous adapters. Barrault and Berkoff were both working steadily in the theatre as they wrote their versions (even if Berkoff found his work unsatisfying; Berkoff, Trial 5); Weiss could afford to return Bergman's advance before taking up his version in earnest; and Gide, thanks to inheritance, was financially independent all his life. Clark thus accepted her first commission, and because the play was scheduled to open in September, she had \"a month to write the play and a month to rehearse it before they put it on\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Because funding for the show was uncertain, however—a situation which had become typical since government cutbacks had begun— and because she was apprehensive that Tamahnous's group style of working might interfere with her writing process, Clark decided to wait until she arrived in Vancouver before beginning the writing. As a result, she finally wrote the play in only two weeks (Interview, 5 May 1993). If these seem to be inauspicious conditions for producing memorable theatre, it should be remembered that they are by no means unusual in the contemporary business of dramatic production. Less auspicious still, however, was Clark's initial attitude toward Kafka's narrative text. We have seen her describe her adaptation as a form of revenge on an author she had been forced to read. Not only does Clark not apologize for her lack of sympathy, but she asserts that she is by no means alone: \"Has anyone ever actually read their Kafka novel? I skimmed through mine, got the gist.... I find people read Kafka's The Trial in the same way they read Joyce's Ulysses; that is, they don't\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20). David Zane Mairowitz complains that the long history of Kafka interpretation only served to reduce Kafka to \"the ADJECTIVE ['Kafkaesque'], which would be known by many more people than would ever read his books\" (Mairowitz and Crumb 156); Clark confirms Mairowitz's complaint by remarking that at university, \"Kafka-esque [sic] was simply a 278 euphemism for boring. And serious. Deadly serious\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20). During the summer, however, Clark found access to Kafka through reading another Czech, Milan Kundera. Clark's enjoyment of Kundera's novels led her to a new appraisal of Kafka: Kundera claims a great kinship with Kafka, both of them being Czechoslovakians. I had noticed certain similarities between the two authors: nothing that I could put my finger on—a certain attitude towards life, a Czechoslovakian sensibility. Both authors write about police states run by incompetent bureaucrats.... In both Kafka's and Kundera's worlds, evil is the result of benign neglect and incompetence rather than intentioned malice—although malicious acts abound. (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20) As a result of her reading, Clark began to question her stereotypical view of Kafka as boring and serious: \"that got me into thinking that Trial should be funny . . . and it seemed to me that if I could use some of Kundera's sensibility in the Trial, that that would work\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Clark explains further: \"The main difference between the two authors is that Kundera is funny and easy to read; Kafka is not. This led me to think that a) Milan Kundera speaks English and can ensure that his English translations are accurate, and b) maybe Kafka is supposed to be funny but has never been translated properly. These suspicions were later confirmed when I read an interview with Milan Kundera (\"On Kafka and Chaos,\" Vogue, February, 1982). Kundera said that North Americans had misinterpreted Kafka for years\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20). This statement by Clark raises a series of issues, among them the fact that, as John Robert Colombo has put it, \"Canadian society of the present and recent past has been relatively provincial or parochial in outlook\" (Colombo 90). Czech emigre author Josef Skvorecky, for example, has complained that despite his gratitude to Canada, he finds Canadian observations of the Eastern European situation marked by—among other traits—\"insensitivity,\" \"ignorance\" and \"ahistoricity\" (Skvorecky, \"Are Canadians Politically Naive?\" 290-294). Defensive Canadian critics have in turn 279 dismissed Skvorecky's remarks as \"facile and condescending\" (Thomas 142-143), and have accused both Skvorecky and Kundera of \"smugness\" (Corbeil E3), leading Skvorecky to respond, \"I am not smug. But can anyone expect me to forget, to suppress, to ignore, or to keep silent about what I know and they don't? I don't know a great many things about Canada but I would not dream of accusing those who enlighten me of smugness\" (Skvorecky, \"Judgment\" 175). Understanding of the Eastern European intellectual heritage (and, by extension, of the intellectual heritages of other, more \"exotic\" cultures) is hardly furthered by the Canadian style of officially-supported multiculturalism (Kroller 85-87). In practice, these policies often reduce foreign cultures to quaint \"ethnic\" folklore exhibitions of \"pretty girls in short skirts dancing the kozatchek in nicely embroidered national costumes\" whose proper provenance is the nineteenth century. At the same time, literary ventures within the same cultural communities seldom receive government funding, because they are in neither of the country's official languages, and are apparently lacking in \"Canadian content\" (Skvorecky, \"Some Problems\" 84-86). Under these circumstances, the accessibility of authors from outside the Anglo-American tradition has been doubly threatened by a lack of contextual knowledge about the authors and, particularly in Kafka's case, a long tradition of interpretation demonstrating the author's \"difficulty.\" Indeed, Ludwig Dietz's critical introduction to Kafka even emphasizes the challenge of presenting \"a difficult author\" (ein schwieriger Autor) to both students and teachers (Dietz 133). In fact, Kafka's prose in the original is not at all hard to read; his stories are often among the first texts encountered by English-speaking students at the intermediate German level. Likewise, the English translation by the Muirs is lucid and easily understood, although the style has certainly dated in sixty years. As for Kundera, whether or not the English translations of his novels are more 280 accurate, they are certainly more recent; and whereas Marketa Goetz-Stankiewicz has described long novels with talkative characters (like Kafka's) as reflecting \"a deep and essential trait of the Central European mind,\" she has also pointed out that Kundera is the exception to the rule, \"modelling] his texts consciously on the French who, with notable exceptions, find it bad form to go beyond, say, 200 pages\" (Goetz-Stankiewicz 167). The general lack of historical contextual knowledge about Kafka has also made it a relatively unproblematic act to reassign him to Czech literature, despite the fact that he wrote in German and is usually claimed for German or Austrian literature. This reassignment probably attests to the success of Czech critical efforts since the early 1960s to \"reclaim\" Kafka as a symbol of autonomy from Soviet cultural domination as described in the previous chapter—a reclamation in which Kundera also obviously has a vested interest. These efforts have succeeded so well that Barbara Godard, whose own training is firmly in the Anglo-American tradition, describes Der Procefi as an \"exploration of the clash of languages or heteroglossia resulting from Kafka's position as a Czech-speaking Jew writing in German within a province of the Austro-Hungarian empire\" (Godard 23), apparently ignorant of the fact that German was Kafka's mother tongue, whether he felt himself at home in it or not (Kafka learned his father's language, Czech, from the servants, but received no formal education in it). It is ironic that in a country which refuses to recognize literature in Czech as \"Canadian content,\" an entire oeuvre written in German can be arbitrarily treated as \"Czechoslovakian content,\" particularly since Czechoslovakia did not even exist while Kafka was writing Der Procefi. Even when the Republic was created in 1919, it offered Kafka no welcome as an artist (Mairowitz and Crumb 161): all of his works, during his life and after, were printed by German publishers until the Nazi era. 281 These qualifications are not mentioned, however, to imply that Clark's linking of Kundera with Kafka is entirely unjustified. On the contrary, such similarities as Clark has noted are also remarked upon by Kundera's acquaintance Carlos Fuentes: \"In both K's, Kafka and Kundera, rules a hermetic legality. Liberty is no longer possible because liberty is already perfect. Such is the solemn reality of the law\" (Fuentes 271). Fuentes sees Kundera's fictional world as the realization of Kafka's forebodings: \"the characters of Milan K live in a world where all the hypotheses of the metamorphosis of Franz K stand unshaken, with only one exception: Gregor Samsa, the cockroach, no longer thinks he knows; now he knows he thinks\" (265). As for Kundera's humour, Fuentes does not overlook it, but rather sees it as highlighting the unsettling elements of the work: \"I believe there is no image of totalitarianism more terrifying than this one created by Milan Kundera [in The Joke]: the totalitarianism over laughter, the incorporation of humor into the law, the transformation of the victims into objects of official humor, prescribed and inscribed in the vast fantastic constructions, which, similar to the prison landscapes of Piranesi or the labyrinthical tribunals of Kafka, pretend to the control of destinies\" (Fuentes 272). Clark writes that, under Kundera's influence, she then \"made a concerted effort to reread The Trial with a steadfast intention to find the jokes and, lo and behold, there they were\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20); but given the effect Fuentes ascribes to Kundera's humour, and Clark's own penchant for the macabre, it should not be assumed that an innocent evening of light entertainment was in store. Affirming the unpleasant undertones of Kafka's humour, Clark writes, \"Kafka is funny. Funny as a crutch\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20). Furthermore, her method of working generally does not allow her to take her material lightly: \"There were gag lines [in Moo], but when I wrote them, I took them seriously too. If I write anything, I have to believe it, be totally serious about the 282 issues and events. If I try, consciously, to be funny, it falls flat\" (Rudakoff and Much 78). The idea of \"jokes,\" however mordant, nonetheless hardly corresponded to Lillo's concept of a \"terror-based\" play—but by this time, Lillo had dropped the project for another job, and the Kafka adaptation was passed over to Morris Panych. Panych, himself a Vancouver playwright of note, was more inclined to macabre comedy than Lillo. Moreover, he had found the same access to Kafka that Clark had found. \"The first thing [Panych] said to me was: 'I've found an interview with Milan Kundera and he says The Trial is supposed to be funny. What do you think? Should we make it funny?' 'Sure,' I said. 'Let's make it funny'\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20). Panych also settled Clark's apprehension about the actual writing, promising that there would be no group interference with her process (Interview, 5 May 1993). Clark's next step was to find a suitable version of the narrative text to work from. \"Not that it was an easy task. In my ignorance, I had chosen the 'definitive authorized translation of the text' [i.e., the Muirs'], which begins: 'Someone must have traduced Joseph K . . . . ' Thank God there are now newer translations which use English\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 20). Clark found a more recent translation—lexical comparison indicates the 1977 version by Douglas Scott and Chris Waller as the likely source—and went through it, constructing a skeleton outline of the action as follows: every time there was an action, I wrote it down . . . and any time an image grabbed me, I wrote it down. And so I sort of went through the novel doing that. Each chapter, I would work out what the action was . . . what someone physically did. And that was interesting, because there were a lot of images that kept reoccurring that I might not have noticed on a read: suffocation, and those great images where people would open a window and masses of soot would come through the window.... That was in the first version of the play.. . . And the crampedness, like the rooms kept getting smaller and smaller and more cramped and more suffocating. (Interview, 5 May 1993) Unlike Peter Weiss's attempt to use as much dialogue as possible from the narrative text, 283 Clark sought to free her adaptation from Kafka's prose style by reducing the plot to actions. Clark's own colloquial style of dialogue becomes more marked in the formalized context of Judith's interaction with the Court, and becomes yet more noticeable in her later historical plays, where she steadfastly refuses to use the \"dignified,\" or rather stilted, syntax generally accepted as the normal mode of discourse in male-centred historical drama. This refusal can also be seen as a form of feminist appropriation of the material, as Joanna Russ does: \"Women always write in the vernacular. . . . In the vernacular it's also hard to be 'classic,' to be smooth, to be perfect. The Sacred Canon of Literature quite often pretends that some works can be not only atemporal and universal (that is, outside of history, a religious claim) but without flaw and without perceptible limitations. It's hard, in the vernacular, to pretend this, to paper over the cracks\" (Russ 128-129). Clark's consistent use of vernacular in her historical plays is often mirrored by other deliberate anachronisms (in Jehanne of the Witches, for example, a medieval pagan spirit uses a cigarette lighter) which emphasize the contemporary nature of the events over the Active era represented on stage. It was therefore important for Clark to attempt to distance her adaptation from Kafka's narrative text by supplanting as much as possible of his prose with her own dialogue: The thing with Kafka's prose is it's sort of like following a snake-path . . . it's really mesmerizing, because if you start to use a little bit of. . . dialogue, you can't get rid of it, it's like glue. So the only way I could separate myself from this dialogue was to write it as action and then write the play from that.... Frequently I'd find myself getting sucked into it, and then the people would speak in very long and convoluted sentences. A couple of times it happens, it works out all right. (Interview, 5 May 1993) Curiously, however, despite Clark's efforts the final text of Judith K. still contains traces not only of the Scott/Waller translation, but also of the Muirs, who have donated a couple of phrases 284 verbatim (there are also several passages which could have been adapted from either translation, since the two translations are themselves identical at many points, particularly in terms of their dialogue). The next step, after isolating the actions of the plot, was to decide how the gender dynamics of the novel would be reshaped for the dramatic text. \"I decided to just sort of play with the sexes, so . . . she was going to be female, I figured that all the women would be men in the book\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Many of the roles in the play, though not all, are accordingly switched across gender—women to men and men to women. Corresponding to the change in gender, Kafka's Josef/Joseph K. is now renamed Judith, and given a punning surname: Kaye. Clark chose the name Judith (rather than Josephine, for example) for its Biblical overtones, explaining, \"Joseph's a Biblical name, whereas Josephine isn't... . Judith, you know, has the same syllables, it just has the same ring to it and that same authority.\" The name was also a personal touch: \"I have a good friend who's Jewish, and her name is Judith.... I thought this'll be funny, I'll put her name in there\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). This act of renaming, however, has deeper resonances, and would have repercussions in Clark's later career. The name \"Judith\" itself means \"Jewess,\" and the book of that name is, at least in the Protestant tradition, not Biblical but Apocryphal (in the Catholic tradition, the book of Judith is accepted as deuterocanonical—that is, as a later addition to the canon, but nonetheless doctrinally authoritative). The book of Judith tells the story of how the eponymous young widow saves her town of Bethulia from the Assyrian invader by pretending to defect and seducing the enemy general Holofernes. By allowing Holofernes to drink himself into unconsciousness, Judith preserves her virtue; then, decapitating him with his own sword, she bears his head back to Bethulia, rallies the 285 menfolk, and helps rout the demoralized Assyrians. The book is thought to be entirely fictitious because it is full of glaring anachronisms and inaccuracies, both historical and theological (Metzger 76). For example, Nebuchadnezzar, who carried the Jews into the Babylonian Exile (in which capacity he appears, as Nebuchadrezzar, in the book of Jeremiah), is falsely named as post-Exile king of Assyria (Judith 1:1-6); while former enemy Achior the Ammonite is converted by Judith's deed to Judaism (Judith 14:6-10), despite the fact that the Ammonites were expressly barred from becoming Jews under Mosaic law \"even unto their tenth generation\" (Deut. 23:3). Despite the text's oddities, Judith is an exemplary heroine—resolute, chaste and true to her faith—who single-handedly plans and accomplishes the salvation of her people. In terms of traditional patriarchy, the Judith myth thus depicts \"a world turned upside down,\" even though the reversal is temporary and therefore illusory (Peters 83). Even centuries later, the violent nature of Judith's act, and particularly its Freudian implications, also made her a perfect focus for male anxiety as a Mann- Weib (\"masculinized woman\") during the period when Kafka was writing Der Procefi (Boa 43); and perhaps these overtones also contributed to Virginia Woolf s choice of Judith as the name of her fictional female Shakespeare in the pivotal feminist work A Room of One's Own (1929). Certainly, however, these same implications resurface in modern Canadian literature in the protagonist of Arifha van Herk's first novel Judith (1978; three years later, van Herk mines the very similar Biblical story of Jael and Sisera [Judges 4:1-24] for her second novel, The Tent Peg). The book of Judith was also to become increasingly important in Clark's oeuvre, and indeed she has returned to it twice more as a more direct source; but for Trial, the heroic nature of the Apocryphal Judith's foray into enemy territory remains only an ironic subtext. Judith's status as a \"masculinized\" but still desirable woman nonetheless makes her an apt model for a figure intended to replace the 286 aggressively male and \"attractive\" Joseph K. Moreover, like her renaming, Clark's characterization of her Judith K. was not simply a transposition of the novel's protagonist into female form. Rather, Clark deliberately altered her character's personality to differ from her perception of the novel's protagonist. Joseph K. is just a snob, and... the funny part of the book is that absolute conviction that he's going to sort it out and that it's no big deal... never for one moment does he doubt that this is just some sort of clerical error . . . . I always thought Woody Allen would make a great Joseph K . . . . He was what I had in mind, with that sort of whining, but always felt he was on top of things . . . and loved women, right, he was an unattractive man but always had women following him. . . . I was trying to create a female equivalent. So I thought I'd create someone who was so busy getting ahead that she didn't have time to experience life. (Interview, 5 May 1993) Despite these changes, at least some of which were necessitated by her mandate from Tamahnous, Clark maintains that the spirit of her adaptation was intended to be faithful. I try to be true to the author.... By making it a comedy, I felt I was entering into the spirit of it, because I thought I had evidence that that's what he wanted... and no one had done that, everyone had made him serious. So then I felt I had to—it was more of a mission.... I think the original author is your master, and you are serving your master, you're trying to serve your master; but it's a really tricky line, because if you serve him too well, then you have a boring play, because a novel and a play are not the same.... (Interview, 5 May 1993). Clark also, however, openly acknowledges the differences between her version and its narrative source, calling it \"loosely based\" on the novel and disclaiming the word \"adaptation\" (Rudakoff and Much 85). At the same time as Clark was working through the narrative text, Tamahnous was advertising the upcoming production as a feminist thriller, corresponding to Lillo's original intentions, \"a woman's nightmare, and very serious, it was going to be like a South American torture . . . expose. And of course Morris and I get together, and we decide it's a comedy\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). The change in tone which Clark and Panych had engineered continued 287 to go unacknowledged in much of the advance publicity, even while Panych and designer Ken McDonald began planning to facilitate the necessary multiple casting by creating gigantic cartoon cut-outs, in a grotesque comic style, which would be worn by all of the actors except Barbara E. Russell as Judith. The intended effect, according to a late press release, was to make Judith K. \"a grown-up Alice in a judicial wonderland\" (\"Free Judith K.\" n. p.). When the play opened on 15 November 1985, the production suffered somewhat from the discrepancy between the expectations raised by most of the advertising and the actual result of Clark's work: \"It was embarrassing, because the publicity machine was still cranking it out. They publicized this serious stuff, and then . . . some of the audiences came and they were a little bit cheesed off, because they were expecting a serious political feminist tract and they got like, a comedy\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). This disappointment was also evident in some of the reviews, as reviewers ignored the comic aspects of Kafka's original novel and took the production to task for its humour, illustrating Clark's own contention that \"Kafkaesque\" served as a synonym for \"deadly serious.\" Kerry Moore, in The Province, complained that \"Trial was supposed to be scary, but it was just too funny,\" and curiously ascribed the conflict to the ego of the company itself: \"Tamahnous wants to tell a sobering story of victimization, intimidation, one that has universal implication. But it wants to be seen as very clever and talented at the same time\" (Moore, \"Trial trips\" 43). Vancouver Sun reviewer Lloyd Dykk, on the other hand, blamed the playwright. Offended by Clark's changes to \"Kafka's magnificent novel,\" Dykk apparently had never heard Brod's anecdote about Kafka's reading the novel aloud to general hilarity. He wrote, \"[Clark] toys with the seriousness of the story, as though The Trial had been a classic in the public domain long enough that it might be turned into a hip black joke. . . . Judith 288 K. . . . has too much the stand-up comedian about her\" (Dykk, \"Sense of dread lost\" BIO). Only Alan Twigg, of the Georgia Straight, on the contrary, found Trial \"a faithful adaptation that ingeniously reflects the universal aspects of the story. . . . no matter what you happen to have between your legs,\" though structurally flawed by \"its many backwards or sideways detours for laughs or over-explication.\" Twigg was, however, aided in understanding the \"universal aspects of the story\" by interpreting Kafka's \"nightmarish oppression of one individual by the laws of the state\" broadly enough to include \"God, Fate, Socreds, a traffic cop,\" \"motor vehicle testing stations,\" and \"Expo 86 baloney\" (Twigg 32). The gigantic cut-outs and their deployment were seen as the most striking element of the production. Moore felt that the cut-outs failed in their mission to \"heighten the sense of depersonalization\" because the production did not offer \"dehumanized monotone voices\" to match, consistency apparently being a greater sign of quality than polysemy (Moore, \"Trial trips\" 43). The otherwise disapproving Dykk found them \"wonderful,\" however, despite a sense that they were inappropriate for Kafka's story, which he interprets as realistic (presumably a \"magnificent novel\" must be realistic as well as serious): \"In a way, this conflicts with the semi-realism of the story, but the abstraction of these gargoyles, as grotesque, funny and black as a Carel Moiseiwitsch cartoon, serves to point up the flatness and implacability of the forces that have Judith K. in their maw\" (Dykk, \"Sense of dread lost\" BIO). Twigg had no such qualms, proclaiming that \"Ken MacDonald's malevolent yet playful cutout caricatures account for the greatest strength of this production. His brilliant creations superbly emphasize the . . . approach that Tamahnous has decided to take in order to allow director Morris Panych and friends to lighten the piece with macabre humour without unduly diluting Kafka's message\"—which Twigg is clearly willing to extend to Expo 86, but not to 289 macabre humour (Twigg 32). Finally, however, even the generally positive Twigg found Trial unsatisfying: \"If only the entire cast... had remained behind those cock-eyed cutouts . . . and if only Toronto playwright Susan [sic] Clark's script had been pared to essentials . . . and if only that dying-swan act to close the show hadn't so much resembled the final chord in Day in the Life ... this show might still be resonating as an artistic triumph\" (32). Clark herself, who sums up the reception of Trial with the phrase, \"The critics hated it\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial\" 20), was herself not entirely happy with the script. While also going on to new projects, Clark began rewriting Trial, which was read at the Shaw Festival Academy in June 1987, workshopped at the Banff Centre Playwrights Colony in May 1988, and read in its new form at the Canadian Stage Company's Playground in November 1988. This new version, now called The Trial of Judith K., finally premiered at the Canadian Stage Company in Toronto in October 1989. Clark's Revision of Trial and Re-Visioning of Der Procefi Clark has given several explanations of why she felt the original version, with its relative fidelity to the narrative text, had not worked as she had expected. Above all, perhaps because it had been written so quickly, she thought that it was simply too structurally linear: \"I think it was just a bit like Alice in Wonderland; it was she meets this, she meets that, she meets weird man, she bounces from one to the other, from one to the other and it's chronological, right, but the action doesn't come back on itself, which it should in a play\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). At the same time, Joseph K.'s sexual habits did not transfer well to a female character: \"Joseph seduces women in the story in order to get information out of them. . . . In my version, Judith did the same thing to men. But where he had looked masterful, she looked pathetic\" 290 (Conlogue, \"I hate political correctness\" Cl). Dale Spender uses the same two adjectives to describe the inequity in cultural perception of the genders, even (or especially) when performing the same actions: \"there are stereotypes of women's and men's language which mean people don't actually have to listen to women and men speaking to know that the women are 'pathetic' and the men are 'masterful'\" (D. Spender, Writing or the Sex? 23). Just as Clark's (mostly male) critics had been unable to displace their stereotypes of the novel's tone and message in order to interpret Clark's adaptation as anything other than confused in its genre, so too the stereotypical cultural view of actions \"appropriate\" to the respective genders interfered with their reception of the play's protagonist. As Barbara Godard puts it: \"The ambiguity which results from the substitution of one gender script for another produces tensions in . . . the dramatic [text] that interrupt textual and social decorum. Clark's basic strategy of changing the gender of the protagonist while quoting from [The Trial] produces a hybrid text that fails to conform to any of the established signifying practices\" (Godard 25). The same difficulties with gender and genre dynamics would also bedevil the reception of Aritha van Herk's work—particularly her third novel No Fixed Address (1986), which was guided by an aesthetic similar to Clark's, and whose picaresque protagonist Arachne also engages in the casual promiscuity usually reserved for male heroes (see Scobie 37; Crosby; McGoogan; Leckie 279). Unlike van Herk, who has dismissed such objections as the work of \"dullard critics\" (D. Jones 6-9), Clark took these criticisms into consideration in refashioning the play, herself dissatisfied with both the character of Judith K. and the reaction to her: It was interesting, because if you have a man doing that, people think it's very clever, and if a woman does it, she's a slut; and it doesn't matter how you say, \"Oh, there's no such thing as male-female stereotyping,\" there is. . . . People just couldn't understand it, feminists got mad.... With Joseph K., it was funny because it was 291 sort of like this schmuck who's getting all these women coming on to him.... I don't think there is a female equivalent for that.... Stagewise, she just looks like an idiot. (Interview, 5 May 1993) In rewriting the play, Clark dealt with the problem by cutting Judith's several sexual entanglements (the equivalents to Joseph K.'s liaisons in the novel) down to one relationship, while also combining other characters from the first version into a smaller cast. The result, as we shall see, was to create composite characters who often take over the functions of both male and female figures from the narrative text. This complex process is represented in the following schematic synopsis of changes: Judith K. awakens one morning to find herself not only under arrest, but stripped by her two warders, Biff and Clem. From under her bedclothes, she screams, \"WHERE'S MY FLANNEL NIGHTIE!!\" One of the warders says, \"We confiscated it,\" and opens his gas station coveralls to reveal that he is wearing the nightie. When an inspector appears as well, Judith decides it must all be a birthday prank. To be a good sport, she offers to let them surprise her. They turn out the lights, she enters, and the three men leap up and shout: \"SURPRISE!! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!!!!\" as balloons fall from the ceiling. Though this beginning makes it clear that the tone of the dramatic text is much lighter at times, the basic plot outline remains as in the narrative text (described as elements A-Jon p. 35 above)—although compressed [Mirza e)] and placed in production in a polyvalent space [Mirza a)]—with some radical changes in detail: 1) the landlady, Frau Grubach, has been combined with the tradesman Block, creating a new character, Mrs. Block, who now appears throughout the play [Mirza b) and c)]; 2) K.'s male Assistant Bank Manager becomes Mrs. Voight, who circles like a shark even more 292 openly than her male counterpart to grab Judith's clients as Judith's attention is distracted by her trial; Mrs. Voight also takes over the functions of the three clerks in the novel [Mirza b) and c)]; 3) no character equivalent to Fraulein Biirstner appears in the play at all; roughly at the same position in the plot, however, Judith does encounter a so-called friend of Mrs. Block who introduces herself as 'Milly Pearce,\" who wears Mrs. Block's clothes, but who is obviously a man in drag [Mirza b) and c)]; 4) the search for the court is cut altogether, while the scene of Judith K.'s hearing—though it occurs in the same position as in the narrative text—is much shortened [Mirza e)]; 5) the apelike law student who continually attacks the court laundress, the laundress herself, and Leni are combined into a figure called Ted the Psychopath, an employee of the court and of Theadora [Mirza b) and c)]; 6) as in two of the other three adaptations, there is no Fraulein Montag, nor any male character equivalent to her [Mirza b)]; 7) the scene with the whipper—here called the Flogger, as in the Scott/Waller translation—is transposed to precede the scene of Judith K.'s second visit to the now-empty court, and thus now comes immediately after the hearing [Mirza e)]; 8) the visit to the court offices, with its presentation of other accused, is cut [Mirza e)]; 9) Joseph K.'s uncle from the country becomes Judith's uncouth sister-in-law Deedee, who has two obnoxious children [Mirza c)]; 10) Judith, unlike her male counterpart, is told that the trial could be postponed indefinitely, as long as Judith \"just keepfs] gettingpregnant\"[Mirza d)]; 293 11) Huld becomes Theadora Moxie, Lady of Law, who was formerly a hooker named Trixie [Mirza c)\\, 12) although a painter still appears, his name has been changed from \"Titorelli\" to \"Fred Pollock\" [Mirza c)]; 13) the Italian visitor whom K. is supposed to meet at the cathedral becomes a \"Monsieur LeBlanc from Paris\" [Mirza c)]; 14) the priest in the cathedral becomes a nun [Mirza c)]; 15) although the parable \"Before the Law\" is kept, any interpretation or discussion of it is cut [Mirza e)]; and 16) the warders, Biff and Clem, rather as in Weiss's version, appear at the end as Judith's executioners [Mirza b)]. Although Clark's stage directions give basic indications of where each scene is located (e.g., \"Bank,\" \"Court of Inquiry,\" etc.), she offers no description of the set or scenery, leaving the set design completely in the hands of the director and designers—or the reader. The Tamahnous production seems to have used little or no physical set, making the giant cut-outs the primary visual focus, while the Canadian Stage production, which used no cut-outs, built a more elaborate set: \"They actually built a little office, so it was quite neat, so you actually watched her office get smaller and smaller, and they had a little storage cupboard where the two men were, Biff and Clem [in the Flogger scene]\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). The play is divided, as the other three adaptations have been, into two acts, with Clark placing the intermission immediately after the equivalent of the narrative text's visit to the lawyer 294 and K.'s impromptu rendezvous with Leni (the lawyer and Leni here becoming Theadora and Ted respectively). The second act begins back in Theadora's room, implying that some time has passed in the interval. The first act consists of eleven scenes (the fourth scene a monologue less than a page long; Clark, Judith AT. 31) and the second of ten. Each act, according to Clark's introductory notes, should run about forty-five minutes. She also specifies: \"The action should move swiftly and relentlessly from scene to scene. Please, no blackouts or slow fades. 'Louder! Faster!' is a particularly useful maxim to bear in mind\" (Clark, Judith K. 8). \"Louder! Faster!\" is, stereotypically, the advice given to actors playing comedy, and it quickly becomes clear that Clark is not only accentuating the comic aspects of Judith's predicament, but intensifying the pressure exerted on her. Her reduction of the narrative text to basic actions and images, and then her revision of the play farther from its source, have resulted in a dramatic text which excludes large sections of Kafka's plot, while selected ideas from the narrative text are built upon and often recapitulated like jazz riffs, turned into running gags. For example, Biff and Clem, Clark's half-witted equivalents to Kafka's Franz and Willem, \"have Southern U.S. accents and are dressed like gas station attendants\" (11). In Kafka's narrative text, \"the arrival of the court emissaries initiates a confusion of signifying levels as the symbolic underpinnings of the social order emerge into the empirical world\" (Boa 183); accordingly, in Clark's version, their appropriation of Judith's clothes, together with the gag involving the birthday balloons, accentuates this confusion into the creation of \"a carnival world in which order is upturned and inverted. There is nothing fearful in this first scene, despite Judith's cries of rape\" (Godard 29). As if to confirm that no serious threat exists, Biff, Clem and the inspector leave almost immediately, assuring Judith that although she is under arrest, \"that need not hinder you from leading your ordinary and tediously boring life.\" 295 Judith immediately takes umbrage: JUDITH: What makes you think my life is boring! INSPECTOR: An educated guess. (19) She is to appear for her first interrogation at \"1284597 One hundred and sixty-seventh street,\" which she immediately looks up on a map, only to realize that the address lies in Surrey—a suburb miles from central Vancouver, with a reputation for high rates of crime and violence (20). Throughout the play this address turns up again and again, so that Judith is always forced back to the court. We will return to the manner in which Clark uses such recapitulation and repetition as a structuring principle in a later section. Not all of the material in the play is motivated by the central focus of Clark's original commission. The creation of Biff and Clem, for example, has its origin in broad political comment: \"Well, that's my Canada-U.S. jibe. At one point I had a line about this is a third world country or something, but.. . mainly, the idea was the Americans are arresting us\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). As for their conforming to a popular stereotype of American Southerners, \"[They're] from one of those bad movies, you know, one of those Sam Peckinpah movies, where there's the evil car-lot attendant or something\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Such political implications are not merely an arbitrary addition. The imbalance between the genders can easily be likened to the imbalance between Canada and its colonizers and neighbours. As Coral Ann Howells points out, \"There are close parallels between the historical situation of women and of Canada as a nation, for women's experience of the power politics of gender and their problematic relation to patriarchal traditions of authority have affinities with Canada's attitude to the cultural imperialism of the United States as well as its ambivalence towards its European inheritance\" (Howells 2). Clark's adaptation of Kafka is, of course, in itself an expression of such 296 ambivalence. Moreover, Heather Jones, in an essay called \"Feminism and Nationalism in Domestic Melodrama,\" has argued that Canada's best chance to assert its national identity is to rearticulate that identity as feminine and to accomplish this rearticulation through the medium of theatre. By emphasizing how our historical development differs from that of other countries, we reappropriate our culture: because Canada was settled in a more domestic manner than usual—that is, with more active female participation and less violence—Jones explores the possibility of making a new Canadian identity specifically feminine as a potentially important part of a nationalist ideology (H. Jones, \"Feminism and Nationalism\" 5-14). Leaving aside the debatable question whether a nationalist ideology is necessarily a good thing, however it may be configured, Jones's ideas not only validate Clark's idea of presenting the conflict between Judith K. and the officers of the Court as a Canadian-American conflict, but also raise the possibility that Clark would have done better to have taken this idea further as a major thematic thread. In its present form, however, this \"American connection\" remains tentative and as a result, in reviews of the actual productions, seems to have been found more irritating than provocative. Such political additions do seem relatively tentative, of course, compared to the most noticeable change Clark rings on the narrative text. In the following section, I will describe how Clark's switching of genders within the cast of characters alters and comments upon Kafka's original. Gender-Switching in Act One of The Trial of Judith K. With the switching of genders, the characters form constellations different fromfthose in the narrative text. Of the twenty characters in the play, seven are based on figures who are of the 297 opposite sex in the novel—most notably, of course, Judith K. herself. Clark has attempted to create a new character in Judith, rather than simply a drag version of Joseph K. Whereas Joseph, for example, is a confirmed bachelor and would-be womanizer who regularly visits his mistress Elsa (Kafka, Procefi 28), Judith is a divorcee who admits that she is sexually frustrated (Clark, Judith K. 95). Despite already having a sexual outlet, Joseph takes advantage of any opportunity for sexual contact, especially with women who might have influence with the court. Judith, by contrast, is constantly extricating herself from sexual situations, with Ted, Pollock or Theadora. This denial of sexuality was one element which Clark chose to emphasize in a more career-oriented Judith: \"Someone who's just work, work, work, who throws herself into her work, I think that's a more accurate portrayal of women today, and that she would just abandon that side of her life, and basically never thought about it, and being arrested, suddenly she has this free time to think about things\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Her strained relationship with her in-laws, her estrangement from her ex-husband, and her rivalry at work serve to isolate her from any real social bonds, as Joseph K. is isolated in the novel. Other characters, however, are altered far more drastically by Clark. For example, Judith's landlady Mrs. Block is present in the background during Judith's arrest, like K.'s landlady Frau Grubach, but has disappeared by the time Judith arrives home from the bank. When she appears again, Mrs. Block is shown to be one of the accused, equivalent to the tradesman Block in Der Procefi. By combining the functions of these two figures, Clark re-creates the plot so that her character reappears throughout the play and solves a difficulty she perceived with the original version of Trial, where Judith K. lives with her mother: \"I couldn't figure out a way of making her mother work in the play, it just seemed too perverse to just totally forget about your mother . . . the 298 people that I went to see it with complained and the critics said, well, that was the end of the mother? She just sort of appears and disappears\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Under these circumstances, Judith's failure to mount a search for her mother \"automatically set her up as being incredibly cold-hearted\" (Interview, 29 Feb. 1996). At first, Mrs. Block appears ineffectual and almost senile, unable to tell Biff and Clem apart, and willing to condemn Judith out of general distrust of the young: \"Young people these days. They're always up to something. You never know what they're going to do next. First, it was the Beatles with their funny haircuts. But that was only the tip of the iceberg. Now it's sex, drugs, pornography, free love—\" (Clark, Judith K. 14). If, in Kafka's narrative text, the landlady Frau Grubach suspects the \"working woman\" Fraulein Burstner of impropriety (Kafka 32-33), in Clark's version these suspicions fall directly on Judith. Later in the play, however, not only do we discover that Block herself is among the accused—as we do not with Frau Grubach—but we see her being used and abused sexually by both her lawyer Theadora and the Psychopath. This amplification of Block's humiliation by Huld and Leni in the narrative text is a direct result, in Clark's version, of Judith's arrest: as Mrs. Block explains, \"I lost [my house]. I spent all my money on my case. Your rent was the only source of income I had. So of course, when you were arrested, that was the end of my house\" (Clark, Judith K. 102). After six years of her own trial, Block is in desperate straits, engaging additional counsel behind her lawyer's back, and driven by fear of discovery into betraying Judith at any opportunity. \"It's my case,\" whines Mrs. Block. \"It's changed me\" (101). Unlike Berkoffs combination of Frau Grubach with K.'s mistress Elsa, which demonstrated K.'s reduction of all women to sex objects, Clark's demeaning sexualization of Judith K.'s landlady shows the eventual effects of the trial on its 299 victims, including Judith. It is noteworthy, however, that Judith can expect no more assistance from women than any male K. ever could. In the play's second scene, for instance, when Judith arrives at work, she is faced with the obstructive assistant bank manager Mrs. Voight. Like K. and his male assistant manager in the narrative text, Judith and Voight are in constant conflict, and Voight uses any means necessary to place Judith at a disadvantage and take over her more lucrative clients. The conflict between the two is far less diplomatic in the play than in Kafka's novel; a main source of abrasion is Judith's heavy smoking, against Voight's fanatical enforcement of the office no-smoking rule (23). As in the novel, Judith receives a phone call in this scene summoning her to the hearing—although, in Clark's version, this is not new information, since the inspector had already mentioned the hearing in Scene One (20). Judith's frustrated yelling over the phone when no time is given for her interrogation, and her lie that the call was from a client, cause Voight to upbraid her for inappropriate behaviour. Then, when Voight, like K.'s assistant manager, invites Judith to a party set on the same day as Judith's hearing, she is insulted by Judith's excusing herself due to a business engagement (24-26). Mrs. Voight is somewhat mollified by her assumption that Judith has \"troubles at home,\" since she is wearing black. Judith, however, unlike Joseph K., is eager to carry their infighting even further: she informs Voight that she wears black to court Japanese clients, and furthermore that the navy blue pinstripes Voight is wearing are out of fashion, \"Tres outre\" (26-27). In the first act, Mrs. Voight appears again in Scene Seven, where she almost catches Judith speaking with the Flogger, Biff and Clem (41-42), and yet again in Scene Nine, where she clearly disapproves of Judith's sister-in-law Deedee and her children (53-58). By taking over some of the functions of Rabinsteiner, Kaminer and Kullich, the three clerks in the narrative text, and by 300 appearing in additional contexts, Voight becomes an even more obvious threat to Judith's security and position than the novel's assistant manager. It thus comes as little surprise that in the second act, Voight takes over not only Judith's clients, as in the narrative text, but also eventually her office, forcing Judith to move into a former storage cupboard—possibly the same one in which she found the Flogger and the two warders (97-99). When, in the ninth scene of the second act, Voight appears as a disembodied voice (like Judith's first phone call about her interrogation) and commands her to go to the cathedral, it is the natural result of this escalation of hostilities that she is also sending Judith to her execution (111). In comparison to Mrs. Voight's active obstruction, Mrs. Block only seems passively inactive, the lesser of two evils. But when she returns home in Act One, Scene Three, Judith discovers a man at home wearing Block's clothes. The man introduces himself as an old friend of Mrs. Block, here to \"look after things,\" and claims to be named \"Milly Pearce.\" Milly deflects Judith's objection that they have never met without either of them mentioning the absurdity of Milly's obviously being a man: MILLY: On the contrary, we've been introduced several times but you were preoccupied and never paid any attention. Can you honestly say that you can remember the faces of your landlady's friends? JUDITH: No. Probably not. MILLY: There you are. (29) Judith accuses him—or her—of being a government spy, but Milly merely replies, \"You should have been paying more attention\" (30). The brief appearance of Milly Pearce (named after a friend of Clark's mother) is Clark's first major deviation from the plotline, as opposed to the gender dynamics, of the narrative text. Though originally conceived as a woman, Pearce's final manifestation as a man in drag owes itself to 301 whimsy: \"I liked the idea of just creating the absurdity of his appearance . . . really, it just amused me\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). However, he also serves a dramaturgical purpose, motivating Judith to take action. \"Because I had to take out Frau Biirstner [sic], the next door neighbour and all that stuff, there was nothing goading her.... I just wanted Judith K. to be terrorized to the extent that she would do something, there always has to be a dramatic reason for the character to go\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). This purpose was apparently particularly well served in a production at York University, where Milly Pearce wore a Secret Service-style earpiece and was relayed his lines by another actor above: \"so he'd go like [whispering] 'I'm a good friend of your mother's' [as the script then stood] and it was really funny... it was really effective and creepy\" (5 May 1993). Barbara Godard describes this scene as a self-referential substitute for the narrative text's scene with Fraulein Biirstner, which \"developed into a play within the novel, a staged re-presentation of the scene of K.'s arrest which foregrounded self-reflexively the process of textual construction through representation and repetition.\" Instead of taking over this scene and using it to critique \"the construction of gendered subjectivity in a critique of representation,\" Clark creates Milly Pearce, whose exit line, \"Time for the soap opera\" (30), foreground ]^ the type of comedy we seem to be watching. Like \"see you in the funnies,\" this adieu points to the performance context of behavioural scripts for daily living but does not rehearse them, as Kafka's text does. Oscillating between melodrama and the ironic comedy of critique of melodrama's naivete, The Trial of Judith K. stages the work of generic revision as repetition with a difference rather than undermining all representation with the relentless rhythm of doubling and repetition of Kafka's textual machine. Kafka has been \"traduced,\" though not staged as re-presentation. (Godard 29) Godard's interpretation is perceptive, insofar as Pearce's appearance can call to mind both the constructed nature of gender and the scripted quality of daily life, but is also bound, like the reading favoured by most of Clark's critics, to a vision of Kafka's novel as \"serious.\" Even though Godard 302 regards Clark's changes positively (unlike, for example, Lloyd Dykk's negative assessment of them), she nonetheless shows no awareness of the humour in Kafka's original, which Clark had taken as her starting point. Partly motivated by the apparition of Milly Pearce and the disappearance of Mrs. Block, Judith now takes the case against her seriously enough to attend her hearing; as she tells herself in a brief monologue that comprises Act One, Scene Four, \"It is up to you, Judith, to straighten things out. You are going to get organized\" (Clark, Judith K. 31). In Scene Five, however, when she finally arrives at the distant Court of Inquiry, she encounters Clark's most audacious creation: Ted the Psychopath, the only character whose gender is changed from female to male for the dramatic text. The Psychopath is an amalgam of the court laundress, the apelike law student who continually attacks her, and Leni, Huld's maid. Described only as \"very handsome\" (32), he is outside the court when Judith arrives. He is so distracted by her that when she asks if she has found the court, he replies in non sequiturs: \"You know, not everyone who lives in Surrey is a psychopath\" (32). He knows that she is here for her interrogation, because it is \"common knowledge\"—unsettling news for Judith—and intimidates her by attempting to follow her inside, saying, \"What if there's no one in the building but you and me\" (33). Warning him not to follow, she enters. In Scene Six, Judith's courtroom interrogation is barely under way when the proceedings are interrupted by a scream, as the Psychopath strangles a woman at the back of the hall. Judith, horrified, asks the magistrate what the court intends to do about this genuine crime. The magistrate calls the Psychopath forward: MAGISTRATE: Is she dead? PSYCHOPATH: Yes. 303 MAGISTRATE: Any others? PSYCHOPATH: One in the Cedar Vale woods—left entrance—a couple of feet from the main path. One in the back alley of 152nd Street. Five buried in the , basement of the AOII sorority house. Three in the— MAGISTRATE: (pounding gavel) GIVE THIS MAN TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS! (36) Judith is horrifed anew, but the magistrate explains, \"Information leading to location of victims\" (37). The character of the Psychopath thus acquires truly macabre overtones by association with the infamous Clifford Olson case of 1981, in which a multiple murderer was paid by a B.C. court for providing information about the whereabouts of his victims. Judith's response to this turn of events is not only vocal and vernacular but foul-mouthed. In comparison to the rather effete eloquence of Joseph K., Judith's style is to tell the Examining Magistrate to \"EAT SHIT,\" as she leaves the court in disgust (37). As Ray Conlogue aptly says, Judith is \"a belligerent motormouth\" (\"I hate political correctness\" CI), but, unfortunately for her, Judith K.'s aggression towards the Court as an institution is never carried far enough beyond the verbal to save her. Two scenes later, after Judith has discovered the Flogger, Biff and Clem at the bank, she returns to the empty court in Scene Eight to find the Psychopath wearing a blood-soaked shirt. Like the laundress in Der Procefi, when court is not in session, the courtroom is his home; he claims to have gotten bloody by cutting himself shaving. When Judith pulls a can of mace from her purse, he approaches, takes it away, and begins to seduce her, undoing her blouse, as he will do continually throughout the play (Clark, Judith K. 47). Indeed, most of the males in the play are more concerned with undressing Judith than helping her. The two warders have already done so before the play even begins. Judith's usually successful resistance to these advances throughout the rest of the play becomes the substitute for Joseph's sexual aggression and for that of the earlier Judith; more in keeping with acceptable gender roles, Judith now spends most of her time on the defensive. As a 304 token of this reversal, whereas Joseph K. is drawn to women whom he thinks may have influence, the Psychopath claims to Judith that he has influence in order to attract her—it seems his ex-wife was having an affair with the Examining Magistrate. Now he and the magistrate are best friends, and as he leaves Judith to go to another woman standing in the shadows, he distractedly remarks that his ex-wife is now dead (48-49). As the Psychopath strangles the other woman, Judith makes her escape (50). In the first version, Trial, this exit marked the end of Judith's relationship with the Psychopath, and Judith fled to the claustrophobic offices of the court, as in the narrative text, where she was subjected to the romantic attentions of the court's public relations man, Reggie Whipple. In the final version, however, the visit to the offices has been cut, and Judith enters the bank at the top of Scene Nine, only to be told by her secretary that a man had been asking for her—not a client, but a stranger wearing a stained shirt, maybe tie-dyed, and \"brownie-red\" (51). Judith forbids anyone admittance to her office, and in seclusion frets about her attraction for the Psychopath: \"I trusted him. I find that horrifying\" (52). The frequency with which Judith returns to her office in the context of Clark's compressed plot has been interpreted by Godard as \"dictated in part by the gender inversion: Judith's position within the male domain of business needs to be justified in terms of social norms in a way that K.'s position in the bank does not\" (29). Whether Clark felt that this justification was necessary or not, it is true that the play's concentration on her place of employment emphasizes Clark's interpretation of Judith as a woman too involved in her work to participate in a full life. Godard is thus on firmer ground when she writes, \"Whereas K.'s involvement in his trial absorbs him to the exclusion of any interest in his work, Judith's process of investigation leads to a frenetic increase in business activity with no productive results\" (Godard 29). The frenetic activity is intensified, and productivity plummets, when Judith's office is suddenly invaded by her sister-in-law Deedee and her two children, Timmy and Tracy. More precisely, Deedee is the sister of Judith's ex-husband, tellingly named Dick. Much of Deedee's dialogue, and all of the children's, is represented fully capitalized to indicate high volume. Her greeting, for example, consists of: \"JUDY! HOW THE HELL ARE YA!\"; and only seconds later she yells, punching Judith on the shoulder, \"GEEZ! HEARD ALL ABOUT THE TRIAL!\" (Clark, Judith K. 52). In the narrative text, K.'s bourgeois uncle thought of K. as a black sheep; but compared to the upwardly mobile Judith, Deedee is portrayed as white trash. With her children barely under control, Deedee seems as great a threat to Judith's position at the bank as the trial: TIMMY: WHAT'S A TWIAL, MUMMY. I WANNA KNOW WHAT A TWIAL IS. TELL TWACY TO STOP HITTING ME! TRACY: TELL TIMMY IT'S TRACY, {punching him) TRACY {pinching him) TRACY TRACY YOU LITTLE TURD. SAY IT WITH AN \"R,\" FUCKFACE! TIMMY: A AAA AAAAHHHHHH! DEEDEE: TRACY! SUCH LANGUAGE. NEVER SAY FUCKFACE IN A BANK. NEVER! NEVER! (smacking her). (53) Mrs. Voight is drawn to Judith's office by this behaviour, and Judith drives her off by claiming that Deedee is a client (\"Really? She looks like a relative,\" sniffs Voight as she exits; 54). Deedee generously overlooks Judith's \"hoity-toity\" attitude and offers to take Judith to an old friend, Trixie, a former hooker turned lawyer: \"she figured she was spending so much time with the Judges and all, she might as well make it legit\" (55). Furthermore, Deedee offers Judith an out: she thinks Judith could delay her trial for nine months if she were with child (57). Deedee even offers her brother, Judith's ex-husband, as potential father. Judith isn't interested, yelling, \"YOU'RE NOT GETTING DICK INTO THIS GODDAMIT!\" (58); but the option is one Joseph K. never had. 306 The idea of Judith getting pregnant had occurred to Clark very early in the writing process, although finally she did not pursue her original intention: \"I think I was going to have where she finally met the judge, the big high judge of all, and it was going to be Germaine Greer, and she was going to go, 'Make babies!'; and I thought it was just going to turn the play into a bit of a political satire, so I just decided not to\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). She decided, however, to keep the reference in the play for other reasons: The fact that she doesn't get pregnant shows that... there's a sterility about [her life], because she has the option of delaying the trial, and yet why does she hasten it the way she does? And so that whole thing of organization: okay, let's get this finished, even if it's my own life. . . . It worked in The Crucible, Elizabeth Proctor got pregnant and she didn't get killed. I don't know, I think I just thought it was something the sister-in-law would think of. It's an easy out, just keep having kids. (Interview, 5 May 1993) Clark also intended Deedee's characterization to reflect upon Judith's ex-husband: \"I like the fact that we see that [Judith] hasn't paid attention to her life, she married this guy, who was just—I mean, we know from the sister-in-law that this guy—why would she marry him? I sort of enjoyed the idea of people bullying her, on a personal level, and so she was bullied on a personal level before the trial even started\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Indeed, up to this point, Judith has been bullied, like Joseph K., by her warders, her superiors, her accusers and her family; and has had no chance, as Joseph K. did, to bully Fraulein Burstner or anyone else. But if she has seemed at a disadvantage so far, worse is yet to come. Judith attempts to decline Deedee's offer of help, but Deedee grabs Judith and exits. As Scene Ten begins, Judith and Deedee have dropped off the children and arrive at Theadora's office (\"Theadora Moxie—Lady of Law\"), which Judith is startled to discover is at the Court of Inquiry. As Deedee explains, \"Trix likes to be where the action is\" (59). Like Huld in the novel, Theadora 307 nee Trixie is sickly and bed-ridden, and like Huld, she has domestic help to answer the door: the Psychopath, who goes unrecognized by Judith thanks to dark glasses and a clean shirt. Deedee barges in to find Theadora lying in bed, but Theadora's consumption lifts somewhat upon hearing that Deedee has come about the famous Judith Kaye case. \"Teddy,\" as she calls the Psychopath, is sent out, and Theadora demonstrates her influence with the court by throwing back the bedclothes to reveal that her dear friend the Examining Magistrate (not, as in Der Procefi, the chief clerk of the court) has come to visit. As Theadora puts it, \"You must consider that this intercourse enables me to benefit my clients in all sorts of ways, some of which cannot ever be divulged\" (62). The Examining Magistrate ignores Judith, but appears charmed by Deedee. In the eleventh and final scene of the first act, Judith attempts to leave but is blocked by Ted, who grabs her and kisses her (treating her, in fact, as Joseph K. treated Fraulein Biirstner). When she struggles, he suddenly turns apologetic: \"Oh God! I'm sorry. Oh God, what have I done. Oh, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to do that. I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?\" (64). When she says yes, he grabs her and kisses her again. Only now does he take off his dark glasses, to her shock. He pulls her to him and tries to explain: he doesn't really kill those women who pretend to be dead—it's only his job to be a psychopath. Although Judith is not entirely convinced, Ted begins fondling and seducing her. She seems on the point of succumbing when Deedee storms in: \"CCCCCCCCCCHRRRRRRRIST! Have you blown it!\" (68). Deedee sends Ted packing and, like K.'s uncle, tells Judith how she has damaged her case by snubbing the Examining Magistrate. Judith complains that it is only through Deedee's assistance that she had the chance to damage her position further, but Deedee is unimpressed: \"After today, you're going to need all the help you can get\" (69). Deedee exits, never to appear again, 308 leaving Judith alone—until she notices Ted in the background. With this image, Act One ends. The Triangle of Act Two Having taken the first act to set up both the general situation and the relationship between Judith, Ted and Theadora, Clark now concentrates on this triangle in the second act. The relationship between Judith and Ted in particular becomes far more important than K.'s affair with Leni in the narrative text, partly because of the reversed gender dynamic between the characters. At the same time, the close link between Ted and Theadora, figured in the similarity of their names, is more sexually charged than the relationship between Huld and Leni, even though Leni is ostensibly Huld's mistress. The complexity of these relationships exists only in the revised version. In Trial, the Psychopath was a minor character, and Theadora lived with her son Peter, with whom Judith became involved. Peter's position as a younger man approximated Leni's status as a servant. After the Psychopath and Mr. Whipple, Peter became the third man to evince an attraction to Judith; Clark explains, \"in my first version I got into sort of siren figures, because Joseph K. is constantly being approached by women, and it's almost like a guy who's never had any women in his life is suddenly James Bond\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). In revising the play, however, Clark tightened the play's structure by cutting down the number of characters. Based on the idea that Leni, in the novel, is \"attractive and threatening at the same time,\" Clark decided that the Psychopath character was the one man of the three who should remain: \"So I combined all the siren figures into one person because I figured it was easier to stage it . . . whether she has relationships with three different weird people . . . if they're all rolled into one 309 it made more sense . . . then it becomes a relationship and therefore it becomes a dramatic conflict, because he does something to her, she does something, and so it's ten times more interesting\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). The Psychopath's name, Ted, was added as a reference to serial killer Ted Bundy, but by another happy coincidence, Ted is also the masculine version of Theadora. The resulting new character appealed to Clark because she had combined \"what I thought were these separate things, someone who worked as a clerk and someone who—it was just sort of fun to get this person who had these different jobs, and that everything was a job, and you could never tell where his job began or when it ended, like when he actually felt something or whether it was just part of his job, and I like that\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). The absurd aspect of Ted's job, his continual strangling of the same woman, Maria—he begins strangling her yet again in Act Two, but when Judith enters he literally drops what he's doing—is balanced by the menacingly off-hand manner in which he mentions his dead ex-wife. At the same time, he sometimes seems genuinely concerned about Judith, at least as long as he is in control of the relationship with her. In these traits, Ted is well-matched with Theadora. Theadora's character was initially shaped by Clark's interpretation of the \"law\" in Der Procefi: There is a mysterious underpinning in Kafka's world of The Trial. One could call it surrealistic, but it is more evocative than that. Since Medieval times, the Church and the State have been the two main governing bodies of society in the Western world. The Church represents man's [sic] spiritual aspirations and is usually seen as a sanctuary from the trials of the material world. The State governs pragmatic and material concerns. In Kafka's novel, Church and State are intertwined into one huge institution: the Court. The awe and mystery of the Church surround the banal and pragmatic events of K.'s State arrest. (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 21) Once Church and State are combined, Clark reasoned,\"... so the law becomes a form of 310 worship, and lawyers become priests—which is why I made Theadora a hooker, because in The Golden Bough, the original priestesses were supposed to be holy prostitutes\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). A decade later, George Steiner would make the same link, explaining the absence of women among the accused in Der Procefi by observing, \"Women are, in enigmatic guise, messengers or servants (temple prostitutes?) of the Law\" (Steiner xv). Through the same chain of historical association, Clark named Theadora after the Byzantine empress Theodora, who started her career as a prostitute and rose to marry the great law-giver Justinian. No wonder, then, that in The Trial of Judith K. the Examining Magistrate is in bed with Theadora. At the beginning of the second act, Judith and Theadora are closeted together discussing the case (incorporating material from the beginning of Kafka's seventh chapter, Procefi 137-151), when Ted enters with a tea tray and syringe to inject Theadora. They offer a fresh syringe to Judith, who declines, despite \"Special rates for clients\" (Clark, Judith K. 72). With this brief interruption, Clark encapsulates Theadora's relationship to the law: she is both addict and pusher. When, after she completes her explanation, she rolls over and goes to sleep, Judith is left in the next scene with Ted, whose friendship with the Examining Magistrate gives him the leverage to make advances to her. She refuses, however, to associate her desire for him with her quest for information. As she tells him, when he fondles her while talking about the court, \"You make me feel like a whore . . . . Like I'm paying for the information\" (75). When he goes too far, she slaps him, less from lack of interest than because she fears being put in \"a compromising position\": but as Ted admonishes her, \"that is inevitable. It is the process of the Court that you will be compromised\" (77). Judith, still unwilling, exits. Caught between Ted and Theadora, and under pressure from Mrs. Voight at work, Judith is 311 naturally intrigued in Act Two, Scene Four, when Mr. Brazier, one of her clients (based on the manufacturer of the narrative text), offers her the address of the influential court painter, Fred Pollock. Pollock, in Scene Five, is based on Titorelli, of course, though his name is a nod to Jackson Pollock. Like Titorelli, Pollock's studio is under siege by young girls \"sinister in appearance\" (83). Whereas Titorelli was a painter of landscapes, however, Pollock works in the abstract: all of his paintings are simple red canvases. Nonetheless, he tells Judith to disrobe the moment she enters his studio, asking, \"You are Judith K. the nude model, aren't you?\" (83). Judith's correction of his mistake does not dissuade him from his intentions, expressed in such terms as \"you're a real uptight broad, but hey, I can help you there\" (89). In counterpoint to his advances, the girls keep asking from outside, \"Are you going to paint her in the nude?\" (84). Their interest in the proceedings is even more unsettling than its model in the narrative text, reflecting Clark's own sense of disquiet: \"Well, I make [the scene] really sort of creepy sexually . . . there's something really scary to me about thirteen-year-old girls or eleven-year-old girls that are too old\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Amongst the leering sexual overtones of the scene, based on the comparatively mild homoerotic atmosphere of the Titorelli chapter, Pollock does explain to Judith and to the audience the procedures for obtaining the various kinds of pointless acquittal and deferment. The sheer amount of this exposition makes Scene Five the longest scene of the second act. Finally, Pollock pulls her onto the bed, telling her that information about the court \"doesn't come free,\" but she categorically refuses to trade sex for help from him (90). He desists only when Judith offers to buy three of his identical paintings in lieu of responding to his advances; she is about to exit over his bed when she realizes that once again, she is at the offices of the court (91). Furthermore, since the signature from her cheque later turns up on forged loan approvals, Pollock—in collusion with 312 Brazier—has only exploited her sexually nonetheless (99). No sooner does she escape from Pollock than she runs into Ted, who drops Maria and turns his attentions to Judith. Fed up, Judith actually takes the sexual initiative for once. Judith begins undressing in front of Ted, who has spent so many scenes unbuttoning her blouse, and he begs her to stop. She shouts, \"I've already been mentally stripped at least a dozen times today, anyway. . . . It's what you want, isn't it. Take a good look cause a look is all you're going to get!\" (94). Ted is extremely uncomfortable when she is the aggressor and, walking away, he feigns crying to make her stop; because such aggression on Judith's part is unusual in this version, it becomes both a temporary position of strength and a critique of the changes to Judith's character which Clark felt constrained to make. At last, she calls him Ted—the first time she has spoken his name—and he regains both his composure and the upper hand. He kisses her and tells her,\"... you're beaten before you begin. Keep fighting. Writhe in the trap. For me\" (96). And at last, she gives in and he leads her offstage. This turn in the plot—in \"typical Sally Clark fashion\" (Wasserman, \"Letters in Canada 1991\" 84)—would drive many feminists mad, but it is indeed typical of Clark to show the autonomy of her female protagonists by allowing them to make unwise or even disastrous choices. She has said, \"I hate political correctness. . . . This superwoman thing is just another kind of puritanism. It still comes down to the woman redeeming the man\" (Conlogue, \"I hate political correctness\" Cl). Though Judith is certainly a victim, Clark does not idealize her to make her an exemplary victim; not only does Judith finally surrender to Ted's blandishments, but the scene following their sexual encounter is the only occasion when she is \"exceedingly cheerful\" (Clark, Judith K. 97). Like Clark's other heroines, Judith pays the full consequences of her choice. From this point on, Judith is never in control again: it is in the next scene that she discovers that she has lost her clients and her office 313 to Mrs. Voight. Judith then decides to dismiss Theadora, but this choice too leads to disaster. When she drops by to consult with Ted in Scene Seven, she unknowingly interrupts him having sex with Mrs. Block. Ted exits to check whether Theadora wants \"tea,\" and Judith and her ex-landlady chat about their cases; Judith confides that she and Ted are having an affair. When Ted returns, the craven Block reports Judith for smoking and planning to dismiss her lawyer. Angry, Judith barges into Theadora's room where, in Scene Eight, the lawyer disabuses Judith of any illusions about her relationship with Ted. It seems Ted's affections are fickle: \"He has a passion for accused women—possibly men, too,\" which Theadora understands perfectly. \"We have bets to see how long it takes for them to succumb\" (105). When Judith dismisses Theadora, Theadora turns nasty. \"They've been very negligent with you. No one has corrected your attitude. Perhaps you should see how the other accused are treated\" (107). Block is brought in and humiliated, and Ted and Theadora take obvious delight in each other as they torment her. When Block enters, Ted begins fondling Judith; but as Theadora's interrogation of Block becomes more intense, Ted moves to the bed and strokes Theadora's hair as Block kisses her hand. Ted kisses Theadora on the lips, and then Theadora \"reaches over to the side of her bed and pulls out a long sharp knife. She proceeds to sharpen it, slowly and deliberately against a barber's strop\" (109). While Theadora tells Block (as Huld informs Block in Der Procefi) that her case has not even begun, that after six long years everything has been declared void except the original arrest, Block, on all fours to kiss Ted's feet, begins to whimper and builds up to an ear-piercing howl. \"It's what we all become, eventually. It's only a matter of time,\" Theadora tells Judith, and invites her smilingly onto the bed. Judith runs off (110). In this scene, the perverse teamwork exhibited by Theadora and Ted has its inspiration in the 314 manner in which Huld and Leni, in the novel, work together to humiliate Block. Clark, however, has associated the two even more closely with one another, from their names to their verging on entering a menage a trois with Judith—or is it a quatre with Block as well? The master-servant relationship of the narrative text collapses into a disturbing twinship. And when Ted tells Judith that all cases have a time limit, that their sexual liaison is her only hope, and that he \"want[s] to keep her alive\" (96), the possibility is raised that his and Theadora's sick vitality is one way of keeping the end at bay. True enough, after her exit from Scene Eight, Judith rushes headlong to her destruction as Clark accelerates the pace of events, at the same time returning—particularly in the final two scenes—most closely to Kafka's original text (Godard 29). She is sent from the bank the moment she arrives to guide a Parisian visitor around the cathedral, whose address is identical with that of the Court of Inquiry. Though it is physically impossible that the Court and the cathedral could share the same street number, the coincidence is more than an absurdity; rather, it corresponds to Clark's perception of the relationship between Church and State in Kafka's novel. As a result, in the world of Judith K., it makes perfect sense that the same address should be shared by the seats of both law and religion. In the tenth and final scene, Judith arrives at the cathedral, where she is met by a nun, based on the priest of the novel, who tells her, \"You rely too much on outside help. Particularly from men.\" This line is taken directly from the novel—albeit with the gender reversed—as is Judith's reply: \"But they're the only ones who've been of any use.\" The nun tells Judith that this is a delusion. All she has done by sleeping with Ted is alienate Theadora, who could have helped her (114). Joseph K. never receives any such assurance about his attorney; thus, while Joseph as a man 315 is criticized for seeking outside help at all, Judith is criticized more heavily for seeking help from men rather than women, even though complete self-sufficiency would be preferable. The nun finally scolds Judith for letting her case take control of her, and recites the parable \"Before the Law\" in Brechtian fashion, prefacing her account by announcing, \"THE PARABLE OF THE MAN AND THE DOORKEEPER\" (115). After the parable, rather than the novel's long exegesis, the nun simply tells Judith, \"You have to leave now\" (116), reflecting Clark's opinion that the parable \"may be profound and philosophical but, essentially, it is still a shaggy dog story\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial\"26). Judith leaves the cathedral to find Biff and Clem waiting for her, ready to take her for execution. Ted appears and tells her not to get desperate, to \"Make me proud of you\" (Clark, Judith K. 117). Now comes the final, successful attempt to disrobe Judith: Biff and Clem undress her down to her slip, whereas in the novel only Joseph K.'s coat, vest and shirt are removed (Kafka, Procefi 270). She kneels for the knife, unlike Joseph, who was placed on his back (271). Also unlike Joseph, at the last she gives one cry of hope, seeing Ted in the distance and crying, \"I've been reprieved!\" But it is too late. The knife plunges in, and fickle Ted, who once said to her, \"I wanna keep you alive,\" ironically now reproaches her: \"I'm ashamed of you, Judith K. You're no different from the rest of them. You just want to live\" (Clark, Judith K. 119). She falls forward onto all fours, so that her last words, \"Like a dog!\" (119), now take on an additional, sexual, meaning—foreshadowed by Ted's taking Mrs. Block from behind in Act Two, Scene Seven (100) and further recapitulated by Block's whimpering and howling \"in dog-like manner\" during her humiliation by Ted and Theadora (110). Does Ted's \"You just want to live\" mean that she should have asked for more than merely 316 to live? Or that she should be brave enough to sacrifice herself? With this one line, without precedent in the novel, Clark emphasizes the double bind of Judith K.'s situation. As in so many of Clark's plays, the end deepens the mystery rather than solving it; but then, \"There is no refuge. In the bureaucratic conglomerate of the Court, there are no answers\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial,\" 21). Unwilling to participate in family, friendly or sexual relationships which might have saved her, and unable to concentrate on the career which had taken over her existence, Judith has pronounced her own sentence; as the Nun said, \"The proceedings determine the verdict\" (114). Recapitulation Clark had been dissatisfied with the original version of her adaptation not only because the gender dynamics did not adapt well to a female protagonist, but also because its structure was simply too close to that of the narrative text. As Clark says, \"the structure of novels is like a veneer. Events and conflicts don't repeat. In adapting you have to re-make the piece so people can reappear\" (Rudakoff and Much 85-86). As a result, the other adaptive strategy Clark uses is recapitulation. Barbara Godard points out that this quality is already inherent in the novel's structure (Godard 27), and that Clark takes full advantage of it on several levels: \"Characters, setting, action all multiply the play of repetition and substitution that is the work of'traduction' or transformation, the process of defamiliarization\" (Godard 29). One of these levels, and perhaps the most obvious, is locative. All the addresses in the play—in fact, only one address is ever given—lead inevitably back to the same location: the Court of Inquiry in Surrey. Ted lives in the court itself, Theadora's office is in the same building, and so is Pollock's studio; the Cathedral is, impossibly, at exactly the same address, and the place of 317 execution is nearby. On a smaller scale, the fact that Judith is pushed out of her office into \"a storage closet\" echos the appearance of the Flogger, Biff and Clem in a storage closet. Clark also finds subtle ways to recapitulate details in order to bind events and characters together. For example, in the first scene Mrs. Block mentions a friend of hers who was \"happily married for fifteen years—at least she thought she was happily married. Til she found out she was happily married to the Surrey Psychopath.\" Since he was always \"very nice to her,\" however, Block decides she must have been happily married after all (14). As we have seen, Ted the Psychopath later speaks of his now dead ex-wife, who was having an affair with his friend the Examining Magistrate (48-49); and of course, the Magistrate is next found in bed with Theadora (62). Many of the repeated bits of business or dialogue have their origin in specific incidents from the novel, either singular or repeated. For instance, Ted's absurd recurring strangulation of Maria is a circular repetition based on a single event in the novel; while the repetitive quality of Joseph K.'s being told what to wear by his warders, his need to take his jacket off in the stuffy painter's studio, and the removal of his top clothing for his execution are extended by Clark into the constant attempts to undress Judith. We have seen that these attempts begin even before the play opens, when Biff and Clem appropriate Judith's nightie. The warders' directing Judith to wear black is directly based on the narrative text, but in Clark's dramatic text this command is superfluous: they have already taken all her other clothes (17), metaphorically undressing her yet again and foreshadowing their final disrobing of her at the execution (Like Weiss before her, Clark makes the warders from the play's beginning into the executioners at the end, thus allowing her play to build from the farcical harmlessness of her arrest to the final pointless act of murder). The issue of Judith's identity also recurs in a manner typical of Clark's work, though based 318 on cues from Der Procefi. Upon his arrest, Joseph K.'s first instinct is to offer his identification papers, which the warders reject as irrelevant (Kafka, Procefi 14-15). Later, at the interrogation, K. is mistakenly described as a house-painter (54). When Judith offers her driver's licence, birth certificate and passport to Biff and Clem, they read her name and address from them and then tell her, \"Your face conforms to the documents given us. This proves we've arrested the right person.\" \"But I just gave them to you!\" Judith objects, \"It's my I.D.!\" (Clark, Judith K. 15). Later, as with K. in the novel, the Examining Magistrate addresses her as a house-painter; but when Judith denies painting houses and replies that she is in fact Corporate Loans Officer at the Bank of Commerce, Clark's Magistrate suggests, \"You might find you have a natural vocation for [painting houses]. Then, the files would coincide\" (35). In the second act, when she arrives at Pollock's studio, he tells her to take her clothes off: \"You are Judith K. the nude model, aren't you?\" The fact that Mr. Brazier has sent her only makes Pollock more certain that Judith is his model; once again, Judith's assertion of her identity apparently does her no good (83-84). By amplifying these repetitive patterns, Clark emphasizes the basically circular structure of the novel, and increases the plot's ability to frustrate the onlooker by making the stagnation of Judith's situation even more apparent. Clark has said, \"Kafka's The Trial isn't tragedy; it's like suspended animation or a waiting room\" (Rudakoff and Much 85). Beginning from this idea, in revising her original script, Clark in fact altered her own perception of Judith; she \"began to feel sorry for a regimented professional woman who has forgotten to live . . . and wondered if the trial, by suspending her life, hadn't opened new emotional possibilities for her\" (Conlogue, \"I hate political correctness\" C3). The imposition of new identities upon Judith by other characters may be a symbol of the possibilities which Judith has not explored by focussing on her career. 319 And it is even clearer in the concentrated and altered form of the dramatic text than it is in Kafka's novel that Judith K. herself is most to blame for this stagnation. Again and again, Judith is told that she is missing something: the Inspector, for example, makes an \"educated guess\" that her life is \"ordinary and tediously boring\" (Clark, Judith K. 19). Likewise, when she claims that she has never met Milly Pearce, Milly says, \"We've been introduced several times but you were preoccupied and never paid any attention.\" Before she exits, Milly repeats that Judith \"should have been paying more attention\" (38-39). When Judith later shows Ted a picture of her husband (as Joseph K. shows Leni a photograph of Elsa), Ted immediately says, \"Fooled around on you, eh?\" It is obvious to him. She replies that in four years of marriage it was not obvious to her, and he observes, \"You couldn't have been paying much attention\" (67; in the original version, Peter tells Judith that her husband was gay, though the dialogue ends with the same exchange). Finally, before their sexual encounter, Ted tells Judith, \"There's an animal buried inside you, Judith K. You're not letting her out\" (96). Judith's inability to give in to her desire for Ted, or at least to acknowledge and begin to do something about her isolation, is ultimately her doom: \"her not living, right, it's almost a part of not being able to trust anyone. And that's sort of a statement of her inability to trust and therefore to live\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Judith's continual denial of her emotions is summed up in her battle cry, \"Get organized!\", a sort of one-minute-manager echo of Joseph K.'s \"The only thing for me to go on doing is to keep my intelligence calm and analytical to the end\" (Kafka/Muir and Muir 282). Clark writes of him, \"K. seems to have no overriding philosophy, save that of the merits of organization and base opportunism. If an opportunity presents itself, K. seizes it, regardless of where it will lead\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial\" 26); and in the end, Judith K. is led to the same conclusion 320 as Joseph, accepting her guilt and her execution. By so doing, Judith not only repeats the path trod by her male counterpart, but also recapitulates her brief embrace of the danger embodied by Ted. Judith's choices emphasize her link to Kafka's work and simultaneously align her with Clark's own heroines, whose imprudent choices lead to self-discovery and often to self-destruction (Rudakoff, \"Under the Goddess's Cloak\" 126). The Production and Critical Reception of Judith K. The revised Trial of Judith K. went into production in Toronto at the Canadian Stage Company in October 1989, directed by Richard Greenblatt. Clark had successfully fought to cast an experienced comedienne, Conine Koslo, in the lead role: \"It had to be a comedienne. Someone could play that straight, and it's not funny.\" The Toronto production, unlike the Vancouver staging, had an elaborate set which allowed Judith's office to shrink throughout the play. The set, designed by Dorian Clark, was also multi-levelled: Judith arrived at the bank in an elevator (simulated by the actress Koslo running quickly up and down three flights of steps; interview, 29 Feb. 1996), and the onstage steps leading up to the Court became progressively taller, so that Judith had some difficulty mounting them in her business suit and skirt (Crew, \"Bleak comic play\" Cl). Of this set, Clark now says, \"I think in future, I would like just a bunch of doors, a bare stage and a semi-circle of doors. I think that would look a lot better\" (Interview, 29 Feb. 1996). Clark was nonetheless quite happy with the production. Despite this promising beginning, however, Clark's working relationship with the company was generally \"not a happy experience\" (Interview, 29 Feb. 1996), maned by severe internal problems as Clark fell victim to the economic vagaries of the theatre business in Canada. The 321 Canadian Stage Company had been formed in 1987 purely as a result of financial pressures: the highly experimental Toronto Free Theatre had been forced to merge with its mainstream rival, CentreStage Company, thus marking, in Robert Wallace's words, \"the end of the 'alternative' era in Canadian theatre once and for all.\" The merger had attempted to broaden the mandate of both original companies without settling on a firm identity; lack of purpose and conflicts within the administration led not to the hoped-for financial security, but rather to a million-dollar deficit for the new company by early 1989, and to aesthetic stagnation: \"the largest not-for-profit theatre in Canada next to the Stratford and Shaw Festivals had snared itself in an artistic trap of its own making\" (Wallace 147-149). Under these circumstances, serious difficulties arose in Canadian Stage's interaction with Clark and with the public. During the production run of Judith K., the company seemed determined not to promote the play: When [Canadian Stage] moved their offices, they didn't disconnect the phone lines, so anyone buying a ticket would just get a ringing phone and no one would answer. So then the box office that was supposed to sell tickets for Trial of Judith K. and for the other show would deny that there was a show called Trial of Judith K. The whole experience was really Kafkaesque. And so nobody bought tickets, so the first weekend it was like no crowds, and then gradually through word of mouth—that was the only way it was going to happen—it sold out in the final week, but Canadian Stage simply decided after the first weekend they were going to close it early, and it was just dumb. That part was too bad. (Interview, 29 Feb. 1996) If the production had full houses in the last week, Canadian Stage's apparent diffidence notwithstanding, it may have been because Clark's work was now well-known in Toronto. This same year saw the Toronto opening of two other Clark plays: the Factory Theatre production of Moo in January had been a solid success, and Judith K. opened a month before the November premiere of Jehanne of the Witches at Tarragon. 1989 should thus have been a signal year for Clark, with 322 three of her plays produced at three of Canada's most prestigious venues. Unfortunately, after the triumph of Moo, which won the 1989 Chalmers Best Canadian Play Award, and was nominated that year for the Dora Mavor Moore Award for Outstanding Play, neither Judith K. nor Jehanne met with great critical approval. Whereas, in 1985, Kerry Moore had written that the Vancouver version of Trial \"was supposed to be scary, but it was just too funny,\" its Toronto opening in 1989 was met with lukewarm notices by reviewers who now found the play too scary to be funny. Robert Crew, whose review in the Toronto Star bears the headline, \"Bleak comic play too much of a trial despite good cast,\" begins by writing, \"You will have to go a long, long way to find a more profoundly depressing theatrical experience than The Trial of Judith K.\" Crew found that the comedy \"sugar-coating\" of the play was at odds with \"the pill of nihilism\" at its core: \"the play creates a tension between what's actually happening on stage and the relentless and clever demand for laughter. There are two ways to react to this tension—either get totally depressed or switch off.... for me, it doesn't work. Laughter simply doesn't mix with menace and jackboot violence.\" Despite his distaste, Crew took pains to praise Clark and the actors: \"But even if you reject what the play is saying, it's still possible to admire the way it's being said. Clark is an excellent writer and the cast is a good one.\" Of Corrine Koslo, Crew remarked that the production allowed her to play to her strengths as a \"dumpy, spunky character who shrieks and grits her teeth but fights back. The comedy is well-realized, if other depths are lacking.\" Co-star Stephen Ouimette was declared \"brilliant in a couple of off-centre roles,\" including Ted, the Inspector and the Flogger. Crew blamed the shortcomings of the production on the director: \"unlike Moo, this play contains no heart and no compassion, at least the way that Greenblatt has chosen to direct it\" (Crew, \"Bleak 323 comic play\" CI). Ray Conlogue, of the Globe and Mail, evinced similar doubts about the production, which he described as \"Updated Kafka with a synthetic theatricality\": \"There has to be a good reason for taking a literary classic and putting it on the stage. Turning its hero into a heroine is a good contemporary ploy, but it doesn't solve all the problems, as Canadian Stage's interesting and puzzling season opener, The Trial of Judith K., demonstrates.\" Conlogue writes approvingly, if not accurately, that \"Clark . . . has freely adapted Kafka's story and introduced a loopy humor that is quite alien to the dour existentialism of the original.\" In spite of these changes, \"Koslo's aggressive, high-energy comic flair, and Stephen Ouimette's dapper and understated Ted can only distract us for so long from the grimness of the tale. And as the grimness becomes apparent, so too do one's doubts about the story.\" The elucidation of Conlogue's doubt, however, becomes problematic: Kafka has been seen as the prophet of twentieth-century alienation, where institutions took over human lives in ways never before possible; but his vision is rooted specifically in the society of early Nazi Germany. The dysfunctional legal system he describes, the manic and corrupt judge, the whore who becomes a lawyer (in this version), the impossibility of acquittal—these all related to the all-too-real criminalization of the state Kafka knew. In Canada, the tale is different. Our institutions are all-too-efficient and functional, creating a different kind of alienation. The lavish theatricality of Clark's vision, and Dorian Clark's set—try to imagine a court in a Vancouver suburb with massive, crumbling Roman pediments—is synthetic. The parallels seem forced, even if you try to take the universal application of capital punishment (in the play) on a symbolic level. (Conlogue, \"Updated Kafka\" CIO) Conlogue's logic, by which the play's theatricality is \"synthetic\"—as opposed to \"real\" theatricality?—due to insufficient similarities between Nazi Germany and contemporary Canada, would be tenuous enough even if its premise were not the idea that Kafka's narrative text, written in 1912, has anything to do with Nazi Germany. Furthermore, how can Clark's changing the Huld figure into a prostitute be \"related to the criminalization of the state Kafka knew\"? 324 Conlogue's insistence on the specificity of Der Procefi and his denial of its universality are nonetheless interesting, especially in comparison to Lloyd Dykk's assertion, after seeing the Vancouver version of Trial, that \"The problem is that Joseph K. is already every man and every woman, the butt of the human joke: born into all the available freedom of the universe, mankind will inevitably forge his own chains. Whoever this supererogatory Judith K. is, she can't top that\" (Dykk, \"Sense of dread lost\" BIO). As might be suspected, however, given Conlogue's synopsis and his further remark that \"The menacing court clerk—a woman in the original story—is now a man, reflecting the gender reversal of the title role,\" Conlogue is in no position to elucidate his interpretation of the novel from the text itself. Clark later remembered that Ray Conlogue . . . said he didn't have time to read The Trial, right, so we do this long interview, and he says, well, you know, when was this play [sic] written? And I said before the war. And so I thought he'd know it was World War I. But he didn't. He thought it was before World War II. So he spent his whole review concentrating on all the Nazi references that I'd missed in the book. . . . I remember looking it up, because I couldn't believe Ray Conlogue got the dates wrong. (Interview, 5 May 1993) Despite his ignorance of the narrative text—an ironic confirmation of Clark's rhetorical question, \"Has anyone ever actually read their Kafka novel?\"—Conlogue does raise a good point in the interview described by Clark (which appeared in the Globe and Mail two weeks after his review), when he writes that Judith's affair with Ted \"confuses the viewer's loyalty to Judith (Is she sick?) and raises the question of whether she is a genuine victim. To those familiar with Kafka's book, this suddenly emerges as an original way of restating his idea that Joseph K. collaborated in his own oppression\" (Conlogue, \"I hate political correctness\" C3; this \"confusion of the viewer's loyalty\" also recalls Belsey's \"disruption of the reader's identification with a unified subject\"). Conlogue, like 325 Crew, also praises Clark's writing in this interview: \"Even though her version of Kafka's The Trial has lots of problems, believable dialogue isn't one of them\" (Conlogue, \"I hate political correctness\" C3). Returning to the conclusion of Conlogue's original review, which nonetheless damns the play for its faulty parallelism, Conlogue finds, unlike Crew, that \"These problems are greatly palliated by Richard Greenblatt's direction. He has good control over potent theatre business that would get out of hand with lesser directors.\" Almost as an afterthought, however, Conlogue's last line reads, \"I didn't like the notion of making the two halfwit arresting officers into caricatures of southern U.S. sheriffs: It seemed slapdash\" (Conlogue, \"Updated Kafka\" CIO); in this remark, Conlogue echos Alan Twigg's Georgia Straight review of the original version: \"But why were those two oddball emissaries at the outset of the play, who come to arrest Judith K. in her bedroom, depicted as imbecilic garage attendants? Or should such quirkiness that raises questions in the mind of the audience be deleted?\" (Twigg 32). Twigg's remarks emphasize the tension between Clark's ideal of framing, but not necessarily solving, a mystery in her work, and an apparently common critical ideal of loose ends neatly tied up. Signs of this conventional ideal, and of the vague humanism which Leonard, Wilson, and others had complained about in Canadian Theatre Review, abound in the reviews of Clark's adaptation in both its versions. In Vancouver, Moore and Dykk took Trial to task for failing to live up to the \"universal\" aspects of Kafka's \"classic.\" For Dykk, the mere existence of Judith K. as a woman defeated any claim to relevance. Even Twigg, who did find such aspects in the adaptation, complained that the humour constituted \"backwards or sideways detours\" rather than \"essentials,\" thus agreeing with the other two critics that comedy was ultimately detrimental to the serious 326 \"universal\" theme. Dykk was, oddly, disturbed by his own approval of the cutouts in the Vancouver production, which detracted from the \"realism\" of Kafka's story. In Toronto, Crew was most disturbed by the play's unenlightening \"nihilism\" and its apparent lack of \"heart\" or \"compassion,\" again especially when mixed with humour. As for Conlogue, he not only repeats these objections, but even complains of the artificiality of \"crumbling Roman pediments\" in a Vancouver suburb, as if only documentary realism were worthy of notice. The general reverence shown Clark's source throughout, as a \"serious novel,\" is striking; particularly so considering the fact that the critics demonstrate a great deal of obvious ignorance, disguised with bland and sweeping assertions, about both the work and its author. If, in Barrault's time, he was a mysterious and unsettling figure of uncertain provenance and ambiguous meaning, for Clark's critics he is an icon whose meaning is, if no better known, also no longer in question. The once bizarre and troubling author has become a comforting fixture of the landscape of \"high culture.\" Thus, despite the fact that none of the Canadian reviewers, unlike many of the European reviewers of previous adaptations, produces a coherent interpretation of Der Procefi to throw in the scales against Clark's, her reinterpretation is treated apparently on principle as a trivial misreading. Clark herself sums up the reception of Judith K. as follows: \"The critics in Toronto thought that Judith K. shouldn't have died, they said well, it's a comedy, you're laughing all the way through it, and then suddenly they die\" (Interview, 5 May 1993). Only a month later Clark's first historical play, Jehanne of the Witches, about the bizarre relationship between Joan of Arc and Gilles de Rais (the historical Bluebeard), fared even worse with the critics. The director, Clarke Rogers, bore the brunt of the blame; but doubts about the script itself were also later raised by Jerry Wasserman, who wrote: \"Though one of our best playwrights, Sally Clark lets this ambitious work get the best of her\" 327 (\"Letters in Canada 1990\" 99). 1989 had thus not turned out a year of triumph for Clark, though she at least now had her name firmly linked to Moo, her biggest critical success. In Moo, a woman spends her life tracking down the scoundrel husband who once accidentally shot her, tried to desert her, and even had her fraudulently committed. Clark says that the play originated when \"I was intrigued by the concept of someone being a compulsive liar, say, and somebody else being in love with that person and constantly trying to make justifications for their behavior\" (Morrow, \"Playwright moooves career\" Cll). It no doubt worked in Moo's favour, however, that the Toronto critics treated the play as a romantic domestic comedy, suitable for a woman playwright. Crew's review of the play was titled \"Moo put humourous bite on snatches of family life\" (Crew, \"Moo\" C2), while Conlogue's bore the headline, \"Moo gets her man and tickles our funny bone\" (Conlogue, \"Moo\" C9). Academic interest in Clark also manifested itself that year in the form of Barbara Godard's article in Canadian Theatre Review. In \"(Re)Appropriation as Translation,\" Godard analyzed The Trial of Judith K. and Jehanne of the Witches in the context of \"Sally Clark's textual strategy of adapting novels for the stage and rewriting them with female protagonists,\" which Godard posited as \"a challenge to the signifying practice of form, to the politics and poetics of both genre and gender\" (Godard 22). Godard explains that Clark's choice of Kafka's The Trial and [MichelJTournier's Gilles & Jeanne is critical in foregrounding the double bind in which she is situated as a woman playwright, hard pressed to find stageworthy dramatic situations for her characters in light of the theatrical grammar of female absence as motor for dramatic action [i.e., the common use of female characters as the objects of quest and desire, rather than as questing and desiring subjects], as well as in advancing a poetics of process, of transformation. (Godard 23) Godard also describes Clark's strategy in a manner reminiscent of Belsey's \"interrogative 328 text,\" in which \"no authorial or authoritative discourse points to a single position which is the place of the coherence of meaning\" (Belsey 92). As Godard expresses it, \"That [Clark] has also chosen for adaptation fictions already translated is to multiply the disseminations of the author-function to an even greater degree. In the place of the singular author guarantor of the authoritative status of the truth value of the text we have a collectively 'authorized' text, co-signed by novelist, translator, adaptor, director, etc.\" (Godard 22-23). This interpretation is fruitful, at least as regards Judith K, but the article is flawed in several respects: by its failure sufficiently to acknowledge that Clark wrote her Kafka adaptation at the behest of others; by its refusal to recognize the potential for humour in Kafka's original text; and by its assumption that Jehanne is also an adaptation, although Clark had never read or even heard of Tournier's novel (Interview, 5 May 1993). Godard also seems to have given the narrative text only a cursory reading, maintaining simplistically that Clark has \"switch[ed] the genders of the roles almost uniformly to show the the [sic] effects of the law are experienced differently according to the gender of the characters and that what is a tragedy of the unbounded and indefinable for Joseph K., is experienced as rape and invasion by the female. Victimization is gendered\" (Godard 30). Godard's vague assertion that Der Procefi is a \"tragedy of the unbounded and indefinable\" bespeaks her reliance on an extremely narrow sample of the novel's history of interpretation: her own reading seems to be lifted awkwardly from two French sources, Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari's 1975 study Kafka: Pour une litterature mineure and Regine Robin's 1989 Kafka. What Godard lacks in specificity, she makes up for in a reliance on overdetermined academic jargon which occasionally threatens to slip into tautology and self-parody, as for example: \"Both Clark's 'sources' are liminal texts, reworking various textual traditions from the position of racial and gender 329 minorities. As s(c)ite of investment of feminist 'poelitics,' these novels provide entry into a textual system deploying strategies of hybridization within a struggle against power from a position 'under occupation.' This is a position of dis-identification . . .\" (Godard 25). Judith K. was published as a playscript in 1991, dedicated \"to the University of British Columbia, which provided the role model for this play\"; a reference inspired by the experience of a friend of Clark's who had been teaching at UBC and had become embroiled in a tenure dispute (Interview, 5 May 1993). Jerry Wasserman reviewed the published playscript in the University of Toronto Quarterly, where the year before he had named Moo not only the best of Clark's plays but one of \"the year's best plays\" (\"Letters in Canada 1989\" 66). Wasserman later also anthologized Moo in the second volume of his collection Modern Canadian Plays, thereby offering Clark entry into Canadian university syllabi (Johnson 44). Describing Clark as a writer \"who typically makes up in daring what she lacks in consistency,\" Wasserman interprets Judith K. as \"black comedy of the absurd with an emphasis on the silly.\" He continues: \"Like most of Clark's protagonists, Judith is an emotionally volatile woman on a quest that leads to her death. In reproducing this dramatic paradigm Clark is well served by the shape and many of the details of Kafka's novel\" (\"Letters in Canada 1990\" 84). However, like many of the reviewers before him, Wasserman is troubled by the broad nature of Clark's comedy, in which the warders, for example, are reduced to \"a couple of bozos in her bedroom. Even their names, Biff and Clem, suggest the tone Clark sets\" (84). As a result of the play's failure to mesh style with content, \"overall the play feels more like a reduction than an extension or expansion of her brilliant source. Judith's public life is run by misplaced business ambition (a la Top Girls), her private life by displaced sexual repression (an ex-husband named Dick among many other clues). The rest feels 330 like existential window dressing\" (84-85). The general tenor of the reviews, at least since Clark's revision of the play, remains balanced between praise of Clark's skill as a writer and dismay at her handling of the source material. In the final analysis, however, there is some validity to the reviewers' objections, insofar as Clark's basic lack of sympathy for Kafka and the speed with which the original version was composed have not entirely been conquered by subsequent revision. There are moments when passages from the original text jar in comparison with Clark's extremely colloquial diction, such as Judith's final monologue before the execution: \"Are people to say of me after I am gone, that at the beginning of my case, I wanted to end it and now that it's coming to an end, I want to start it all over again? One must proceed with grace\" (Clark, Judith K. 118). More significantly, the dramatic text sometimes fails to cohere because so many of Clark's additions prove to be red herrings: the attempts at political commentary inherent in the characterization of Biff and Clem, and in the possibility of Judith's pregnancy averting her trial, are tantalizing beginnings, but the developments to which they were meant to lead were cut, or were never written. The creation of Milly Pearce, as well, for such a brief appearance, both needlessly complicates matters and contradicts Clark's own dictum that characters should recur. These elements remain distractions because they lead nowhere, and add nothing of substance to the plot. They thus have the result of reducing the already episodic plot to a disjointed series of sketches. Other objections are less tenable. Most of the reviewers, as we have seen, clearly disagreed with Clark's opinion that there are comic aspects in Kafka's narrative text. Lloyd Dykk, for example, wrote of the first version, \"What is lost from Kafka's magnificent novel . . . is the oppressive accumulation of dread for the arbitrary forces that govern our lives (or that only seem arbitrary to 331 us)\" (Dykk, \"Sense of dread lost\" BIO). Later reviewers have found rather that this sense of dread, or the violence by which it manifests itself, is all too present to allow any enjoyment of the play's comic aspects, whether they be justified or not. This objection, however, is not in itself particularly convincing, given the great success during this same period of plays by George F. Walker and Judith Thompson, who often juxtapose more absurd humour and more excessive violence. Indeed, in response to those critics who simply found Judith K. too depressing, Clark has defended herself well in print: \"The main problem with Kafka is that if you try to be true to the text and get at its gloomy essence, people don't like it. . . . Should a janitor have appeared at the end of my play and tidied things up? Should Judith K. have woken up and said, 'My my, that was a terrible dream I had. Thank God things aren't really like that.' The Trial is an ugly story. It doesn't have a happy ending. The integrity of the story hinges on K.'s death\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial\" 21). In her later works, Clark has continued to explore the themes of identity and of female oppression, always treading a thin line between farce and grand guignol. 1991's Life without Instruction, for example, is based on the life of Renaissance painter Artemisia Gentileschi, whose rape leads to an inquiry which collapses under the weight of increasingly contradictory perjuries. In fantasy scenes throughout the play, Artemisia takes the role of the heroic Judith—the subject of her most famous painting—and casts her rapist Tassi in the part of Holofernes. Befitting her Apocryphal model, Artemisia is the first Clark protagonist to survive until the final curtain, though Life ends with her trapped in a loveless arranged marriage. When the play appeared in print three years later, Richard Paul Knowles, who had taken over Jerry Wasserman's annual beat in the University of Toronto Quarterly, was impressed: \"Life without Instruction manages to construct powerful and engaging characters and scenes while at the same time asserting that, like all characters 332 and roles, they are constructed\" (Knowles, \"Letters in Canada 1994,\" 108). Clark's recent St. Frances of Hollywood (1995), however, exploring the life of actress Frances Farmer, is perhaps the quintessential Sally Clark play. Farmer's inability to toe the political and artistic line in 1930s America caused her to be deliberately constructed as insane, and the play is the ultimate expression of one of Moo's most quotable lines: \"If you are short, a woman, and wearing a straitjacket—well, forget it, you have no credibility at all\" (Clark, Moo 28). Not only Moo but all of Clark's previous works contribute elements to St. Frances: mental incompetence, loveless marriage, rape, torture and the dichotomies between saint and whore, or between role and actor. Even the sudden and arbitrary arrest by two functionaries which begins The Trial is visited upon Frances no less than three times. Though delivered with Clark's deceptively light touch, St. Frances is nonetheless her bleakest play to date, as Clark depicts her vision of Farmer's mysterious \"personal, Job-like relationship with God\" (Morrow, \"Canada on stage\" D2), but refuses to stage any of Farmer's career triumphs. Critical responses to the play were mostly negative. Only the Toronto Star's Vit Wagner praised the play as \"absorbing\" and \"unusually unambiguous\" for Clark (V. Wagner Fl). Certainly it presents the clearest picture of Clark's theatrical universe, a dystopia where witty epigrams and deliberately comic anachronisms cannot disguise crushing gender inequities; where relationships, whether heterosexual, homosexual or parental, are almost invariably loveless and destructive; where the effects of patriarchal hegemony have made all women rivals for attention; and where, despite all this, men are as much victims as women are. No wonder that when Frances's ineffectual alcoholic father says, \"I love you, Frances,\" she replies, \"It's not doing me much good, Dad\" (Clark, Saint Frances 80). 333 Finally, Clark's present work in progress, The Widow Judith, at last takes the book of Judith as its main source and is, in stark contrast to St. Frances, Clark's first play with an almost conventional happy ending: Judith not only survives the play's events, but lives free and single to the age of 105. Still marked by Clark's trademark colloquial style and mixture of comedy and violence, The Widow Judith completes an informal trilogy begun with The Trial of Judith K. and continued with Life Without Instruction, in which Clark's Judith-figures, women in hostile male territory, undergo first Clark's most senseless martyrdom, then survival at the cost of freedom, and at last victorious and independent life. In the context of this later work, Clark's Trial of Judith K. does not seem especially marked in its opposition of comic aspects and harsh brutality, which so disturbed many reviewers. In fact, Judith K. is, if anything, subdued in its representation of misogyny and violence by its relative adherence to the ironic detachment of the narrative text. Though it is certainly true that Clark's original works are more confident and more consistent in their chaotic style, the fact that in the later plays no violence is being done to other authors may be as important a consideration in their reception as the amount of violence done to (and by) women in them. By most standards, at any rate, Clark's career to date has been a very successful one: she has been playwright-in-residence at such important Canadian theatres as Theatre Passe Muraille, The Shaw Festival, Buddies in Bad Times Theatre, and Nightwood Theatre, and has had her plays produced at Vancouver's Tamahnous Theatre, Calgary's Alberta Theatre Projects, Toronto's Canadian Stage Company and Tarragon Theatre. Thus she has now spent over a decade working at the same venues that are frequented by productions of such better-known Canadian playwrights as Joan MacLeod, George F. Walker and Judith Thompson. As early as 1990, Clark was counted 334 along with Wendy Lill, Joan MacLeod and Kelly Rebar as \"talented playwrights who I believe will dominate Canadian drama for the next decade\" (Wasserman, \"Letters in Canada 1989\" 58). Nonetheless, Clark, unlike MacLeod and Lill, has so far in this decade attracted very little academic criticism and relatively few repeat productions. The possible reasons for this are many and complex. On the global level, Clark has been faced with a difficult market during a period of recession. The problems facing women playwrights at the beginning of the 1980s have already been described; by the end of the decade, the situation had arguably become even worse, and a survey found that in 1988, \"the overall percentage of plays by Canadians was 66% (the 'small' theatres producing 78% of these) and the overall percentage of plays by women was 17% (of which the 'small' theatres produced 21%).... this 17% represents a fraction of a fraction—that is, 66% of all plays produced were by Canadians and 17% were by women, but not necessarily by Canadian women\" (Zimmerman 21). Those women who, like Clark, have made a name for themselves as mainstream dramatists for the larger theatres in this period have overcome considerable odds. At the same time, however, the disparity between her Toronto base and the Vancouver setting of most of her plays (even her Kafka adaptation) has arguably made it difficult to \"place\" her as either a Toronto or Vancouver playwright—a distinct disadvantage in the regionally-conscious Canadian theatre and academic scenes, where local interests often play a role in choosing both university syllabi and commercial theatre seasons (Johnston 35, 42; Rudakoff and Much 86). Moreover, the sharp contrast between her themes and the actual content of her plays also makes it hard to place her sociopolitically: is she the feminist seen by Barbara Godard, \"rewriting these texts to develop a feminist agenda [in] an expropriation of the first order\" (Godard 25); the writer of \"post-feminist parables, centring on strong, obsessive women who turn their victimization 335 in the grip of patriarchal systems into a personal virtue,\" as Jerry Wasserman suggests (\"Letters in Canada 1989\" 66); or the anti-feminist Ray Conlogue sought to construct by quoting her saying: \"I hate political correctness\"? Perhaps most pertinently, the very complexity of Clark's original theatre arguably does her plays more harm than good. The large casts her plays require make them impractical for many small theatre companies, while their adult themes and language are inadmissible for most schools. Even in the commercial theatre, critics and reviewers do not always find her work accessible or even entirely comprehensible, and furthermore, even directors \"have a lot of trouble approaching my work\" (Clark, personal interview, 29 Feb. 1996). Indeed, according to her first mentor, Clarke Rogers, Clark's work poses such a considerable challenge to directors that \"it demanded production just to see if it could work.\" He claimed to have been humbled by failure both times when he had directed Lost Souls and Jehanne: \"I still find myself unable to find the key to realizing her work on stage\" (Rudakoff, Dangerous Traditions 75). Perhaps the great mystery in Clark's work is whether she will yet find a director capable of making her idiosyncratic style apparent as such. Nonetheless, in their inherent contradictions her works do show a strong thematic and dramaturgical consistency, and her success on the stage has been enough to warrant more serious attention than she has, as yet, received. In the meantime, she will no doubt continue writing in her own way; as she says, \"I have to let my characters go in the direction they want. And I don't like to scrutinize my writing too much. I will let somebody else do that\" (Conlogue, \"I hate political correctness\" C3). As for her experience with Judith K., she has written, \"Certainly, I can think of no more thankless task than adapting a Kafka novel for the stage. In future, I will choose a totally obscure novel that has never been made into a movie. I will never 336 adapt War and Peace. I don't even want to take a run at Winnie-the-Pooh\" (Clark, \"Comedy on Trial\" 21). 337 Conclusion In March 1995, an adaptation of Der Procefi entitled K: Impressions of \"The Trial\" opened at the Guthrie Lab Theatre in Minneapolis. Written and directed by Garland Wright, K (with no period after the initial) conveyed the plot of Kafka's narrative text by combining only thirty pages of text with stylized movement, harsh lighting and a black-and-white colour palette, as every one of the eleven cast members, male and female, played K in turn. Tad Simons wrote an enthusiastic review in American Theatre, calling K \"perhaps the most exquisitely realized ensemble piece in the Guthrie's history\" (Simons 4). At the same time, he nonetheless contrasts Kafka's \"unfinished masterpiece\"—if this is not itself an oxymoron—with the \"questionable\" manner in which Wright's production \"often looks and feels too much like the sophisticated feat of theatrical engineering it is.\" K, Simons writes, \"though formally perfect in structure, refuses in every other way to conform to theatrical shape . . . [with] no rising action, climax or denouement\" (Simons 4-5). Referring to strange incidents of deja vu which both originally inspired Wright's production and took place during the rehearsal process, Simons titles his article \"Deja Vu All Over Again\"; but this title is equally apt to describe both the continual return of the theatre to Kafka's narrative text as a source and the familiar contradictory tone of grudging praise and disapproval which marks Simons's review. Minneapolis Star Tribune reviewer Peter Vaughan, incidentally, was much less equivocal in his praise of the production—although he mistakenly believed it was set in the late nineteenth century (Vaughan E4). Despite Vaughan's enthusiasm for Wright's project, we have already seen that adaptations have often been critically unpopular, subject to charges of tampering, counterfeiting, 338 misinterpretation, or Vvilful manipulation. Indeed, exactly such charges have been levelled against every one of the adaptations described in the preceding chapters, sometimes in the same breath with admiration of the theatrical skill brought to bear on the project. The tone of many reviews and criticisms makes it clear that the very idea of adapting a novel, above all a canonical \"great novel,\" to the stage is suspect or even offensive to many critics, regardless of any intrinsic quality which may inhere in the adaptation as a work. This unpopularity seems, judging from many of the remarks recorded here, to be based in part on some presumption of rivalry between the adaptation and its original, the so-called \"real thing\"; or at least of some sort of interference with public reception of the original, as implied by Adomo's remark that adaptations should be left to the \"culture industry.\" These charges do not, however, stand up to close scrutiny. There is no evidence that any of the five adapters intended to compete with Kafka; on the contrary, it is clear from their own writings that Gide, Barrault and Berkoff strongly identified with Kafka at the time they produced their adaptations, and intended their work as homage to him. Further, Weiss received his commission from Ingmar Bergman based on prior evidence of such identification, though he claimed to have overcome those feelings. Even Clark, while not fond of Kafka, demonstrates no desire to outdo him, and rather set herself the task of a certain degree of fidelity to his work as \"the master.\" In fact, such homage or fidelity is entirely appropriate, insofar as the very project of adaptation—particularly when its object is a canonical work—is as much dependent on the continuing authority of the original work as is any other form of exegesis. For the authors of the adaptations (and for those who commissioned Weiss's and Clark's versions), the mention of Kafka's name remains vital as ultimate guarantor of the importance of the story represented. It is simply not in the adapter's interest to eclipse the source of his or her inspiration. 339 And, accordingly, there is no evidence whatsoever that the reputation of Der Procefi or of its author has suffered from continual adaptation. In fact, the story of Kafka adaptation is contiguous with the story of Kafka reception. At the end of the 1930s, Peter Weiss was by his own account in the minority of Germans acquainted with Kafka's writings; the French regarded him as an esoteric and \"unfathomable\" writer; and in England, the Muirs' translations of Kafka's novels had sold so poorly that a new publisher had to be found for each volume (Crick 162). The postwar spread of Kafka's fame and his currency as an author of \"great works\" coincides with the growth of the number of adaptations of his work, and the tendency to such adaptations ought properly to be regarded as a manifestation of that currency and an attempt to share in it, rather than to compete with it. There is, indeed, some empirical evidence which suggests that adaptation enhances an author's reputation, at least insofar as reputation may be associated with marketability. To take an example far more obscure than Kafka's novel: in 1994, Lawrence Venuti was translating Fosca, a novel by the marginally canonical Italian romantic writer I. U. Tarchetti (1839-1869), when he discovered that the same novel was coincidentally being adapted into a Broadway musical, Passion, by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine. Venuti's publisher, Mercury House, cannily titled the translation Passion as well, and designed a cover reminiscent of the musical's advertising: \"Copies were sold in the lobby of the theater at performances, which continued for nearly a year. Within four months of publication, 6500 copies were in print. The translation did not make the bestseller list, but it was widely circulated for an Italian novel that had previously been unknown to English-language readers\" (Venuti, \"Translation, Heterogeneity, Linguistics\" 103). It is difficult to see why a production in 1947 by a star of Barrault's stature would not have a comparable effect on the public profile, and thus possibly on the sales, of its source. Perhaps such 340 practical considerations in part motivated translator Alexandre Vialatte not only to reverse his request to have his name removed from the Barrault-Gide adaptation, but even to pen an article in Le Figaro in support of the production during the premiere week. Despite the fact that when an adaptation is regarded as unsuccessful, it cannot be proven to cause harm to the original text's reputation, it does seem that a well-regarded and popular adaptation can raise the public's level of interest in the original somewhat. In other words, the \"real thing,\" rather than being obscured by the act of adaptation, is set into the spotlight through the medium of adaptation, even though the act of mediation itself remains clearly visible—and therefore remains problematic for the critics. At several points, we have touched upon the connection between adaptation across genres and linguistic translation, not only because various adapters' views of Kafka have been dependent on access to him via translations, but also because adaptation is itself a form of translation between different sign-systems. If we accept this analogy, then it may be possible to explain the hostility towards dramatic adaptation by adapting Lawrence Venuti's description of prevailing translation strategies in Western—and particularly in Anglo-American—culture. As Venuti explains in his history The Translator's Invisibility, Western standards of translation rely onfluency rather than fidelity; that is, translations which give the appearance of being written in the target language are valued above translations which \"foreignize\" the text, making clear both the text's origin in an alien language and culture and the violent mediation and appropriation of the translator's activity. The strategy of fluency effaces the translator's presence and allows the reader to believe that the translated text somehow represents the thoughts of the original author as they might be expressed if the author had written in the target language. Hence, the \"invisibility\" of the translator (Venuti, The Translator's Invisibility 1-42). Exactly this strategy has allowed the 341 Muirs' translations of Kafka's novels to become the canonical reading of Kafka in English, despite their work's documented shortcomings in terms of fidelity or accuracy; it appears that only age, the great enemy of translations, will finally allow their increasingly old-fashioned diction to be replaced by one of the more contemporary, though not necessarily more accurate, contenders. The medium of film seems to be able to achieve something like Venuti's invisibility by using techniques of cinematography and montage to mimic the internal imaginative process by which the reader pictures the events of a novel. This ability, and the fact that adaptations of novels have been the cinema's stock in trade almost since its invention, have made the novel on film unexceptional and produced a relatively large (though nonetheless surprisingly young) body of critical theory on film adaptations. At the same time, film adaptations have been as subject to the vicissitudes of age as linguistic translations: witness the number of remakes which have been produced of adaptations of Dickens, Hawthorne, or James Fenimore Cooper, in order to reappropriate the classics for succeeding generations who come to expect first sound, then colour, then increasing amounts of graphic violence or sexuality, always accompanied by new, more \"natural\" acting styles. Among these productions, of course, are numbered two adaptations of Der Procefi, both filmed in English as The Trial, in 1963 and 1993. These remakes are often accompanied by the release of new editions of the books on which they are based. The stage, however, is not only subject to age; even in the immediate present, it is limited by real time and space. Within these bounds, methods must be found to coax the audience's imagination into seeing the dramatic performance as a series of real events. Ironically, since the development of cinema, the vocabulary of film has been modified and taken over by the stage to enrich its repertoire of strategies, so that the audience is now asked to collaborate in the imaginative 342 construction of wipes, crossfades, dream sequences and flashbacks based on cues from the actors, lighting or soundscape. Nonetheless, the physical presence of actors in the same space as the audience prevents the audience, for the most part, from entirely overlooking the mediated nature of theatre. The mediators are literally present for the entirety of the performance; and their presence further implies the involvement of other mediators, such as the director, for example, or in the cases examined here, the adapter. The invisibility asked of Venuti's translator is never possible, and the adapter remains both present and provocative to the critic—especially when, as in two of the adaptations described here, the adapter or co-adapter is among the cast onstage (it will be remembered that at the Bremen premiere of Der Prozefi, Peter Weiss was present among the audience, and he seemed to feel particular animosity from the reviewers on that account). If one does not accept this analogy to explain the general critical distaste for adaptation, less complicated charges can be put forward, such as Barrault's and Berkoffs accusations of territorialism and elitism on the part of the academics whom Barrault called Kafka's \"high priests.\" Adorno's very idea of the \"culture industry,\" for example, to which adaptations should be relegated, has prompted accusations of elitism (Bernstein, in Adorno, The Culture Industry 1); but more to the point, Kundera's indictment of the industry of \"Kafkology,\" though perhaps exaggerated for polemic purposes, would seem to support the charges of elitism more substantially. We have repeatedly seen how, as if in imitation of Max Brod, Kafka critics tend with unusual consistency to become personally involved with and protective of their subject; hence, for example, Politzer's accusing Barrault and Gide of \"perversion of truth.\" Such possessiveness may explain many critics' tendency to take exception to the 343 interpretations of adapters, even when those interpretations are actually conservative in terms of contemporary textual criticism. Barrault and Gide's mixture of existentialism and absurdism with surrealist visual overtones; Berkoffs neo-expressionism, with an accent on sexuality; and Weiss's rather subdued Marxism, all represent approaches to Kafka which had become current in textual criticism long before the adaptations appeared. Even the apparently radical changes which Clark rings upon Kafka's narrative text are ultimately rooted in the most conservative of interpretations: Judith K. dies because she is unwilling to love and therefore to live, exactly as Max Brod explained Josef K.'s guilt. Matching this conservatism of interpretation, the adaptations considered here have also seldom been entirely adventurous in form or technique. There is nothing formally revolutionary about either Clark's or Weiss's adaptations, whatever their sociopolitical mandate. Berkoffs theatre takes more risks in its visceral intensity than in its technique per se; his Trial is in this respect less interesting than his original plays in pseudo-Shakespearian blank verse. Of these four adaptations, only Barrault and Gide's Proces was arguably at the forefront of contemporary theatrical technique. Its primacy as first stage adaptation of Kafka's novel and the combined prestige of its authors have given it an aura almost comparable to that of the source text. Indeed, we have seen how it has been regularly used as a yardstick for subsequent adaptations, though often in the negative, as proof that the task of adaptation is fruitless. Le Proces remains nonetheless the only certified stage success of the four adaptations, the most praised even amongst qualifications and denunciations, and the most critically examined. The fact that I began this project with the Barrault-Gide version might give the impression that I have sketched the decline of Kafka adaptations through the years, in terms of quality, 344 popularity and fidelity. As promised, however, I refuse to interpret what I have presented teleologically. No corollary relationship exists between an adaptation's fidelity, its popularity and its quality (by whatever standards the last might be assessed). Nor do four adaptations constitute a statistically significant sample from which to judge any form of progress even if I so desired. Finally, it must be remembered that the success of Le Proces is as bound to social and historical contexts as the production itself. As I write these words, the Barrault-Gide adaptation is almost fifty years old. Adaptations, like translations, seem to age faster than originals, and Le Proces is both. Already only ten years after its premiere, critics were beginning to call Barrault's style old-fashioned, \"out of touch\" (Fowlie 51). Ten years later again, Barrault was publicly reviled during the student revolution as a maker of \"consumerist art\" (Brown 445), in other words, as fully complicit in Adorno's \"culture industry,\" a charge which Adorno himself had stopped just short of making. The modern reader, faced with the now-stilted flavour of the play's 1940s dialogue, will be amazed to read the accusations of Politzer or Ira Kuhn, claiming that the dialogue of Le Proces is too witty and casual; the Anglophone reader, dependent on Leon Katz's wooden translation (itself now thirty-four years old), will be doubly amazed. To the contemporary Canadian English speaker, at least, the tone and rhythm of Sally Clark's dialogue is easier to speak, while a speaker of British English would be more comfortable with Berkoffs version, though Berkoffs particularly 1970s-style aggressive mixture of sexuality and misogyny, and his staging (now too reminiscent of Peter Brook's acrobatic 1970 Midsummer Night's Dream, full of juggling and trapezes) serve to date his adaptation as well. As for Weiss's version, his attempt to remain faithful to the novel results in too many passages taken almost verbatim from the novel, readable but often unspeakable; but with the 345 reunification of Germany and the fall of the Iron Curtain, Weiss's politics have aged his adaptation even more quickly than the form of his work could have done. Nonetheless, all four adaptations have been, and therefore can be, staged. They thus demonstrably function as plays in and of themselves, and not as mere shadows of Kafka's novel. If their lifespan has proven—or yet proves—to be relatively short, that does not make them failures. If we choose their creators' judgements as sole criterion, then we must reckon Le Proces and Berkoffs Trial as successes, but not Weiss's and Clark's adaptations; yet the latter two versions have had their defenders and enthusiasts as well, and Judith K. played to full houses thanks to word of mouth alone (Weiss seems to have given up on his Prozefi so quickly after it opened that even if audiences contradicted the critics' opinion, he took no notice). Likewise, all four adaptations can be shown to adhere closely to Mirza's observations about the strategies likely to be used in theatrical adaptations of novels. Of Mirza's six points, all six can be found in every adaptation; although the sixth point, according to which material lost as verbal signs is reintegrated into the performance text by means of sound, lighting or props, is not mentioned explicitly in my analysis of Clark's version, and only appears once in the others, this strategy is in fact so pervasive throughout all versions that enumerating instances of it would be never-ending. Again, Mirza's observations are broad enough to be generally applicable; but they are not to be regarded as laws of theatrical adaptation, which this project had no intention of producing. Their main function has been to be just precise enough to demonstrate that the alterations which narrative texts undergo in the process of dramatic adaptation are to some extent predictable. They are not dependent on Adorno's generalizations about the nature of drama or on Politzer's idea of a \"law of genuine dramatic speech\"; rather, they are dictated by the conditions under which 346 contemporary theatre is produced in the twentieth century. These strategies of adaptation are neither sufficient to explain the entire complex activity of adaptation, nor are they necessarily applicable to the theatrical forms of eras past or to come; they do, however, demonstrate that the resulting changes are not sufficiently explained by charges of either misunderstanding or wilful misrepresentation on the adapters' part. Finally, I hope I have demonstrated that despite some scholarly opinions to the contrary, theatrical events can be understood as more than mere representations of their texts, with the help of social, political or biographical information which helps interpret the messages they were intended to communicate (and the messages which were apparently actually received) in their historical context of origin. The individual theatrical production is not, after all, so ephemeral that nothing important or interesting can be said about it. This dissertation began with the words of a reviewer who suggested that Kafka has no place in the theatre, and that the theatre has no place interpreting Kafka. This opinion has often been expressed, and often, as we have seen, has seemed to prevail. Dissenting opinions have nevertheless regularly been both expressed and acted upon, in academia, among the critical establishment, and above all in the theatre itself. Despite the narrow-minded edicts of some critics, the theatre in its freedom will continue to turn to Kafka, and to hundreds of other authors, as a source for inspiration, adaptation, and occasionally, indeed, for plagiarism. Kafka will be among these sources as long as he remains in the canon, and only when critics no longer care to \"defend\" him from the encroachments of the theatre will the theatre no longer care to adapt his works. In the meantime, I can only agree with Irmgard Gerbitz that \"because the stage is a multidimensional medium, because movement, light, language, and decor can exist here 347 simultaneously, the stage is particularly suitable for the communication of complex images and feelings such as exist in Kafka's work\" (Gerbitz 81). 348 Works Cited I. Primary Sources: Berkoff, Steven. The Trial. The Trial/Metamorphosis/In the Penal Colony: Three Theatre Adaptations From Franz Kafka. Oxford: Amber Lane, 1988. 5-69. Clark, Sally. The Trial of Judith K. Toronto: Playwrights Canada, 1991. Gide, Andre, and Jean-Louis Barrault. Le Proces: Piece en deux parties tiree du roman de Franz Kafka d'apres la traduction de Alexandre Vialatte. Neuchatel and Paris: Ides et Calendes, n.d. —. The Trial: A Dramatization Based on Franz Kafka's Novel. Trans. Leon Katz. New York: Schocken, 1963. Kafka, Franz. Der Prozefi. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1958. —. The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. Revised with additional translation by E. M. Butler. New York: Vintage, 1969. Weiss, Peter. Der Prozefi. Werke in sechs Banden: Dramen 3. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1991. 261-336. II. Secondary Sources: \"A. F.\". \"La saison du Theatre Marigny se terminera avec un autre coup de theatre.\" L'Aurore 2 Oct. 1947: 2. Adler, Jacques. The Jews of Paris and the Final Solution: Communal Responses and Internal Conflicts, 1940-1944. New York: Oxford UP, 1987. Adorno, Theodor W. The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture. Ed. J. M. Bernstein. 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Ein Theaterstiick ohne Menschen.\" Die Welt 31 May 1975. Zimmerman, Cynthia. Playwriting Women: Female Voices in English Canada. The Canadian Dramatist 3. Toronto: Simon & Pierre, 1994. Zimmermann, Ulrike. Die dramatische Bearbeitung von Kafkas \"Prozefi\" durch Peter Weiss. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1990. "@en ; edm:hasType "Thesis/Dissertation"@en ; vivo:dateIssued "1997-11"@en ; edm:isShownAt "10.14288/1.0076935"@en ; dcterms:language "eng"@en ; ns0:degreeDiscipline "Interdisciplinary Studies"@en ; edm:provider "Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library"@en ; dcterms:publisher "University of British Columbia"@en ; dcterms:rights "For non-commercial purposes only, such as research, private study and education. Additional conditions apply, see Terms of Use https://open.library.ubc.ca/terms_of_use."@en ; ns0:scholarLevel "Graduate"@en ; dcterms:title "Starring Joseph K. : four stage adaptations of Franz Kafka’s novel The Trial"@en ; dcterms:type "Text"@en ; ns0:identifierURI "http://hdl.handle.net/2429/6790"@en .