Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Colección Támesis
SERIE A: MONOGRAFÍAS, 213
Catherine O’Leary
TAMESIS
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CONTENTS
Acknowledgements vii
Introduction 1
1 The Ideology of Francoism 5
2 Language and Silence 51
3 Buero Vallejo and Theatre Censorship 68
4 Posibilismo 112
5 History, Myth and Demythification 140
6 Ideology in Buero Vallejo’s Theatre 172
7 Theatre and the Transition to Democracy 200
8 The Post-Franco Theatre of Buero Vallejo 221
Conclusion 249
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Introduction
Antonio Buero Vallejo, who died on 28 April 2000, was the most important
Spanish dramatist of the post-Civil War period. In his long career as a play-
wright, Buero published thirty original plays. Only three of these have never
been performed.2 This book focuses on the committed dramas and therefore has
little to say about certain plays such as El terror inmóvil, La señal que se espera
(1952), Madrugada (1953), Hoy es fiesta (1955), Irene, o el tesoro (1954) and
Una extraña armonía, which do not deal with the themes of history, myth
and ideology and contain only very limited social comment. It concentrates
instead on an analysis of the more political dramas as the basis for an investi-
gation of Buero’s engagement with the ideologies of Francoism and of post-
Franco Spain.
Despite his Republican allegiances, Buero Vallejo was the most commercially
successful dramatist of the Franco era. In the 1950s, Buero was hailed as the
saviour of the Spanish theatre and praised for the social realism of his work and
for his exposé of the tragedy of a divided Spain. He was condemned by others,
however, particularly as his success and reputation grew, for what was seen as
his capitulation to the pressures of censorship and finally for coming to form a
part of the Francoist Establishment, lending his prestige to the regime by accept-
ing its honours. Thus his dedication to social drama and his opposition to the
regime were brought into question. Yet, while he was at times damned for his
silences by some of his contemporaries, so too was he denounced for his words
by Franco’s censors.
1 Antonio Buero Vallejo, Obra Completa, ed. by Luis Iglesias Feijoo and Mariano de Paco,
Clásicos Castellanos Nueva Serie, 2 vols (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1994), II, 497–8. Further
references to these volumes are given after quotations in the text.
2 El terror inmóvil (1949), Una extraña armonía (1956) and Mito (1967). Both Mito and
Un extraña armonía were authorized for staging by the censorship authorities but, according
to the Obra Completa, have never been staged. All of the dates given for the plays refer to the
date of composition.
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2 CATHERINE O’LEARY
It is difficult to refute Alfonso Sastre’s assertion that Buero was operating from
within the Francoist system.3 Buero did choose to remain and work in Spain, and
to adopt an attitude of compromise and posibilismo in his work and in his dealings
with the regime. The question of whether this made Bueros a pluma prostituida,
as was suggested by some of his detractors, is addressed here. This book explores
the degree of compromise inherent in his stance, considers his social commitment
and investigates the contradictions evident in his relationship with Franco’s repres-
sive regime. Buero was neither radical nor evasionist, and his rebellion, in so far
as it existed, often appeared to be more a moral than a political one. This study
shows that, throughout his career, Buero used his theatre to defend his chosen
stance against his many critics. Furthermore, it argues that the portraits of artists
and intellectuals in his dramatic works are an attempt to justify and rationalize his
peculiar position as the occasionally acceptable face of criticism: the critic within
the system.
Buero’s relationship with Francoism and its ideology was dominated by words
and silences, which were carefully chosen. He is an important dramatist both for
what he said and for what he failed to say about the society in which he lived
and worked. For Buero, the choice was always one of silence or protest, yet he
was criticized for failing to speak out in support of others, for the limited nature
of his dissent, and, paradoxically, for daring to say too much.
The historical link between literature and ideology is evaluated, particularly
with regard to the theatre, and the perceived threat posed by literature is identi-
fied. This book agrees with Eagleton’s claim:
The regime’s concern with language, designed to convince others of its authority
and to rationalize its dominant position, was allied to a determination to control the
language used by others. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the regime legislated
for silence also, by introducing measures to censor critical commentaries and to
eliminate the voice of dissent. Censorship, of course, is the main point of contact
between the writer and the dominant societal ideology. Buero defined it as:
3 In an article critical of Buero Vallejo, Sastre defined the former’s posture thus: ‘Es preciso
hacer un teatro posible en España, aunque para ello sea preciso realizar ciertos sacrificios que
se derivan de la necesidad de acomodarse de algún modo a la estructura de las dificultades
que se oponen a nuestro trabajo.’ ‘Teatro imposible y pacto social’, Primer Acto, no. 14 (1960),
1–2 (p. 1).
4 Terry Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology. A Study in Marxist Literary Theory (London:
INTRODUCTION 3
en los marcos ideológicos oficiales. Todo ello la define como un arma contra
la libertad del hombre.5
Buero recognized the power of language and its influence and sought to outwit
the censors and propagandists at language manipulation. His achievement was to
manipulate language in order to create a counter-mythology that directly contra-
dicted that of the administration. However, Buero’s employment of the device of
posibilismo to do this left him open to charges of collaboration with the system
or, at the very least, of self-censorship. This book thus explores the ambiguity of
his position as one who would be at once critical of and acceptable to the regime.
Buero Vallejo’s theatre, while mild in comparison to some other theatre of oppos-
ition, was calculated to be so and was successful as a result. Nonetheless, the
question then arises whether Buero was limited by his own values and beliefs
and by the parameters laid down by the regime, which he usually accepted. In
his dramatic works, Buero defined the role of the artist as both a moral and a
political one; this book compares his words with his actions. In addition, it asks
whether writers such as Buero Vallejo were engaged in a type of self-induced
bewilderment or self-deception, by their determination to believe that they were
really challenging the regime to the best of their ability by remaining in Spain.
While the censorship of Buero’s work and the silencing of his views in public
are evidence of the regime’s mistrust of him and of an awareness of the influence
of his words, his career as a dramatist under Franco was very successful. This
raises the question of why he was not censored more. After all, many of his
contemporaries and later dramatists, who were not as clearly identified with
Republicanism as Buero was, were more heavily censored.6 Hence this study
explores whether his successes were owing to the subtlety and intelligence of his
argument and method, the failings of the censors and the censorship legislation or
some other cause.
Also analysed are Buero’s attempts to subvert official history and to demystify
the regime’s presentation of itself and what Raymond Williams termed, ‘a sense of
predisposed continuity’.7 The analysis is extended to show how Buero’s historical
Plaza y Janes, 1979), p. 21. On p. 11 of the same book, Beneyto says of censorship: ‘No cabe
duda que la censura es el medio represivo de que disponen los gobiernos débiles de todo
el mundo para despersonalizar a la población y convertirla en una masa uniforme, compacta,
produciendo en ella una parálisis política, social, cultural, etc. [. . .] o sea, que el pueblo se
encuentra ante tal actitud en la obligación de pensar lo que el Gobierno le impone.’
6 Buero Vallejo was active on the Republican side in the Civil War. In an episode that
demonstrates both the brutality of the victors and their manipulation of language, Buero
was initially sentenced to death in the aftermath of the war for his ‘adhesión a la rebelión’.
Luciano García Lorenzo, ‘Reportaje biográfico’, Luciano García Lorenzo and others, Antonio
Buero Vallejo: Premio ‘Miguel de Cervantes’ 1986, Ámbitos literarios/Premios Cervantes, 12
(Barcelona: Anthropos-Ministerio de Cultura, 1987), pp. 13–35 (p. 18).
7 Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977),
p. 116.
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4 CATHERINE O’LEARY
and mythical dramas challenge the notion of fate and instead stress history as
progression. The study then moves on to question Buero’s own motivated use of
history and myth and his controversial portraits of certain historical figures.
The transition period is examined as a time of ideological crisis, and the dis-
mantling of the elements that had previously supported the dominant ideology is
reviewed. It was a period when old myths were deliberately forgotten and new
ones created. This led to a determination to forget the past and to embrace the
pacto de olvido, which was to be the focus of Buero’s post-Franco theatre.
Buero wrote some of his most important political work in the post-Franco
period and took a moralistic stance on accountability and remembering. However,
these works display a disillusionment and pessimism not in evidence in his earlier
dramas. Finally, the book explores the choices made by the dramatist when at last
free to speak clearly and assesses the claim that ‘contra Franco escribía mejor’.
In his depictions of past and present, Buero once again raised questions of a pluma
prostituida and the contradictory nature of his relationship both to the Francoist
ideology and to modern democratic Spain.
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1
The Ideology of Francoism
system of meanings and values – constitutive and constituting – which as they are
experienced as practices appear as reciprocally confirming. It thus constitutes a sense of
reality for most people in the society, a sense of absolute because experienced reality beyond
which it is very difficult for most members of the society to move, in most areas of their lives.
[. . .] It is a realized complex of experiences, relationships, and activities, with specific and
changing pressures and limits. [. . .] It does not just passively exist as a form of dominance.
It has continually to be renewed, recreated, defended, and modified. It is also continually
resisted, limited, altered, challenged by pressures not at all its own.’ Marxism and Literature,
pp. 110, 112.
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6 CATHERINE O’LEARY
lived reality of the populace.2 The desire for longevity and the perpetuation
of the social order was a preoccupation of Franco’s, as is evident from his
determination to choose his successor and to inculcate in him the ideology of
the new regime.
In his essay on ideology and the state, Althusser stressed the crucial role of
state institutions in the maintenance of a dominant ideology. Through these
state institutions the populace is taught know-how compatible with the ruling
ideology. The different social groups or classes were educated to be contented
with their positions in the order of society and not to question their subjuga-
tion to the dominant ideology. In order for the ideology of the ruling class to
take hold, it is thus necessary for the state institutions to become infused with
it. Althusser divided these institutions into the repressive state apparatuses,
such as the army, and the ideological state apparatuses, such as the media,
culture, the education system and the Church. While the former are primarily
concerned with the use of force, sanctions and threats in their support of
the dominant ideology, the latter collude with the controlling group in the
dissemination of the ruling ideology and the instruction of the masses of their
place within it. The state apparatus, which functions as a repressive force in
society, incorporates the government, the judiciary, the prison services, the
police and the army. In Francoist Spain, the Civil Guard and the armed police
were both under military control and were used to repel external sources
of threat, whether real or mythical, and also to maintain order in society by
warding off internal sources of threat. Throughout his dictatorship, Franco
employed these repressive forces to back up the dominant ideology and to
quash any perceived threat, such as that posed by the miners and students in
the late 1950s and the 1960s.
In order to succeed, it is clear that those in possession of state power must also
control the state apparatuses. If they do not, they are unlikely to retain hegemony
for long. During the Second Republic in Spain, the rulers did not always control
the state apparatuses, and thus did not have a firm grip on the power they were
democratically elected to wield. When the Nationalists took control after the
Civil War, they purged all of the state agencies of any opposition, thus ensuring
the conservation of the state power that they had seized. The control of the
repressive state apparatuses, while necessary, was not sufficient to ensure the sub-
jection of the populace to the new social order: for this, the so-called ideological
state apparatuses also had to be employed. The Franco regime was fortunate
to have the co-operation of the Roman Catholic Church, which had seen its role
diminished in Republican Spain. The ideology of the Roman Catholic Church
coincided with the Francoist ideology in many respects, and both the Church and
the regime took full advantage of this fact.
Investigation’, in Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, trans. by Ben Brewster (London:
NLB, 1971), pp. 121–73.
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The appeal of the ideological state apparatuses is, of course, their capacity
for social control; they can be used to affirm the ruling ideology through ritual,
anthems and ceremonies. By justifying the distribution of economic and political
power, they allow the ruling group to maintain its dominant position, and they also
aid in coercion and eliciting consent. They help the governing elite to define the
boundaries within which individuals may exercise free will. Recognizing this,
the nascent regime quickly set about securing the control, or the collaboration, of
the ideological apparatuses. The outlawing of political parties and representative
trade unions meant that, in addition, the only ideology that could be legally
communicated was the ruling one.
The ruling group recognized that it had to command both the repressive
and the ideological state apparatuses in order to control both the public and the
private domains. The army, the police and the courts, while primarily repressive
forces, were also infused with the dominant ideology, which they defended
by force in the public domain. The Church, the schools, the media and the arts
operate in the private sphere and, although primarily ideological, also used sanc-
tions such as excommunication, expulsion and censorship. All were united by,
and under, the ruling ideology. Once the ruling elite controlled both the public
and private domains, it could define the role of the individual within each and
quell any attempt at self-definition or self-determination. The co-operation of the
ideological apparatuses ensured that even the private realm was permeated with
a politically driven ideology.
The regime’s laws reflected the Francoist ideology in an attempt to legitimate
the New State in the name of an ill-defined common good. The regime’s will-
ingness to impose sanctions can be seen in its legislation. In 1938, the Fuero del
trabajo abolished normal trade unions and the right to strike in the name of the
integrity of the Patria. Falangist influence was also evident in its determination
to return to the Spanish people ‘la Patria, el Pan y la Justicia’.3 A 1940 law cre-
ated the Tribunal Especial para la Represión de la Masonería y el Comunismo,
which blamed the Freemasons and Communists for Spain’s ills and was used to
justify the harsh repression of Republicans in the aftermath of the Civil War.
The Código Penal, introduced in December 1944, specified the severe material
sanctions for behaviour that contradicted or challenged the dominant ideology,
including reprisals for the communication of illegal propaganda. The Fuero de
los españoles, introduced in July 1945, strengthened the Church–state alliance
by establishing Roman Catholicism as the official state religion. Article 12 of
the Fuero, in keeping with the ruling ideology, gave the impression of free will,
which was nevertheless contradicted by the presence of censorship and other
repressive legislation. It stated: ‘Todo español podrá expresar libremente sus
3 This was the slogan of the national-syndicalist group, the Juntas de Ofensiva Nacional-
Sindicalista (JONS), whose mythology was important in the Francoist ideology. It was
included in the preamble to the Fuero del trabajo. Quoted in Manuel Vázquez Montalbán,
Los demonios familiares de Franco. (Los tics obsesivos que configuraron la ‘ideología’
franquista), Colección Documentos (Barcelona: Planeta, 1987), p. 132.
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8 CATHERINE O’LEARY
5 Quoted in Juan Pablo Fusi, Franco: autoritarismo y poder personal (Madrid: El País,
1985), p. 49.
6 Norman Cooper, ‘The Church: From Crusade to Christianity’, in Spain in Crisis: The
Evolution and Decline of the Franco Regime, ed. by Paul Preston (Sussex: Harvester Press,
1976), pp. 48–81 (p. 51).
7 Paul Preston, Franco: A Biography (London: Harper Collins, 1993), p. 342.
8 Gubern, La censura, p. 82. However, Vatican II did have an impact on the regime.
The Ley Orgánica del Estado, 10 January 1967, and later the Ley de 28 de junio de 1967
recognized religious freedom. José M. Cuenca Toribio, ‘Relaciones Iglesia y Estado en la
España del siglo XX (1931–1980)’, Hispania. Revista español de historia, 40 (no. 144, 1980),
153–76 (p. 171).
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10 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Although initially recognized by Franco, their role in the creation of the New
State was soon lost in the myth of a Nationalist, Catholic state. The emergence
of the myth of a crusade was already evident, and the Muslims were not to
feature in the mythical raza of Francoist Spain. In the aftermath of the Axis
defeat in WWII, Franco also played down the regime’s fascist tendencies in order
to gain wider support among Catholics internationally, particularly in his efforts
to win Vatican recognition.
The significance of the Roman Catholic Church in the legitimation of the New
State was critical. It provided the regime with support and legitimacy it might
otherwise have lacked, having overthrown a democratically elected government.
The regime adopted the Church’s common good argument to defend policies
that were developed to protect the regime. By arguing that the people were weak
and in need of protection, leadership and salvation, the regime defended its
paternalistic attitude and autocratic rule. Indeed, dependence on a patriarchal and
more knowledgeable authority was encouraged by both Francoist and Catholic
ideologies: both demanded the ceding of responsibility to a higher power. An
acceptance of submission was encouraged and rationalized by the argument that it
was destined or preordained, and protection was offered in exchange for freedom
and independence. Both promised suffering now for sins of the past and gave
and A. D. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), pp. 113–21 (p. 117).
10 Franco, in L’Echo (París), 16 November 1937. Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los
demonios, p. 141.
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assurances about future salvation. The Church’s values were critical in the
consolidation of the relationship between the dominant ideology and the subju-
gated in Francoist Spain.11 Ironically, Spain’s isolation in the post-Civil War years
may also have helped. Suffering and humility were praised by the Church–state
alliance as virtues of the Spanish people in the face of internal hardship and exter-
nal opposition; a myth of national martyrdom encouraged the Spanish people to
feel triumphant in their isolation and subjugation. Similarly, Franco’s single-party
organic democracy was portrayed as evidence of Spanish superiority, as is clear
from Franco’s pronunciations on the subject of democracy to the Mexican press
in 1947:
Similar sentiments about the protection of the intellectually weak and the moral
and political education of the Spanish people are expressed in the Ley de Prensa
of 1938 and a Ministerial Order referring to censorship in 1939.14 Once some of
the traditions and rituals of the Church had been incorporated into the culture
of the regime, the dominant ideology could then claim to reflect the values of
11 The importance of religion in the control of the bewildered herd is explored in Nietzsche’s
analysis of slave morality. Jorge Larrain, Ideology and Cultural Identity: Modernity and the
Third World Presence (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1994), pp. 42–4.
12 El Universal Gráfico (México), October 1947. Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los
demonios, p. 116.
13 Ley 18 marzo 1966, Nº 14/66 (Jefatura del Estado). PRENSA. Ley de Prensa e Imprenta,
Boletín Oficial del Estado (hereafter BOE), no. 67 (ref. 519, 19 March 1966), pp. 479–86.
14 Ley 22 abril 1938 (Ministerio del Interior). PERIODICOS. Ley de Prensa. BOE, no. 549
(23 April 1938), pp. 6915–17 and Orden 15 julio 1939 (Mº. Gobernación). CENSURA. Crea
una Sección de Censura encargada de llevarla a cabo, BOE, no. 211 (ref. 916, 30 July 1939),
p. 553.
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12 CATHERINE O’LEARY
a Spain united in its Catholicism. This can be seen in the 1966 Ley de Prensa e
Imprenta, which stated that the legislation was intended to:
Fusi, Franco, p. 59. Church and state were officially separated in 1931: ‘Decretada ya
16
Iglesia. El totalitarismo ateo está condenado por Roma, y es, por tanto, incompatible con el
catolicismo.’ From El Español, nos 287–90 (1954). Quoted in Gabriel Arias Salgado, Política
española de la información: antología sistemática (Madrid: Ministerio de Información y
Turismo (hereafter MIT), 1958), II, p. 231.
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as nature stems from God. In order for society to develop, man’s free will must
be harnessed to the greater good of the community:
The argument even embraces the use of coercion for the common good, while
tacitly admitting that coercion may be abused by some. The state, it is claimed,
has the right and duty to exercise authority and coercion in the name of the
common good. The premise is that a good act generated by fear or coercion may
eventually lead to a belief in the virtue of this good act and the will to do this
good act voluntarily. Therefore, the argument goes, the initial application of
threat and coercion is justified.
When viewed in the context of changing a morally corrupt person into a
morally virtuous one, this argument may seem justifiable, if Panglossian in its
naïve optimism; when this thinking is applied by a dictatorial state using coercion
and fear to make people recognize the good that it represents, however, then it
becomes indefensible. It might be suggested that this would be an abuse of power
and in such a case the Catholic justification is not applicable. Yet a cursory glance
at the history of twentieth-century Spain will show that Franco’s totalitarian
regime applied these fear and coercion techniques to ensure the support, or at least
the apathy, of the people. Moreover, it did so with the full support and collusion
of the Catholic Church.
The presence of Roman Catholic clergy among the censors on the state boards
lent these bodies a certain degree of legitimacy. It allowed the regime to use the
Catholic argument that it was not protecting itself by silencing certain voices, but
rather that it was defending the interests of the citizens who were somehow
threatened by such material. Church influence can be clearly seen in the censor-
ship legislation of the Franco regime. In the 1938 Ley de Prensa, which despite
its title, covered all forms of censorship, there is a peculiar mix of Catholic
and Nationalist rhetoric in the description of the new breed of journalist as an
‘apóstol del pensamiento y de la fe de la Nación recobrada a sus destinos’.19
These censorship guidelines were deliberately ambiguous. The stated reason for
the lack of written rules for ecclesiastical censorship was, ‘por la sencilla razón
de que puede un libro, un artículo, una fotografía, etc., no atentar directamente
contra el Dogma o la Moral y, sin embargo, su publicación o difusión ser peli-
grosa y, por tanto, no prudente’.20 Church and state agreed that preventative
18 Harold C. Gardiner S. J., Catholic Viewpoint on Censorship (New York: Hanover House,
1958), p. 21.
19 Ley 22 abril 1938, de Prensa, p. 6915.
20 Arias Salgado, Política española, p. 187.
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14 CATHERINE O’LEARY
censorship was better than punitive censorship. Cardinal Dalla Costa ridiculed
the freedom of the press that sought to grant the same respect to all people and
to all faiths: ‘Supone que todos son capaces de doctrinar sobre cualquier cosa,
que todos son capaces de aprender cualquier cosa, lo que es el summum del
absurdo.’21 It is also worth noting that until 1966, the Roman Catholic Church
issued an Index of Forbidden Books, which listed books perceived by the clergy
to be dangerous to faith and morals. The Church claimed that it had a right and
duty to control literature, and each diocese was to have its own appointed cler-
ical censor. Canon 1395 of the Code of Canon Law gave the Church the right to
ban books as it saw fit. Care was taken that books classed as obscene, that is to
say, arousing the lower passions, should not ‘fall into the hands of those whose
minds are not prepared for mature reading’.22 All heretical, schismatic, materi-
alistic or atheist publications were outlawed by the Index, as were religious
books published without prior censorship. It was claimed that the Index did not
interfere with an individual’s liberty, as the Church, being an authority on such
matters, was acting in his best moral interests. Possession, trading, or reading of
works cited in the Index was punishable by excommunication, but, as always, the
moral elite could obtain permission to examine these texts for scholarly purposes
and survive with their souls unscathed.
The Church also played a significant role in the censorship of the theatre, and
the legislation is clearly influenced by Catholic teaching on morals. The Roman
Catholic Church retained its own watchdog body called the Oficina Nacional
Permanente de Vigilancia de Espectáculos, which employed a system of classi-
fication of dramas from one to four. The former were judged to be acceptable
to a wide audience and the latter a serious threat to its moral well-being. This
was seen as necessary, as the Church guidelines for censorship were more severe
in some respects than those of the regime, which were occasionally influenced
more by political expediency than by Catholic moral teaching.23 Certain authors,
who because of their political background were acceptable to the regime, were
censored by the Church because they did not comply with its strict moral code.
Redmond A. Burke, C.S.V., Ph.D., What is the Index? (Milwaukee: The Bruce Publishing
22
The report is of further interest because of its insistence that the MIT is not guilty of apertura
and also for the distinction it makes between Church and state censorship. Informe sobre la
censura cinematográfica y teatral, Dirección General de Cinematografía y Teatro (Madrid:
MIT, 1963).
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24 Manuel Tuñón de Lara, ‘Historia’, in La cultura bajo el franquismo, ed. by José María
Castellet, Ediciones de Bolsillo (Barcelona: Anagrama, 1977), pp. 23–46 (pp. 28–9). While
no dates were given, the stress on fascism and imperialism would imply that these were from
relatively early school texts.
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16 CATHERINE O’LEARY
regime, often without regard to their experience or aptitude for the job. In an
article entitled ‘Power, Freedom and Social Change in the Spanish University,
1939–1975’, Salvador Giner refers to the removal of ‘those supposedly sinister
free-thinkers, members of an international Masonic conspiracy, whose sole aim
had allegedly been and still remained the destruction of an eternal Spain’.25
In 1965, the SEU was officially disbanded when the regime finally recognized
that it was no longer in control and had been replaced by other, more represen-
tative student organizations on campus. The increasing unrest among students
and their constant demands for a democratization of rule in Spain, combined
with their eventual co-operation with workers’ groups, represented a growing
threat to the regime. In 1968, University Police were introduced, and they
remained permanently on campus during the unrest. Speeches and declarations
made by the Ministro de Información y Turismo during this period emphasized
the representative nature of the government and its efforts to protect the stability
of Spanish society from the unwelcome actions of a minority. The repressive
measures taken against the students, and the declaration of a state of emergency,
were thus represented as a positive action for the common good:
The greatest problem for opponents of the regime was probably the lack of an
alternative, cohesive, unified group with sufficient strength to mount a serious
challenge to the dominant ideology and to gain state power. Giner points out
that by demonizing Communism, the Francoists had cited a cohesive and well-
developed alternative ideology, which many students and young liberals were
attracted to as the antithesis of Francoism. However, because of the success of
the regime’s propaganda and the effects of the Cold War, as well as their Civil
War activities, the Communist ideology did not appeal greatly to less hard-line
critics of the regime outside the universities, nor to many who had lived through
the Civil War. The fact that many opposition groups were based outside Spain
meant that they were often out of touch with the reality of the situation there.
25 Salvador Giner, ‘Power, Freedom and Social Change in the Spanish University,
(hereafter AGA) /IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 576 MIT/00.102. Declaraciones y Discursos
(25-1-69, Primera edición).
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While alliances were formed between the various opposition groups on occasion,
they seemed incapable of working together for long enough to achieve anything.
Moreover, many of them did not trust the Communists, who in turn remained
naïvely optimistic about the possibility of a workers’ revolution.
The education system was only one of the apparatuses the regime sought to
control. The ideological role of the media was also recognized and acted upon
by the Nationalists. Legislation was introduced to control the press prior to
the end of the Civil War, and this was later built upon in the aftermath of the
Nationalist victory. Censorship guidelines from 1944, devised by the Provincial
Delegate in Huesca and reproduced in Manuel Abellán’s study of censorship in
Spain, demonstrate the determination of the ruling elite to disseminate and
defend its ideology in the media and in culture:
Es preciso difundir la cultura para el pueblo por medio de todos los medios de
difusión a nuestra alcance, orientándolo de esta forma en las buenas costumbres
en el sano concepto de nuestros ideales que inspiraron el Movimiento Nacional,
y propagando la sana y tradicional cultura española así como la Doctrina
Cristiana. Por otra parte nuestra labor había de ir encauzada a destruir todo
aquello que pudiera ser dañino y perjudicial para nuestra moral y para todos los
conceptos antes mencionados.27
The media were also used to great effect when Franco sought to distance himself
from the Axis powers after the Allied victory in WWII by disseminating the claim
that Spain had been neutral.
The state not only controlled the flow of information through the national news
agency CIFRA and the international agency EFE, but also actively involved itself
in the training of journalists who, like university teachers, were required to swear
a pledge of allegiance to the regime upon graduation.28 It is clear from the
Documentos inéditos that the agency EFE, established by the Interior Ministry, was
created in a calculated effort to propagate the regime’s version and justification of
the Civil War.29 The regime was conscious of the need to appear independent;
Libertad de la Patria con fidelidad íntegra y total a los principios del Estado Nacional
Sindicalista, sin permitir jamás que la falsedad, la insidia o la ambición tuerzan mi pluma en
la labor diaria.’ Quoted in Gubern, La censura, p. 30.
29 ‘España vuelve a tener un ideal y una verdad que presentar al mundo, ante el que
reivindica su derecho a ocupar un puesto preeminente. Pero necesita el órgano que difunda por
el extranjero la voz de su ideal y su verdad, que abra caminos exteriores a la vitalidad interna y
le concite voluntades y simpatías.’ ‘Largo estudio acerca de lo que debe ser la agencia EFE’,
Burgos, December 1938. Documentos inéditos para la historia del Generalísimo Franco,
Fundación Nacional Francisco Franco, Colección de Estudios Contemporáneos, 3 vols (Madrid:
Azor, 1992), I, p. 240.
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18 CATHERINE O’LEARY
it had learned a lesson from the problems of the Russian TASS agency, which,
because it was directly controlled by the Communist Party, was dismissed inter-
nationally as an unreliable source. The model on which EFE was based was the
Deutsche Nachrichtenbüro (DNB), which, although ostensibly run by a private
company, was controlled by people sympathetic to the German regime. Unlike
Fabra, the previous international agency in Spain, the regime ensured that EFE was
Spanish owned and thus protected from foreign interference.
In the early years, the few news publications that were permitted were
Nationalist. On 1 May 1941, a decree exempted the Falangist press from censor-
ship other than that imposed by the Delegación Nacional de Prensa y Propaganda
de FET y de las JONS. There was no forum for debate, and the official version of
events went unchallenged. The Delegación Nacional de Prensa, established by the
1938 Ley de Prensa, was an all-powerful body, which dictated not only what was
to be written but also the format to be used. Instructions were given on how many
articles were to be dedicated to the reportage of Franco’s latest speech and details
specified of what was to be included in the article. A victim of the censors himself,
Juan Goytisolo commented:
30 ‘Escribir en España’, in El furgón de cola (Paris: Ruedo Ibérico, 1967), pp. 21–7 (p. 24).
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the regime attempted to create the impression of free will and a myth of represen-
tation. In addition, it engaged in a process of nationalization that stressed the unity
and stability of society, while simultaneously strengthening its own hold on the
state apparatuses. Furthermore, the regime offered benefits, both material and
psychological, to those who lent it support; it also purported to provide answers
and to define people’s role in society. By implementation of these methods and
by careful consideration of its image, the regime sought to naturalize the ruling
ideology and to make it people’s lived experience. Core values were presented as
fact or natural, and alternatives to them rendered unthinkable. Contradictory ideas
and values were discredited, and simultaneously myths were created to reconcile
the reality to ideological promise by offering imaginary solutions to real contra-
dictions. Like much of ideology, myth does not merely deny truths or reality
but rather uses language and signs to distort them: ‘Simplement, il les purifie, les
innocente, les fonde en nature et en éternité, il leur donne une clarté qui n’est pas
celle de l’explication, mais celle du constat.’31 Its motivation is ideological in that
it naturalizes history or historical concepts, and signifier and signified are given
the appearance of having a natural relationship. Nonetheless, in Franco’s Spain it
was implied that where consent could not be manufactured, it would be imposed.
By assimilating some members of the subjugated masses into the dominant
group, the latter not only can give the appearance of being representative, but
can also deprive the opposition of potential leaders. At various stages certain
Monarchists, aperturistas and Falangists were given government or administra-
tive positions in an effort to appease those groups in society, who, having some
degree of representation, were thus less likely to challenge the leadership. Those
upholding the ruling ideology were concerned with conditioning people to
believe and accept its values but were also willing to use sanctions to suppress
any opposition to them. Yet the ruling elite did not simply dupe people into
believing what was false by mystification; it also expended much energy in its
attempts to justify and legitimate the social order. One of the attractions of the
Francoist ideology was the appearance of a cohesive, unified and stable society.
Many people accepted the myth that they were represented as a nation by the
regime. Franco treated Spain as a nation-state, making appeals to the people in
the name of the Nuevo Estado; he called on those loyal to the nation, that is
Spain, to demonstrate this loyalty by fealty to the regime. The regime also justi-
fied its actions in the name of the common good, a term cleverly appropriated
by the regime to protect its interests. Furthermore, the regime was described as
an organic democracy, a term that implies representation, although in reality it
meant nothing of the sort.
The myth of representation was secured with events such as the vote on the Ley
Orgánica del Estado in 1966. The huge vote in support of the law was interpreted
31 Roland Barthes, Mythologies (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1957), p. 230. Put simply, it
purifies them, it makes them innocent and bases them in nature or eternity, it gives them a
clarity that is not that of an explanation, but rather of a certified fact.
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20 CATHERINE O’LEARY
32 Preston reports turnouts of over 100 percent of the electorate in some areas, an occurrence
in Un soñador para el pueblo. In the play, the apparently popular revolt against Esquilache
is revealed to have been orchestrated by members of the ruling elite whose privilege was
threatened by the former’s proposals for reform.
35 Göran Therborn, The Ideology of Power and the Power of Ideology (London: Verso and
until the year 2014. However, other letters of protest, some of which refer to the treatment
of miners, as well as issues of freedom of expression, are available for consultation. AGA/IDD
104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 653. Orden Público.
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‘las cosas se pusieron más kafkianas’.37 The so-called apertura of Fraga’s day
seemed no more than an attempt to adjust the system in preparation for the con-
tinuation of Francoist ideology in the future.
Nationalism was another important feature in the myth of representation. The
nascent regime quickly set about nationalizing institutions in Spain, including
education and the press, and instilling the values of the regime in the practices
and rituals of these institutions. This allowed the rulers to claim that their
ideology reflected not merely the narrow views of the ruling elite, but also the
institutions of society, and therefore society itself. The introduction to the 1966
Ley de Prensa e Imprenta reiterated this assurance that the government was
reflecting the feelings and thinking of the people: ‘Al emprender decididamente
esta tarea, el Gobierno ha cumplido escrupulosamente su papel de fiel intérprete
del sentir y del pensar del país.’38
One of the regime’s achievements, then, was that it recognized the need to
manufacture consent. Its success in doing so depended to some extent on the
provision of material benefits for its supporters. The regime rationalized its
ideology, offering reasons for certain values contained therein. For example,
anti-Communism was presented as a positive value in opposition to those who
would seek to threaten the mythical peace, order and stability of the regime. It
helped that an anti-Communist ideology coincided with the self-interest of many
landowners and industrialists who welcomed this rationalization by the regime.
Similarly, the punishment of Republicans was justified by the regime for the
sake of society, peace and order. In reality, it also materially benefited many
Nationalists, as those who had fought for the peace and order of the nation could
hope to be treated more favourably than the Republicans. Of course, another
reason why ruling ideologies are successful is simply because they are defended
by the most powerful people in society in whose material interests it is to seek
to reproduce the social order. There were unquestionably some in the Franco
regime who were guilty of what Peter Sloterdijk termed ‘enlightened false
consciousness’.39 Certain members of the regime and of society, who did not
necessarily believe in the truth of the ideology, cynically chose to align them-
selves with it for personal gain.
Another reason that ideology is successful is, as John Breuilly highlights, that
it provides answers, albeit ones that falsify or distort reality to some degree.40 As
a result it may be perceived as legitimate and rational. It has also been suggested,
by Nietzsche among others, that people do not desire the truth of their reality and
invention of Nationalists for political purposes. It arises out of the need to make sense of
complex social and political arrangements.’ John Breuilly, ‘The Sources of Nationalist
Ideology’, in Nationalism, pp. 103–13 (p. 110).
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22 CATHERINE O’LEARY
it did not reflect the reality. This concern for image even extended to his own appearance.
In his autobiography he wrote: ‘El lunes fui al sastre; me encargué tres trajes severos y
ministeriales.’ Memoria breve de una vida política (Barcelona: Planeta, 1980), p. 32.
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This is not to say, however, that popular consent was always freely forthcoming.
The regime could not convert the enemies of its ideology to consent or apathy;
instead it portrayed them as enemies of the people and sought to eliminate them
from the discourse. The omnipresence of repressive state apparatuses led to a
certain sense of fear in society and discouraged many people from challenging
the dominant ideology. Similarly, the indoctrination of the populace through the
ideological state apparatuses, which taught not only one’s place in the social order
but also the dangers inherent in any attempt to change it, led to widespread apathy.
The regime would at times acknowledge repression or state intervention in the
private lives of citizens, but either blamed an outside group or claimed that it was
a necessary short-term measure in the interests of national security and for the
benefit of the population. This can be seen in the wording of the Ministerial Order
of 15 July 1939:
It can be seen again in 1969, when the government, in order to guarantee peace and
in answer to a call from the people, declared a state of emergency (Appendix II).
24 CATHERINE O’LEARY
which in turn lends both universality and legitimacy to the ruling ideology. She
also stresses the use of myth in the creation of a national identity.46 In his 1882
article ‘Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?’, Ernest Renan wrote: ‘To have common glories
in the past, a common will in the present; to have accomplished great things
together, to wish to do so again, that is the essential condition for being a nation.’47
In Francoist Spain, the people were divided, so myth was employed to create
the illusion of fulfilling the conditions of nationhood. The regime’s propagandists
sought to convince the populace that they belonged to a noble Spanish nation,
which had been betrayed by the liberals and Republicans. By portraying the
regime as upholders and defenders of this essential Spain and connecting the
myth of nationalism to the myth of representation, the regime was able to draw
on people’s desire for identity and belonging. It also enabled the regime to portray
the opposition as a threat to this identity and nature. Underlying this, of course,
was the threat that those who disagreed with, or challenged, the dominant group
would also be dismissed as anti-Spanish. In myth the Nationalist victory was
inevitable, essential and the restoration of a natural order disturbed by the Second
Republic. Myth, like ideology, of which it is a part, may contain some truth, but
it is exaggerated or distorted, and this exaggeration is given the appearance of fact
or nature.
As John Breuilly contends, the plausibility of nationalist ideology arises from
the fact that at its core is an authentic intellectual response to the problematic one
of state–society relations. He goes on to explain its success:
In Spain, the established natural unity of the people and progression under
Franco was perceived to be undermined by the unnatural developments of the
Republicans, the Communists and others who did not fit in with the Francoist
definition of the natural state of Spain and the Spaniards.49 Unity, under Franco,
was enforced. All linguistic expression, religious practice and territorial claims that
threatened the unity of the Nationalist–Catholic state were outlawed. As early as
May 1937, the Ministerio de Interior issued an order in which article 1 prohibited
the use of languages other than Castilian in all dealings with the ministry.
Government was centralized and autocratic, and normal trade unions were replaced
He thus managed to use the positive concept of unity to defend religious intoler-
ance, centralism, dictatorship and elitism.
Myth stresses areas of common interest and creates or emphasizes common
enemies. The appeal to myth can be seen even in the wording of the 1938 Ley de
Prensa, which aspired to ‘devolver a España su rango de Nación unida, grande
y libre, de los daños que una libertad entendida al estilo democrático había
ocasionado a una masa de lectores diariamente envenenada por una Prensa
sectaria y antinacional’.51 This not only presupposes that Spain was once such a
united and free nation, but also that it was not one under democratic rule and that
the democratic press was both sectarian and disloyal to the nation. The law went
on to claim that the new press under the guidance of the new regime would
be based on truth and responsibility, again assuming that this nobility of purpose
was not present in the earlier press. It further states that the press was to be
returned its dignity and its prestige, an idea that not only was in keeping with the
mythology of the new regime, but also managed to damn the old. The New State,
it was claimed, would redeem the press and, by implication, the country, from
the contradictory ‘servidumbre capitalista de las clientelas reaccionarias o
marxistas’. Paradoxically, the freedom of the press was to be guaranteed by the
suppression of democracy, or democratic libertarianism, as it was termed in the
legislation. The latter, it was claimed, not only went against the Patria, but also
promoted lies and defamation in an attempt by unspecified ‘poderes ocultos’ to
destroy Spain. In short, then, the 1938 Ley de Prensa claims Spain, truth and
righteousness for the Nationalists while dismissing the other as anti-Spanish
and finally, and entirely without irony, it advocates censorship in the name of
freedom of the press.
Most ideologists have recognized the necessity of revising or falsifying
history in order to prove or support an official version of events. Ernest Gellner
asserted in his article ‘Nationalism and High Cultures’ that nationalism ‘is not
the awakening of an old, latent, dormant force, though that is how it does indeed
present itself’.52 He continued: ‘Nationalism uses the pre-existing, historically
inherited proliferation of cultures or cultural wealth, though it uses them very
26 CATHERINE O’LEARY
selectively, and it most often transforms them radically.’ Hobsbawm echoed this
and described it as the invention of tradition, which:
by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, Canto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1992), pp. 1–14 (p. 1).
54 Tuñón de Lara, ‘Historia’, pp. 23, 30.
55 Art. 14.3, Orden 9 febrero 1963 (MIT), por la que se aprueban las «Normas de censura
However, unlike the writers of that generation, the Falange was optimistic and saw
the nation’s salvation in a purging of such decadence and a return to the essential
nature of Spain. It was prepared to lead the way. In 1953, the Ministro de
Información y Turismo, Gabriel Arias Salgado, declared: ‘La sociedad española
está convaleciente aún, después de sufrir durante más de cien años experimentos
extraños a su ser nacional.’57 Myth was employed to gloss over the years of racial
dilution to discover direct links to an earlier, though equally disputable, pure
Spanish race. The myth of nationalism, which was an important part of Falangism
later incorporated into Francoism, allowed the rulers to contend that the Spain
they claimed to represent was unified in its culture, its homeland and its essential
values. All this, despite being a state established in the aftermath of a bloody and
bitter fratricidal conflict and a state that institutionalized the divisions between the
victors and the vanquished for many years.
The idea of a pure Spanish raza was constantly stressed. This pure raza, with its
links to the Reyes Católicos, was portrayed as having suffered under the liberals
and weak monarchs in the nineteenth century, culminating in the loss of its colonies
in 1898 and, finally, humiliation at the hands of the modern Republican infidels. It
would, however, under the leadership of Franco, be restored to its destiny as a glori-
ous, noble and respected people. Yet the raza was not to be trusted with political
choices or democracy, but rather encouraged to believe that social change could
only come about through faith in the leadership. The paternalistic Franco regime
took it upon itself to define and legislate for the truth and ensured that its determin-
ation of contentment and well-being would take precedence over autonomy. It also
chose to assume that individual members of the raza did not understand what was
good for them, or that even if they did they did not understand how best to achieve
it. It was inferred that they required the help of the state to discover their best inter-
ests and to avoid irrational actions; thus, the ruling body justified the restrictions
it imposed on freedom and self-determination. Preston mentions Franco’s explan-
ation of his determination not to introduce democracy in Spain, which was that
because of the peculiarity of the Spanish temperament, it would inevitably lead to
violence.58 He, on the other hand, would protect them from themselves.
Festivals and rituals, which stressed the purity, Catholicism and noble simplicity
of the Spanish race, were encouraged under Franco. Labanyi argues that the cult of
folklore in Spain under Franco served as a form of social control, as it encouraged
faith in a myth and discouraged change and modernity. Even football played an
important role in the reinforcement of the nationalist myth, particularly with the
success of Real Madrid in the 1950s. The successes of the team became a source
of national pride and, in the minds of nationalists at least, an expression of
Spanish superiority. The reality of the situation, which was a team containing many
non-nationals, was not allowed to interfere with the myth of Spanish supremacy.
Textos de doctrina, p. 3.
58 Preston, Franco, pp. 519–20. This attitude of ‘todo para el pueblo, pero sin el pueblo’
28 CATHERINE O’LEARY
The use of myth also extended to literature and culture. The Franco regime encour-
aged escapist plays, films and literature that reflected Spain’s glorious imperial past
or that showed the contentment that came with the obedient acceptance of the new
social order. This had the twofold purpose of distracting people from their present
hardship and reinforcing the myth of a noble race set to recapture the glory of the
past by obeying present-day leaders. Romantic fiction and Hollywood fantasies
were also deemed acceptable, while more avant-garde and controversial authors
were censored.
The figure of the valiant and noble leader formed a meaningful part of the raza
myth. Preston gives some examples of Franco’s notions of grandeur and his
identification with the monarchs and heroic leaders of Spain’s glorious past: the
Royal March was played as his wife entered state functions; he nominated bishops
and named his own royal successor; he moved into the palace of El Pardo. Preston
also recounts an episode that again demonstrates a desire to highlight or invent
the noble origins of the natural leader. Before Franco’s family home in Ferrol was
opened as a museum, the dictator’s wife furnished it with antiques, thus revising
upwards her husband’s humble social origins.59 Franco was very interested in his
own image and sought to cultivate his own personal myth. To do this, he recon-
structed his own history, eliminating any embarrassing or unworthy incidents and
presenting himself as a selfless, reluctant hero upon whom power had been thrust
and who only obeyed the call of duty in his struggle for the greater good and
the dignity of the Patria. He claimed that he was not interested in power and that
he was motivated by patriotism alone. Therefore, he argued, the people should be
willing to support him in his patriotic efforts, as he was serving them and their
interests. At the time of the 1966 referendum he declared:
Nunca me movió la ambición de mando. Desde muy joven echaron sobre mis
hombros responsabilidades superiores a mi edad y a mi empleo. Hubiera deseado
disfrutar de la vida como tantos españoles: pero el servicio de la Patria embargó
mis horas y ocupó mi vida, llevo treinta años gobernando la nave del Estado,
librando a la Nación de los temporales del mundo actual: pero, pese a todos, aquí
permanezco, al pie del cañón, con el mismo espíritu de servicio de mis años
mozos, empleando lo que me quede de vida útil en vuestro servicio. ¿Es mucho
exigir el que yo os pida, a mi vez, vuestro respaldo a mis leyes que en vuestro
exclusivo beneficio y en el de la Nación van a someterse a referéndum? 60
Franco also insisted that Spain was not governed by a dictatorship, but rather
by a much maligned and misunderstood progressive regime.61 His personal myth
extended beyond himself to his family, which was portrayed as the model
por haber vivido más de prisa, se encuentre más evolucionado y actual que los que en otras
partes todavía se llevan, no autoriza a esas campañas de descrédito que se organizan contra
nosotros.’ Quoted in Vázquez Montalbán, Los demonios, pp. 68–9.
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Spanish family. Franco’s preoccupation with the cultivation of his personal myth
is evident from the semi-autobiographical screenplay for the film, Raza, written
by him under the pseudonym, Jaime de Andrade. It is an epic tale of a Galician
family from the time of the collapse of Spain’s empire in 1898 to the Civil War.
In fact, Raza can be read as a guide to Francoist ideology. It presents the values
he sought to propagate and the alternative ideology he despised. The film was,
as the name suggests, a return to origins and an attempt to define the true Spanish
race, while also making very clear that those responsible for the fiasco of 1898
could not be classed as part of this raza of proud, unified, noble and obedient
people. Similarly, Republicans and democrats were portrayed as obstacles on the
path to the national destiny of Spain. John Hopewell asserts that the hero of the
film is Franco’s fictional alter-ego. In accordance with his own idea of a natural
leader of the Spanish people, Franco gave the film’s hero, José Churraca, the
status of minor nobility. In the film the Nationalists fight the Civil War for the
salvation of Spain, not for political power, and the support they received from
the Roman Catholic Church is stressed. The film typified the regime’s mythical
take on Spanish history. Hopewell explains:
Raza opens with scenes from Spain’s imperial conquest of and commerce with
the Indies; and ends with a victory parade followed by a vignette of galleons
firing at sea. Success in war, the film’s syntax implies, is part of a longer and
glorious historical tradition.62
In her assessment of the film, Higgenbotham notes that the Republicans are
described as ‘puppets of Freemasonry’.63 Other films, such as Franco, ese hombre,
by José María Sánchez Silva, were also made to glorify the man and his regime,
but Franco preferred Raza. He rewrote history on many occasions, most obviously,
perhaps, with Raza, but also through his official biographer, Joaquín Arrarás and
in his diaries and speeches.
62 John Hopewell, Out of the Past: Spanish Cinema after Franco (London: British Film
1988), p. 19. The film was advertised as ‘cine patriótico’ and was dedicated to ‘las juventudes
de España . . . Que así es España y así es la raza’.
64 Arias Salgado, Textos de doctrina, p. 35.
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30 CATHERINE O’LEARY
65 Juan Beneyto Pérez, ‘La censura literaria en los primeros años del franquismo. Las
in 1973: ‘Las limitaciones del artículo segundo de la Ley de Prensa no constituyen elementos
restrictivos del derecho a la libertad de expresión. [. . .] Tales limitaciones – dice el Ministro
de Información – se orientan a tutelar unos bienes integrantes del bien común.’ AGA/IDD
104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 587 MIT/01.020 Notas informativas sobre la Ley de Prensa.
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32 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Cartas de intelectuales colectivas, no. 12. The letter also criticizes the ambiguity of Article 2
of the new law, and comments: ‘Como dijo el procurador Sr Sánchez Agesta: “que no se quede
a merced del humor con que alguien se levante por la mañana”.’
72 Notas informativas sobre la Ley de Prensa.
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Censorship legislation specifically for the theatre was not introduced until
1964, and even then it simply called for the adaptation and implementation of
the existing rules for film censorship. An examination of this legislation demon-
strates how closely linked were Francoist and Catholic ideologies. In the name of
the common good, all justifications of suicide, mercy killings, revenge, duelling,
divorce, adultery, illicit sexual relations and prostitution were prohibited. Article
8 also declared that any attack on the family or marriage, institutions dear both
to Franco and to the Roman Catholic Church, was prohibited. The moral conse-
quences of evil were to be portrayed, and where the film or play was directed at
an audience of minors, the legislation stipulated that the wrongdoer must either
be punished or be repentant at the end. Brutality, sexual perversions, blasphemy,
pornography, subversion and attractive portrayals of alcoholism were taboo;
any language that might offend against good taste, and any images or suggestive
allusions that might provoke base passions, were prohibited, as were any detailed
accounts of offences that could be used as guides to committing them. As
O’Connor pointed out, Article 17 might serve as a summary of the spirit of the
law. It prohibited anything that attacked:
34 CATHERINE O’LEARY
The Spanish regime claimed for itself the role of holder of the truth and
defender of the common good, which, in true dictatorial style, it identified with
its own personal good. Arias Salgado justified state censorship of the media by
claiming that:
Para el mal, para lo que pueda dañar la salud espiritual, moral, política o
material de los individuos, de las familias y de la comunidad, no puede ni debe
permitirse que sean utilizados los medios de difusión, y mucho menos medios
de tan largo alcance como la Prensa, que, una vez en la calle, no reconoce
límites de edades, ni fronteras de preparación, ni distingue entre niveles
culturales y religiosos.75
Only the state, it would appear, could do this. The people could not be trusted
to judge for themselves what was good or bad, right or wrong. The moral judgement
of officials such as Arias Salgado was the only acceptable one. Nevertheless, the
people and the media were free to express the correct public opinion, in line with
the teaching of the regime and the Roman Catholic Church. José María García
Escudero, a high-ranking censor in Spain during the 1950s and 1960s, stated in
1951: ‘Entre los derechos del Estado, Gran Gerente de la empresa social, no está
taparle la boca a la Sociedad.’76 He argued in favour of censorship, however, and
claimed that if the state abandoned its role as opinion leader, other forces would
step in to fill the gap and they would deform opinion to suit their own purposes.
Therefore, the state that sought to influence the opinions of the people was in fact
protecting them from a greater danger. He claimed that censorship, correctly
applied, did not interfere with the liberty of citizens, and believed that, ‘censura es
quitar el peligro’.77 The real problem, of course, is that such a regime seeks to be
not merely opinion leader, but the sole opinion former, and it will quash any public
opinion it disagrees with. In defence of government censorship in general, García
Escudero argued that official censorship often reflected social censorship and that
both forms should work in tandem, each keeping the other in check:
Debe el Estado, más que crear los dogmas, recoger los creados por la sociedad.
No es que no se discutan porque el Estado los prohiba; el Estado los prohibe
porque no se discuten o, al menos no se deben discutir en una sociedad que no
esté devorada por un morboso afán de suicidio [my italics].78
Social censorship should, in theory, make official censorship redundant. Yet what
is classed here as social censorship seems to include all that the regime would
like society to censor. He also argued in favour of prior censorship, claiming that
if breaches of the regime’s code or dogma were frequent, then it would be too
José María García Escudero, ‘Censura y libertad’, Arbor, 23 (no. 83, 1952), 177–97
76
(p. 178).
77 García Escudero, ‘Censura y libertad’, p. 189.
78 García Escudero, ‘Censura y libertad’, p. 179.
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late to impose sanctions retrospectively, as the damage would already have been
done. However, he failed to question the validity of a system that invited such
a high number of transgressions.
Buero recognized the use of the common good argument to defend the ruling
ideology, where censorship:
se justifica invocando el bien general y la necesidad de defender la ley, el orden
y la moralidad pública o privada, pero defiende, de hecho, intereses o privilegios
de los clases dominantes y las estructuras sociales, políticas e ideológicas por
ellos mantenidas.79
Arias Salgado rejected the charge that censorship was interference with a person’s
individual rights and personal liberties. Censorship, he claimed, simply protected
information and avoided the propagation of lies. Rejecting Rousseau’s ‘authority
from the people’, the regime chose to support the Pauline theory of ‘authority from
God’, through the people or, in their version, exercised by a very select minority
of people who had no intention of yielding it to anybody else. Thus answerable
to God alone, it could do as it pleased. The civil liberties of the people were ultim-
ately subject to God’s authority and if at any stage it became necessary for these
liberties to be suspended for the common good, this was done by the regime with
the blessing of the Church. In a speech delivered at the first Consejo Nacional de
Prensa in Alicante in 1953, Arias Salgado defined the common good as:
un bien material y moral a la vez, y principalmente moral . . . Siendo el bien
común una comunidad de personas, familias y profesiones, no un todo sustan-
cial como un organismo viviente, debe respetar los derechos fundamentales que
la ley natural confiere a la persona humana singular y a la sociedad familiar. El
individuo, como parte de la nación, está ordenado al bien común de la sociedad.
Pero como persona, como portador de valores eternos, el hombre está ordenado
a la inmortalidad, al mismo Dios, y bajo este aspecto la sociedad es un medio
para él.80
In this scheme of things, he who offends against the common good offends
against God. The censor simply wishes to protect weak members of society from
the negative influence of others; censorship thus viewed becomes a positive
action for the common good.
In an article about theatre censorship in Spain, Nicolás González Ruiz, literary
critic for Ya, referred to the work of the censors as the ‘gran tarea de dignificación
del teatro’.81 He maintained that the object of censorship was to create, not to
destroy, and went on to congratulate the censors for raising the standards of the
productions in Spanish theatres. González Ruiz saw the censor’s job as twofold: to
guard against bad literature with a worthy message, as the message might be
36 CATHERINE O’LEARY
despised for its association with work of poor quality, and to root out and destroy
well-written literature that is amoral or morally corrupt. A censor must always seek
to identify the moral lesson in a piece and judge it by this. As Manuel Abellán
pointed out: ‘Las convicciones morales, conceptos de catolicidad y tradición se
convirtieron en criterios estéticos.’82 Once again, the censor is viewed as doing a
service for the benefit of other people, whom the state has deemed unable to reach
their own conclusions about the suitability or otherwise of a drama.
The censor, often a writer or a journalist himself, was often not a particularly
powerful person in the administrative system. In an early article, which personi-
fied censorship in the form of the scrupulous and respectable Don Homobono,
Buero attacked the petty-minded censor. The character appeared again in Buero’s
post-Franco, anti-censorship play, La detonación (1977). However, unlike the
low-level censors, those who controlled the ministries in charge of propaganda
and censorship were very powerful indeed. The changes in the censorship per-
sonnel at the highest levels reflect the adjustments made to the ideology of the
regime in its efforts to ensure the stability and reproduction of the social order.
The Falangist Ramón Serrano Suñer acted as Ministro del Interior from
1938 and controlled censorship until 1941, when he was removed from that office
because Franco feared his rising power and popularity. After a very brief period
under the direction of Colonel Valentín Galarza Morante, control of censorship was
returned to Serrano Suñer, by then at the Vicesecretaria de Educación Popular. The
fact that he was the public face of Spain’s pro-Axis stance meant that when Franco
eventually switched allegiances, Serrano Suñer again lost his position, this time to
the more liberal Joaquín Ruíz Giménez. With the creation of the MIT in July 1951,
control of censorship was taken from Ruiz Giménez, who was not popular with the
conservative forces in Franco’s government, and handed to the more conservative
Gabriel Arias Salgado. The latter had trained as a Jesuit for fourteen years and was
greatly influenced by the Church’s teaching. He was nicknamed El arcángel San
Gabriel in reference to his stated belief that he was saving Spanish souls. He was
also fanatically anti-Communist and loath to discard Civil War rhetoric. Thus he
not only reflected Franco’s own prejudices and ideology, but he was also a fervent
Catholic at a time when the regime was seeking Vatican support for its ideology.
Arias Salgado, like Fraga after him, justified the nationalization of the Spanish
Press.83 He claimed that Spain had long been misunderstood and misrepresented
siglo’, Revista canadiense de estudios hispánicos, 13 (no. 3, 1989), 319–29 (p. 323).
83 ‘Es sencillamente, que la información es un patrimonio nacional, parte del bien común, y
este bien común nacional sólo puede ser administrado y asufructuado [sic(?)] por y en beneficio
de los españoles. Es, sencillamente, que el mercado de la noticia y del adjetivo es uno de los
grandes instrumentos de dominio que manejan los imperialismos extranjeros, las sociedades
secretas y, sobre todo, el comunismo internacional,’ Arias Salgado, Textos de doctrina, p. 122.
Mono213_Ch01.qxd 3/8/05 9:13 AM Page 37
by the foreign media, and he declared that it was the duty of the Spanish press
to put this right by promulgating the official truth. Fraga, in his memoirs, seems
not to have been much impressed by his predecessor, whom he describes as ‘un
hombre de bien, pero limitado; creía de verdad en su concepto muy rigorista de
la moral pública. Más grave era su idea del monopolio cuasi teológico de la
verdad política.’84 Arias Salgado lost his position in the aftermath of the Munich
Congress when his handling of the situation led to a negative international reac-
tion and the anger of the Monarchists.
Manuel Fraga Iribarne took over at the MIT after the reshuffle in July 1962.
Compared to the ultra-conservative Arias Salgado, Fraga offered a more dynamic
and progressive image. His arrival heralded the beginning of the liberalization,
and a popular expression of the day was: ‘¡Con Salgado, todo tapado; con Fraga,
hasta la braga!’85 Through García Escudero, who had earlier controlled censor-
ship of the theatre and cinema, Fraga maintained contact with the intellectuals of
the opposition to whom he promised reform. Yet his perceived liberalizing stance
led to problems with the so-called inmovilistas of the Old Guard in Franco’s
government, particularly in relation to the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta.
Fraga lost his ministerial portfolio in 1969 in the aftermath of the Matesa
scandal, and Alfredo Sánchez Bella took over at the helm of the MIT. The
promotion of Sánchez Bella, a conservative who had served as Franco’s ambas-
sador to Rome from where he had criticized Fraga’s limited apertura, heralded
a swing back to the right. Despite his strong Catholicism, he intervened to
prevent the diffusion of the declaration of the Justitia et Pax Commission, which
was critical of the regime. He also concerned himself with the threat posed to his
control of information by the video cassette and introduced legislation to control
the production and circulation of any such audio-visual material that might come
on to the Spanish market and threaten the regime’s monopoly on information.
Fraga does not seem to have held a very high opinion of his successor and in his
memoirs portrays him as a barometer of trouble.86
According to Gubern, Sánchez Bella’s actions were so regressive that his
dismissal in June 1973 was progress in itself.87 Fernando de Liñán took over the
MIT for a brief period in 1973 after the failure of Carrero Blanco’s gabinete de
monocolor. Then, Pío Cabanillas was appointed as Minister by Arias Navarro in
early 1974. There was evidence of genuine, although limited, apertura under his
de dudas y sospechas; presenta fantasías por informaciones; no le gusta la reforma’; (30 Sept.
1966): ‘Llega Sánchez Bella de Roma, al olor del posible lío’ (a reference to the Ley
Orgánica) and later (6 Oct. 1966): ‘Almuerzo con Sánchez Bella, que anda a la caza de
noticias y oportunidades’; (25 Oct. 1969): ‘Tengo una información segura que Sánchez Bella
estará en Madrid el lunes 27. Parece la primera noticia concreta de la crisis.’ Fraga Iribarne,
Memoria breve, pp. 52, 181, 254.
87 Gubern, La censura, p. 249.
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38 CATHERINE O’LEARY
ministership. The press began to report strikes and give the opinions of opposition
leaders. This made him unpopular with the more hard-line members of cabinet, and
they successfully conspired to have him removed from power. Ironically, a liber-
alization of the legislation dealing with cinema censorship was introduced by his
successor, Leon Herrera, in March 1975. Although some nudity was tolerated, it
was a reactive, rather than a proactive, move; in effect, ‘la orden del gobierno pone
tan solo el sello oficial en una situación de hecho’.88
Censorship of the theatre was controlled by various ministries throughout the
Franco regime. The regime sought to legitimate and normalize theatre censor-
ship by legislating for it and thus making it a naturalized part of staging a play.
Moreover, drama was subject to two forms of censorship, although there was
correspondence between the relevant departments; a play had to be censored
both as a stage production and as a book for publication. The files held in the
Archivo General de la Administración in Alcalá de Henares reveal the changes
that occurred in the laws and bodies governing theatre censorship in Spain from
the immediate post-Civil War period to the post-Franco period.
From 1939 to 1941, theatre censorship was regulated by the Ministerio de
la Gobernación, where it formed part of the portfolio of the Subsecretaría
de Prensa, Propaganda y Turismo. Within this body was the Departamento de
Teatro y Música, governed by the Sección de Censura de Representaciones. The
legislation governing theatre censorship had been set out in the Orden de 15
de julio de 1939 (Mº. Gobernación). Article 1 established a censorship section
reporting to the Servicio Nacional de Propaganda, and Article 2 outlined the
functions of the body, which included censorship of publications, theatre and
cinema. A reshuffle saw control of censorship moved to the Vicesecretaría de
Educación Popular de FET y de las JONS, where it remained from 1941 until
1945. Theatre censorship remained the concern of the MIT from its inception
in 1951 until 1977. However, this did not provide any corresponding stability in
the censorship process, as many changes were implemented within the MIT that
directly affected theatre censorship.
The Orden 30 noviembre 1954 (MIT) created a classification system to protect
minors by prohibiting their attendance at any performance judged unsuitable.
The following year, the Orden 16 febrero set out the proceedings for the author-
ization of revues and variety performances. One of the greatest changes was
ushered in by Minister Fraga in February 1963, when he introduced legislation
establishing the Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales under the control of the
Director General de Cinematografía y Teatro. Article 3 of the new law detailed
the structure of the committee; article 4 stated that the committee must consist
of nine members to be named by the Minister, one of whom would be proposed
by the SGAE. Each member, according to article 5, could serve for up to three
years with the possibility of revocation or extension of this term at the discretion
of the Minister; article 11 stipulated who was to view the dress rehearsal before
89 Orden 6 febrero 1964 (MIT), por la que se aprueba el Reglamento de Régimen Interior
de la Junta de Censura de Obras Teatrales y las Normas de Censura, BOE, no. 48 (25 February
1964), pp. 2504–6 (p. 2506).
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40 CATHERINE O’LEARY
employed in the legislation remained undefined, and thus their interpretation was
at the discretion of the censors. Another problem for the theatre companies was
the very nature of theatre censorship: the censor had to be given prior notifica-
tion of the dates and location of the run, along with details of the cast and theatre
in which the work was to be staged. To have all of this information, a production
had to be well under way. This entailed a very great risk for the producer who
had to invest a substantial amount of time and money in the play before seeking
authorization, and who stood to lose his investment if the work was prohibited.
This led to risk management on the part of some producers, who tended to
choose a safe option and avoid plays that could not be guaranteed a trouble-free
run and authors with a history of censorship troubles.
The process of submitting a work to the censor’s office and its subsequent
review by the censors was quite complicated, requiring an abundance of docu-
mentation and patience. The period 1939 to 1977 can be subdivided into three
distinct phases as far as the censorship documentation is concerned. From 1939
to 1964, the procedure to be followed was based on the stipulations of the Orden
15 julio 1939. Initially, a formal application had to be made to the censorship
office by the director of the company wishing to stage the play, requesting
permission to do so. The applicant gave details of the play, and the verdict of the
administration was added once the censor had passed judgement. This form was
altered in 1944 to allow for touring details.
The applicant also had to supply a number of typed copies of the work subject
to review, and, if the work was a revue or variety performance, the designs for
the sets and costumes had to be submitted for scrutiny. The censor’s report was
the document on which the final decision was based. This document gave a brief
plot outline and evaluated the literary, political, religious and theatrical merits of
the play (Appendix III). Recommendations for cuts and modifications were made,
and the censor decided whether audience age restrictions should be imposed or
not. Any correspondence entered into within the ministry or with the author or
theatre company was also analysed before the verdict was given. Finally, a copy
of the guía de censura was sent back to the applicant. On it was the verdict and
any specific conditions for performance of the work. The applicant was obliged
to show this document to the local authorities as proof that the censorship
procedure had been adhered to.
The Establishment of the Junta de Censura Teatral led to changes in the
procedure and the documentation required. Previously, the authorization or
prohibition of a play had been based on the verdict of just one censor, or two in
cases where it was judged wise to have a second opinion. Now the proceedings
involved the Censorship Committee. As before, the entire process was initiated by
the formal application by the theatre company for permission to stage a work. At
least three copies of the play had to be submitted to the censor. The committee’s
final verdict was delivered in a document drawn up after analysis of the censors’
individual reports. Any cuts or recommendations by the censors were also
recorded. On occasion, a report would be drawn up by the security forces regard-
ing the political aspirations and intentions of the work or of its author. As before,
Mono213_Ch01.qxd 3/8/05 9:13 AM Page 41
any official correspondence regarding the work was viewed before the final
decision was made. The guía de censura often specified that final judgement was
reserved until the dress rehearsal and any specific conditions and cuts were listed
on the back of the document. There is no record of any formal procedure in the
third phase from 1974 to 1977. At this stage, the only documentation in evidence
in the censorship files is the text subject to censorship.
The procedure for publication of a play was slightly different from that for
application to stage it. Control of press and publications changed from the
Ministerio de Interior in 1938 to the Vicesecretaria de Educación Popular in 1941.
In 1945, it moved to the Ministerio de Educación. Under the Vicesecretaria de
Educación Popular, the Delegación Nacional de Propaganda had the authority to
publish or ban a work. An application form containing detailed information about
the book and publisher had to be sent to the censor along with two copies of
the text. If permission to publish was granted, application had to be made for
permission to distribute the text. The local delegates also monitored the number
of publications by any editorial company to ensure that they were not engaged in
black-market paper dealing. Later, censorship of publications came under the
control of the Ministerio de Educación Nacional, where it remained until 1951.
The Sección de Inspección de Libros, under the Subsecretaria de Educación
Popular, was in charge of the censorship of books. While still under the same min-
istry and subsecretariat in 1951, it was now the Dirección General de Propaganda
that reported to them. The Sección de Inspección de Libros became Censura de
Libros. The application now had to include the proposed retail price of the book
and the number of volumes to be published. It was also to be made clear if the
target reader was female or a minor. In 1951, with the creation of the MIT, cen-
sorship moved to the new ministry. By 1967, the Sección de Inspección de Libros
had been reborn as the Servicio de Orientación Bibliográfica, still reporting to the
Dirección General de Información of the MIT. By this stage, the 1966 Ley de
Prensa e Imprenta was in force and the consultations with the censor’s office were
officially voluntary.
90 Juan Goytisolo, ‘La literatura perseguida por la política’, in El furgón, pp. 37–44 (p. 41).
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42 CATHERINE O’LEARY
a llamarles rebeldes a ellos? Llamémosles enemigos, rojos, antiespañoles o lo que sea, pero,
vamos a llamarles rebeldes si aquí quien se ha rebelado hemos sido nosotros? Nuestra
legitimidad es otra.” ’ Quoted in Heleno Saña, El franquismo sin mitos. Conversaciones con
Serrano Suñer, prologue by Hugh Thomas, Colección 80 (Barcelona: Grijalbo, 1982), p. 101.
Mono213_Ch01.qxd 3/8/05 9:13 AM Page 43
thus with considerable difficulty that the Republicans, denied the language of
rectitude and justice, defended themselves against the regime’s attacks.
It is hardly surprising that a regime so concerned with the language it employed
should also concern itself with controlling the language used by others. The
regime perceived a threat to its hegemony from the press and the arts, as the
censorship legislation clearly demonstrates. The regime recognized the press as a
powerful instrument; it is described in the introduction to the 1938 Ley de Prensa
as: ‘órgano decisivo en la formación de la cultura popular y, sobre todo, en la
creación de la conciencia colectiva’.96 A later piece of legislation, the Orden
30 noviembre 1954 (MIT) Espectáculos Públicos, again stresses the influence that
the theatre and cinema exercise on the ideas and education of the youth and the
resulting need to monitor them carefully.97 The same idea is emphasized in the
introduction to the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta. The regime clearly perceived
a threat in the ability of the arts and the media to influence public opinion, and
therefore sought to harness its influence to serve and to secure the survival of
its own ideology.98 It was logical, therefore, that the Franco regime should have
introduced censorship to impose silence by proscribing the voice of dissent.
Already it was apparent that the Nationalist regime recognized that language,
shrewdly employed, had the power to influence others. Furthermore, when
language is combined with performance, be it that of an orator at a political rally
or on a stage in the theatre, it can captivate people and perhaps move them.
Closeness to the speaker encourages the audience to feel itself a participant.
Perhaps because politicians harness so much of the theatrical in their own activ-
ities, they recognize its power in other spheres and may even overestimate it;
accordingly, they seek to control or to neutralize it. Moreover, they are very wary
of such devices when used by those gifted in the art of exposition. Language and
performance are used as a weapon by both politicians and politicized writers in
a battle for the hearts and minds of the masses. Consequently, it is necessary to
examine this discerned link between theatre and ideology that the regime
resolved to check. Of course, the issue of whether or not this ideological link in
fact posed any real threat to the Nationalist regime is also deserving of scrutiny.
Certainly, politicians were not alone in their perception that the theatre had an
ideological and political role in Spanish society. Drama reflects the society that
44 CATHERINE O’LEARY
produces it and is often used for social and political comment by the playwright.
As a consequence, attempts by governments or other powerful social organizations
to censor the theatre are not new: theatre has suffered censorship throughout the
ages and has been used as a form of protest and propaganda from the earliest days.
Reflecting upon the link between the theatre and ideology, Bentley wrote:
It is not hard to see what interested parties have to fear. If they have a bad
conscience, they have to fear the dies irae when the truth will suddenly out and
the malefactors will be punished. They have to fear the hard outline, which a
play can draw around the truth; they have to fear the power of conviction a play
can carry.99
As the dominant political group is aware, the enactment of a conflict on stage can
both clarify and simplify, just as it can also oversimplify and falsify. José Monleón
maintains that all theatre, even the most existential, is at base political, ‘porque la
atención a estas cuestiones se da dentro de un contexto concreto y, por tanto,
alcanza un determinado valor sociocultural’.100 Jean-Paul Sartre wrote, in ‘Mythe
et réalité du théâtre’, that ‘le but du théâtre est directement de provoquer une lame
de fond réelle dans l’âme de chaque spectateur’.101 This would, in essence, require
the dispelling of the myths, which often deliberately cloud reality. Martin Esslin
too noted the political nature of theatre, commenting that ‘it either reasserts or
undermines the code of conduct of a given society’.102 Theatre, in other words, has
an ideological role, and usually advocates either integration or dissent. Even Mario
Antolín, a Subdirector General de Teatro under Franco, acknowledged that the the-
atre could have a political role, although he was careful to grant himself the right
to distinguish between what was political and what was unlawful.103 According to
Buero, theatre should reflect and comment upon society by examining man’s place
in society and the conflicts of man with himself and with society:
Es una finalidad, en suma, emotiva y reflexiva, orientada a la transformación
positiva de la sociedad. Y todo ello lo es, siempre, a la par que un instrumento
99 Eric Bentley, The Theatre of Commitment (And Other Essays on Drama in Our Society)
Contat and Michel Rybalka (Paris: Gallimard, 1973), pp. 169–94 (p. 178). The goal of theatre
is to provoke directly a real upheaval in the soul of every spectator.
102 Quoted in Hilde F. Cramsie, Teatro y censura en la España franquista: Sastre, Muñiz y
Ruibal, American University Studies Series II, Romance Languages and Literature, 9 (New York:
Peter Lang, 1984), p. 2.
103 ‘El ser humano es un ser político. Y el teatro político tiene su razón de ser. No creo que
el camino del teatro sea la política, pero creo que es uno de los muchos matices que el teatro
puede tener. Ahora bien, creo que habrá que distinguir entre un teatro político y un teatro
libelo, lo mismo que hay que distinguir entre un político de verdad y un político de mentira,
o entre un militar y un mercenario.’ ‘Con Mario Antolín, nuevo Subdirector General de
Teatro’, Yorick, nos 49–50 (1971), 63–5 (p. 65).
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To see why the theatre was perceived as a threat by the new regime, it is
convenient to go back to the period of the Second Republic and briefly to plot
the evolution of a new theatre, closely allied to recent ideological developments.
The two trends that emerge during this period are a nationalist theatre, with its
emphasis on tradition and folklore, which, although populist, was generally
escapist in nature, and a revolutionary theatre, most often linked to the socialists
and communists. The latter group sought to reform, not only the content of
dramas produced but also the structure of the theatre. Much of the new theatre
produced by the reformers, which was class-conscious, socialist and at times
revolutionary, could be interpreted as antagonistic to conservative ideology;
it represented all that Franco would later seek to eliminate. The Unión de
Escritores y Artistas Revolucionarios, formed in the early 1930s, published a
statement in Octubre in 1933 that goes some way to explaining the perceived
menace posed by these revolutionary artists. Obviously inspired by the socialist
ideology, their declaration read: ‘Queremos iniciar un teatro nuevo: el teatro
de los trabajadores, el teatro que exprese en sus múltiples formas todas las
modalidades de la vida, de las clases que luchan por redimirse de la miseria.’104
It was during this period of ideological and political change in Spain that a the-
atre of agitation propaganda emerged. This was a politicized theatre that presented
itself as allied to political and social change, and it was usually associated with a
particular ideology. The attraction of such theatre for the propagandist of a new
ideology is manifest: ‘Agitation propaganda, presented theatrically, participated
in raising its audiences’ consciousnesses to a point where social and political
problems took on shape and immediacy.’105
In his book, Teatro de agitación política 1933–1939, Bilbatúa explored the
development of small art-house theatres. Early attempts at change, such as Adriá
Grau’s Teatre Intim and Rivas Cherif’s El Caracol, rejected the stale bourgeois
theatre, but failed to create anything radically different to replace it. Other
dramatists sought to make a more radical departure from the theatre of the day.
From 1928 until 1935, Margarita Xirgu’s theatre company staged social and
political plays in the Teatro Español. At this time, others proposed a theatrical
revolution that would bring an end to the bourgeois domination of the stalls
and give the theatre to the proletariat. On 26 February 1931, shortly before the
declaration of the Republic, Rafael Alberti caused controversy with his play El
hombre deshabitado, staged in the Teatro de la Zarzuela in Madrid. The play
criticizes the wilful amnesia and apathy of the Spaniards. However, the author
also took the opportunity afforded by its production to denounce the bourgeois
104 Robert Marrast, ‘El teatro durante la guerra civil española’, Cuadernos el Público,
p. 73.
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46 CATHERINE O’LEARY
theatre and to make political statements. When the audience applauded the play,
Alberti rose and shouted: ‘¡Viva el exterminio! ¡Muera la podredumbre de la
actual escena española!’106 There was a riot after the final show. Other writers,
among them Federico García Lorca and Alejandro Casona, inspired hope for the
future of Spanish drama, but this was dashed by the Civil War, in the case of these
two dramatists by death and exile. Lorca too was outspoken in his criticism of
the bourgeois theatre and the need for progress on the Spanish stage. He believed
in a committed social theatre as a means of influencing people and saw in the
theatre a reflection of society at large. In his Charla sobre teatro, he wrote: ‘El
teatro se debe imponer al público, y no el público al teatro.’107 Other writers,
some of whom suggested means of advancement, criticized the escapist nature
of much of what was on offer. Indeed, Valle-Inclán wryly commented that ‘toda
reforma en el teatro (había de comenzar) por el fusilamiento de los Quintero’.108
Bilbatúa’s book documented the growth of two associated movements within
the theatre in the 1930s. These were teatro para el pueblo and teatro del pueblo.
The former included such groups as Teatro de Misiones Pedagógicas, La Barraca
and El Buho. The Patronato de Misiones Pedagógicas was established in 1931
under Marcelino Domingo at the Ministerio de Instrucción Pública y Bellas Artes,
and Alejandro Casona, winner of the 1934 Premio Lope de Vega, was one of its
most successful dramatists. La Barraca and El Buho, both affiliated to university
theatre groups, were formed under the protection of Fernando de los Ríos at the
Ministerio de Educación and survived from their initiation in 1932 until the end of
the Civil War. The teatro del pueblo movement perhaps came closer to a proletar-
ian theatre than any previous organization; influenced by Erwin Piscator among
others, it staged plays, many of which were political, in factories and in Casas del
Pueblo. Reacting against the prevailing theatrical climate, these dramatists were
not well received outside the ranks of their fellow reformers. Those who attempted
innovation, if they managed to avoid trouble with the censors, were often ignored
or rejected by the public. Obviously, this was what Max Aub was referring to when
he stated: ‘Hay que creer en el pueblo aunque éste no quiera que se crea en él.’109
At this time, as the censorship documents held in the Archivo General de la
Administración reveal, plays were assessed by the Dirección General de
Seguridad for ‘frases o expresiones que supongan alusiones intolerables a
Instituciones oficiales, idearios o personas determinadas’.110 However, the type
106 Rafael Alberti, ‘El autor recuerda el estreno’, in Seis dramaturgos españoles del siglo
XX, 2 vols (Madrid: Edición Primer Acto-Girol Books, 1988), I, pp. 47–50 (p. 48).
107 Federico García Lorca, ‘Textos y palabras de Federico: charla sobre teatro (1935)’, in
infraestructura teatral: repertorio y nuevo público’, Yorick, no. 48 (1971), 67–74 (p. 69).
110 AGA/IDD 36 Topogr. 21-47 Dirección General de Seguridad. Censura de teatro de la
II República. 1931–36. All further references to censorship documents from this period are
from the same section and will be given after quotations in the text.
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of detailed censorship reports, common under Franco, are absent in the files
from this period. What is clear from the documents relating to plays from
the Second Republic, excepting the bienio negro, is that there was a clear
official bias towards left-wing theatre, and a certain anti-clericalism and an
anti-conservative bent. Notwithstanding such partiality, the escapist theatre
of dramatists such as Torrado and Navarro was perfectly acceptable to the
Republican authorities, as were folkloric dramas and zarzuelas, such as Talavera
and Vals’ Alma charra from 1933. Yet the political bias can be seen in the
authorization in January 1933 of Carlota O’Neill’s agitation propaganda play,
Al rojo. This play, despite the censor’s view that it was ‘de lo peor que se ha
escrito’ of proletarian theatre, in which, ‘la mujer se prostituye en la clase baja
por necesidad, y en la clase alta por vicio’, was approved, as it was considered
that government prohibitions could make the situation worse (Ca. 5797). There
had been no such beneficence in evidence one month previously, when Manuel
de Jesús Moreno’s play, De muy buen barro, was prohibited. Criticism of ‘la
escuela laíca’ and the following line from Act II were cited as reasons for the
prohibition: ‘Al pobre cura le van a quitar la paga y tendrá que pedir limosna’
(Ca. 5797 Exp. 6077).
Villapecellin’s R. I. (República inmoral), whose title clearly signals the content,
was also prohibited that year (Ca. 5797 Exp. 6078). In March 1933, Antonio
Paso’s Los mártires de Alcalá, while generally considered apolitical and morally
acceptable, offered some cause for concern with the line: ‘es más difícil buscar al
tío que echar a Azaña’ and for its use of firearms on stage (Ca. 5800 Exp. 6124).
Yet the Communist propaganda play, La peste fascista, by Irene de Falcón (César
Garfias) of the Nosotros theatre group was authorized by the Director General de
Seguridad, who stated: ‘no se observa ataque violento alguno contra el régimen
establecido ni concepto de ninguna clase que pueda considerarse punible’ (Ca.
5800 Exp. 6123). It ended with the annihilation of the fascists and ‘vivas al
proletariado’. In such a climate it comes as no great surprise that plays such as
Unamuno’s El otro, Valle-Inclán’s Divinas palabras and García Lorca’s Bodas de
sangre were judged to be both politically and morally innocuous.111
In the altered political climate of December 1934, Pemán’s Cisneros was
approved. A letter from El Comisario Jefe to the Jefe Superior de la Policia
Gubernativa notes that after the show, Pemán spoke about the need for more
men like Cisneros, and the public greeted his words with ‘grandes ovaciones’
(Ca. 5843 Exp. 6279). Yet Guerra a la guerra, a Communist play from 1935,
was prohibited in early December of that year. The judicial report noted:
111 Ca. 5793 Exp. 6061; Ca. 5795 Exp. 6125; Ca. 5800 Exp. 6117.
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48 CATHERINE O’LEARY
In May 1936, under the Popular Front Government, ¡Comunista!, a play for
the Casa del Pueblo in Madrid, was not authorized owing to its attacks on the
police, the prison services and its ‘constante excitación a la rebelión’, which it
was believed might lead to public disorder (Ca. 5831 Exp. 6633). A couple of
months later, in early July, another Communist play, La herencia proletaria,
which contained references to a corrupt governor in an imaginary province, who
is effectively in the pay of the clergy and the bourgeoisie, was also condemned
in a judicial report. However, the Director General saw fit to approve the
play without suppressions, but his reasons for ignoring the report are unclear
(Ca. 5842 Exp. 6656).
Yet, despite the best efforts of the reformers and the propagandistic offerings
of others, the theatre world was still dominated by more conservative works by
dramatists such as Pemán, Torrado, Benavente and Muñoz Seca. The Teatro
Nacional de la Falange, under the direction of Luis Escobar, concentrated on
staging dramas from Spain’s Golden Age or those that emulated such theatre, in
keeping with the nationalist ideology it reflected. Of the serious dramatists
and reformers, Max Aub was perhaps the man who came closest to achieving
real change in the structures and forms of the Spanish theatre. He proposed
the Establishment of a National Theatre and the creation of opportunities for
experimental and youth theatre, and called on the Popular Front government to
support the arts; if his work had not been frustrated by the Civil War, he might
have succeeded. The ill-starred Consejo Central del Teatro was born in 1937 with
Aub as secretary. It seemed for a while that a theatrical revolution had begun,
but the war meant that the activities of the committee were limited to Madrid;
unfortunately, the dénouement of the Civil War ensured that the council never
fulfilled its potential.
During the Civil War, those who were involved in the revolutionary theatri-
cal movement were themselves divided into dramatists who insisted on artis-
tic integrity and those who were willing to sacrifice this for a political point,
but both groups produced motivated drama that was very much allied to the
Republican ideology. Marrast describes how, at this time, the unions took over
and collectivized the theatres. However, in order to guarantee work for all union
members, the revolutionaries had to compromise or abandon some of their polit-
ical aspirations. In his analysis, Marrast divides Civil War theatre into four types:
escapist theatre (both old and new), new political and agitation propaganda plays
(some too political for their audience and others not sufficiently so), adaptations
of classics to reflect the new situation and social theatre from the pre-Civil War
period.
Both sides in the struggle produced political and propagandistic dramas.
Focusing specifically on the Republican theatre illustrates again the clear connec-
tion between drama and politics at this time. The teatro de agitación, which
embraced many politicized theatre groups, was organized in Madrid by the Alianza
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de los Intelectuales Antifascistas. Their stated aim was to write and stage drama
based on the current political situation, and their mouthpiece was El mono azul.112
Nueva Escena was a theatrical co-operative led by Rafael Dieste, which in 1936
began to stage political dramas, including short works by Alberti, Sender and by
Dieste himself. Apart from these, there were other groups such as the Teatro de arte
y propaganda, based in the Teatro de la Zarzuela in Madrid, and an organization
calling itself Teatro en la calle, which staged Alberti’s adaptation of Cervantes’s El
cerco de Numancia in 1937. Alberti also wrote Radio Sevilla, Cuadro flamenco
(1937), which was published with the works of some other authors in a collection
called Teatro de urgencia. Later, in 1938, he wrote Cantata de los héroes y la
fraternidad de los pueblos, which he dedicated to the International Brigades. The
Guerrillas del teatro and Teatro para el frente brought this political theatre to those
fighting for the Republican cause. The authors of this movement included Max
Aub with his political teatro de circunstancias, José Herrera Petrere, Germán
Bleiberg and Pablo de la Fuente. Other writers who involved themselves in the
dramatic process, such as Manuel Altolaguirre, César M. Arconada and José
Bergamín, had not been associated with the theatre previously. Miguel Hernández
was also very involved in Republican theatre during the Civil War, and his Pastor
de la Muerte (1937–38) is based on the siege of Madrid. Furthermore, in 1937 he
published four plays under the collective title Teatro en la guerra, in which he
stated his belief that the theatre can serve as a powerful weapon in wartime.113
The Popular Front government’s concerns about the propaganda plays
were initially few. Dramas such as Viva la República (o, el último traidor) were
authorized without problems. However, in the early stages of the conflict, the
government became concerned by the negative portrayal of the army in some
agitation propaganda plays. This was the case with Aurelio González Rendón’s
Ya están de pie los esclavos sin pan and Luis Mussot’s ¡No pasarán!, both of
which date from September 1936. In a report by the Attorney General about the
former, there is an objection to the line: ‘Todas las lumias, compañeras de una
noche, eran hijas de militares.’ He advocated its suppression, arguing that it was
an insult to army personnel:
cuyo prestigio debe velar siempre la Autoridad aun en las circunstancias
actuales, porque ha de tenerse en cuenta que aunque hay un gran número de
fervour, such as when they secured García Lorca’s signature for a manifesto a month and a
half after his death. José Monleón, ‘El mono azul’: Teatro de urgencia y romancero de la
guerra civil, Endymión (Madrid: Ayuso, 1979), pp. 35–6.
113 ‘Una de las maneras mías de luchar es haber comenzado a cultivar un teatro hiriente y
breve: un teatro de guerra. [. . .] Creo que el teatro es un arma magnífica de guerra contra el
enemigo de enfrente y contra el enemigo de casa. Entiendo que todo teatro, toda poesía, todo arte,
ha de ser, hoy más que nunca, un arma de guerra. [. . .] Yo me digo: hay que sepultar las ruinas
del obsceno y mentiroso teatro de la burguesía, de todas las burguesías y comodidades del alma,
que todavía andan moviendo polvo y ruina en nuestro pueblo.’ Miguel Hernández, Foreword to
Teatro en la guerra. Quoted in Carlos Blanco Aguinaga, Julio Rodríguez Puértolas and Iris M.
Zavola, Historia social de la literatura española, 3 vols (Madrid: Castalia, 1983), III, pp. 43–4.
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50 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Oficiales y Jefes del Ejército sublevados que han hecho traición a su palabra
y a su deber, hay otros también que luchan heróicamente en defensa del
Gobierno legítimo de la República y de la Libertad. (Ca. 5805 Exp. 6613)114
114 Similarly, in the report on the latter play, it was stated: ‘En los actuales momentos, en
que es indispensable para el triunfo de la República y del Gobierno legítimo mantener muy
elevada la moral y la disciplina del Ejército, un quebramiento de estos resortes y un escarnio
de la organización de los defensores de la República, que, de representarse en un escenario,
produciría una excitación a la indisciplina de los soldados y las milicias contra sus jefes, con
el grave quebranto para los intereses de la República democrática y del porvenir de la Patria
que de esto habría que derivar.’ Ca. 5805 Exp. 6678.
115 The three plays appear in the file Ca. 5804 Exp. 6681.
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2
Language and Silence
In April and May 1939 theatrical performances sometimes ended with the
singing of the national anthem and a large portrait of the Caudillo displayed
onstage. Audiences listened, their arms raised in the fascist salute. Set design
did, on occasion, incorporate nationalist insignia.1
Forging a New State included the task of creating a new culture to reflect and
reinforce the dominant ideology. In fact, it was with considerable zeal that the
regime set about imposing its own ideology and eliminating alternatives. Both
Carlos Rodríguez Sanz and José María de Quinto assert that the Spanish culture
promoted by the Nationalist regime was noteworthy for what it chose to ignore
or censor, as much as for what it promoted.2 Thus, initially, the censors con-
cerned themselves more with the revivals of certain dramas from the pre-war
period than with anything new and revolutionary. They did so effectively, and
the works of Republican writers were eliminated from the Spanish stage.3
1 John London, Reception and Renewal in Modern Spanish Theatre: 1939–1963, MHRA
no. 3 (June 1966), 23–5 (p. 23). José María de Quinto, ‘Radiografía breve de los últimos 30
años de teatro’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 26–7 (p. 26).
3 ‘En los primeros años de la posguerra, como se ve, las dificultades de la censura no
52 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Reflecting upon the creation of a new culture for a New State, José María de
Quinto remarked:
Later the link between drama and ideology in the New State was more insid-
ious; agitation propaganda of the left had disappeared, and there remained what
Szanto termed integration propaganda. This formed part of the cultural ideo-
logical state apparatus, and it played a role in the normalization and naturaliza-
tion of the new dominant ideology, reinforcing the notion that the government
was working for the common good, by stressing the stability and benefits of the
present order. It encouraged passive participation in the New State structures and
dissuaded opposition and change. Like the Church, the education system and
other ideological state apparatuses, theatre of integration propaganda creates a
false sense of unity. Echoing Althusser, Szanto wrote:
In the 1940s, while the rest of Europe examined the new reality in the after-
math of the horrors of the world war, Spain retreated to a culture of escapism to
distract from an unpleasant reality that was fast becoming naturalized. Direct
comment on the current situation was limited by censorship. José Monleón dis-
tinguishes two trends in theatre of this time: the comic and risqué revue, and the
cliché-dominated folkloric theatre. He described the theatre of the time as
immoral, and it is this immorality that Buero would later challenge in his the-
atre. Since the work of the reformers was only beginning prior to the outbreak
María Pemán, Joaquín Calvo Sotelo cum suis – las condiciones en las que escribieron y los
presupuestos políticos o sociales de los que partían no supusieron jamás – al contrario –
actitud disidente alguna.’ Manuel Abellán, ‘La censura teatral durante el franquismo’, Estreno,
15 (no. 2, 1989), 20–3 (p. 21).
4 De Quinto, ‘Radiografía breve’, p. 26.
5 Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, p. 74.
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of the Civil War, it is logical that the theatre should have returned so quickly to
its earlier form. José Sanchis Sinisterra, concurring with Monleón, commented
in 1966 that the theatrical offerings in the provinces consisted mainly of the
comic revue and folkloric theatre; this too was integration propaganda, subtly
reinforcing the nationalistic ideology of the regime.6 Many of the promising
dramatists of the pre-Civil War era were Republicans, and therefore their work
was excluded from the new culture. Demonstrating the ideological nature of the-
atre at the time, Monleón suggested that the post-war popularity and elevation in
status of Muñoz Seca had not a little to do with his death at the hands of the
Republicans during the Civil War.7 He further illustrated how, in the works
La muralla (Calvo Sotelo), Murió hace quince años (Giménez Arnau) and El
Vicario de Dios (Laiglesia), dramatists resolved the moral dilemmas posed by
the new regime, thereby soothing the consciences of the bourgeois spectators.
They were absolved of their crimes and misdemeanours and awarded the status
of the righteous.8 José María de Quinto, similarly critical of what was on offer,
described the theatre of the 1940s thus:
Many of the pre-war dramatists proved just as popular as before. Those enjoy-
ing continued or renewed success included Benavente, the Quintero brothers,
Pemán, Marquina, Arniches and Muñoz Seca. Calvo Sotelo, among the later
playwrights of this genre, included some social comment in some of his dramas,
but he was more concerned with moral values and dilemmas than with social
change. This theatre, some of it superbly crafted, was nevertheless lacking in
6 ‘El teatro en provincias’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 20–2 (p. 20).
José María de Quinto makes a similar observation: ‘En realidad, eran los tiempos del
melodrama, del juguete cómico, de la comedia montada en el vacío, de los espectáculos
flamencos o folklóricos y de las revistas musicales. [. . .] Se entronizaba oficialmente la
tragedia y el optimismo.’ ‘Radiografía breve’, p. 26.
7 José Monleón, Treinta años de teatro de la derecha (Barcelona: Tusquets, 1971), p. 21.
8 Monleón, Treinta años, pp. 93–110. E. Morales de Acevedo, one of the censors who read
Giménez Arnau’s play, wrote in his report: ‘Por su fondo y por su forma, la comedia es
merecedora de aplauso.’ AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.678 Exp. 132-58.
9 De Quinto, ‘Radiografía breve’, p. 26.
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54 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Newer dramatists such as Ruiz Iriarte, López Rubio and Edgar Neville kept the
tradition alive. Besides the old and new traditionalists, there was also a post-war
attraction to Golden Age drama. Dramatists such as Pemán, Paso, Calvo Sotelo
and later even Mihura and Casona held that the theatre was primarily for enter-
tainment purposes and tended to ignore social or political themes. This theatre,
therefore, did not challenge the status quo.
While some translations of European dramas were quite popular, many of the
great world or European plays did not come to Spain at all, or came late, and
then only to a limited audience. Very little of European avant-garde theatre was
staged commercially in Spain, and that which was, was often adapted or modi-
fied, occasionally beyond recognition. One such drama, which suffered radical
deviations from the original meaning, was Ionesco’s Rhinocéros, which was
staged as an anti-Communist play in Spain.11 On the whole then, the stage was
dominated by conservative, unchallenging, escapist drama; realism was avoided.
Doménech asserted that the audience’s desire was to be served, ‘una imagen
irreal y halagadora de sí mismo’, the more unrealistic and flattering the better.12
The entire dramatic production of this era was based on a narrow selection of
themes and scenarios, with similar resolutions. It was the era of the pieza bien
hecha, a theatre that was well constructed and often stylistically highly accom-
plished, but essentially meek.
Perhaps surprisingly, given its negative social commentary and uncertain ending,
Historia de una escalera was a huge success. It ran for 187 consecutive perform-
ances, causing the cancellation of the annual staging of Zorilla’s Don Juan
Tenorio. Yet perhaps the most surprising feature of the success was not the play
itself, but its author. An art student when the war broke out, Buero was a com-
mitted socialist who had gone against the wishes of his family to join the
Republican war effort. By the time he was awarded the Lope de Vega prize for
Historia de una escalera in 1949, he was a former Republican prisoner, who had
served over six years for his political crimes.13 His years in prison had a profound
effect on Buero. Perhaps in part owing to the influence of the extraordinary range
of people he met while in prison as well as the oft-stated reason that his painting
skills had become very rusty, Buero began to etch out a literary career for himself
upon his release. He claimed that his experiences also confirmed his commitment
to socialism, and he stated that ‘el mundo será socialista o no será’.14 Nevertheless,
while Buero’s Historia de una escalera signalled a new direction in the post-Civil
War theatre, he was not a reformer when it came to the organization and structure
of the theatre; in fact he was able to work within the commercial theatre. He is
acknowledged as the inspiration for what has been termed the Realist Generation
of Spanish dramatists, whose dramas marked a move away from conservative
escapism and back towards a social theatre. For the regime’s censors, they repre-
sented a threat to the dominant ideology, a threat to be restrained or, where pos-
sible, eliminated. Indeed, Buero’s own account stressed his conviction that his
work posed a challenge to the ruling ideology of Francoism:
particulares de persona significada que garantiza que Fulano de Tal es una persona honesta y
honrada y que no ha cometido delitos.’ Patricia W. O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus
espejos, Colección Espiral Hispano-Americana, no. 31 (Madrid: Fundamentos, 1996), p. 283.
14 Mariano de Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo: Premio ‘Miguel
56 CATHERINE O’LEARY
While Historia de una escalera may have been an innovation in the post-Civil
War theatre, Sastre’s play Escuadra hacia la muerte (1953), which draws heav-
ily on the existentialism of Sartre, took this innovation further. London observes:
‘The extreme violence of Sastre’s play and the suicide it contains were [. . .] a
torrent in a desert of blandness.’17 Alfonso Sastre had emerged as the other dom-
inant figure among the post-war dramatists. With a group of like-minded fellow
university students, he had set about revolutionizing the theatre in the 1940s.
This ambitious, if ingenuous, plan was destined to fail, as the authorities were
not in favour of this manifestation of revolutionary nationalism. His Nationalist
16 Lauro Olmo credits Buero with preparing the stage for others: ‘Buero Vallejo es una
figura clave, sobre todo por su importancia en la creación de un clima determinado. Sus
estrenos, polémicos o no, han constituído siempre una convocatoria socio-política lanzada
desde una amplia base cívico-moral.’ Patricia W. O’Connor and Anthony M. Pasquariello,
‘Conversaciones con la Generación Realista’, Estreno, 2 (no. 2, 1976), 8–28 (p. 25). He also
praises Alfonso Sastre: ‘Todos le debemos aquel clima de agitación que, con sus escaramuzas
polémicas, supo remover la mediocridad ambiente’ (p. 25).
17 London, Reception and Renewal, p. 189.
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reform thus thwarted by the regime, the disillusioned Sastre moved ideologically
to the left and to a different type of social theatre. Sastre, in essence, moved
from revolutionary nationalism to revolutionary Marxism. His work certainly
challenged the taboos of the dominant ideology more directly than Buero’s plays
did, yet this same provocation also ensured that his dramas were less widely
produced.
The committed dramatists were by no means the dominant group in the Spanish
theatre world. It was apparent that many of the theatre professionals working in
Francoist Spain did not consider that the theatre had a socio-political role.
However, leaving aside the other drama produced or not produced at the time, and
focusing specifically on the so-called Realists, it becomes clear that they consid-
ered their work to have been more than entertainment and to have a social dimen-
sion.18 They included such writers as Sastre, Martín Recuerda, Rodríguez Méndez,
Muñiz and Olmo, and theirs was, as the name suggests, a theatre of social real-
ism.19 Carlos Muñiz, describing the group, said: ‘Se trata de autores de variada
tendencia, tanto ideológica como estética, cuyo único elemento común es la adop-
ción de una actitud abiertamente crítica ante la realidad sociopolítica española.’20
Despite Mangini’s assertion that writers of the opposition were viewed as minor
delinquents and, in general, not taken very seriously, it is clear from the regime’s
efforts to silence them that they were carefully monitored, and, where possible,
restrained.21 It appears that the regime considered the work of these dramatists to
be a challenge to its ideological dominance, for, as Abellán points out, the emer-
gence of this new group of dramatists gave rise to a new situation:
18 Ángel Berenguer wrote of European realism: ‘Es mucho más que un estilo literario. Es,
sobre todo, un modo de entender la vida, un modo de acercarse a la realidad, un proyecto que,
de alguna manera, pretende controlar la relación del individuo con su entorno y con la historia
política que se está desarrollando en la Europa del momento.’ ‘Lauro Olmo’, in Teatro breve
contemporáneo, I, Primer Acto, Separata del no. 239 [1991 (?)], 25–8 (p. 26). The Spanish
variety was a more insular, but just as serious, project.
19 The term itself is disputed by many of those deemed by the critics to be a part of the
group. Buero is often viewed by other playwrights associated with the generation as being
independent of it or perhaps a precursor to it.
20 O’Connor and Pasquariello, ‘Conversaciones’, p. 14.
21 Shirley Mangini, Rojos y rebeldes: la cultura de la disidencia durante el franquismo
(Barcelona: Anthropos, 1987), p. 59. Barry Jordan also made the point that some of the
committed writers were the offspring of Nationalists, and not as harshly treated as those whose
background was Republican. Writing and Politics in Franco’s Spain (London: Routledge,
1990), p. 53.
22 Abellán, ‘La censura teatral’, p. 22.
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58 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Perhaps one of the only elements to unite the so-called Realists and other
committed dramatists was their belief that their work constituted an attack on the
ruling ideology. After all, stylistically, their work differed substantially, and they
claimed different influences, although all considered themselves social critics. All
believed that art, and specifically drama, had a role to play in an autocracy, and
some of them wrote about the obligations facing a writer in such circumstances.
Nonetheless, there is some doubt about the success of their venture, and indeed
questions have also been raised about the artistic integrity of those involved, not
least, of Buero.
Writing about the situation in Nazi Germany, Steiner commented that while
writers who chose to leave the country could thus protect their own integrity, they
were no longer able to communicate properly with those who did remain.23
London, also writing about theatre under the Nazis, noted: ‘Much of the overt
criticism emerged from a much more comfortable position: exile.’24 The same
could be said about the Spanish situation. A resident in France, Arrabal viewed
himself as untainted by the regime. However, those who had remained in Spain
did not consider him qualified to comment on Spain’s problems. Of course, the
dramatists who remained in Spain, while they understood the effects of the
regime on the populace, were to sacrifice a part of their integrity. As in Nazi
Germany, there was a range of responses from artists and writers. Some came to
represent the culture of the regime, others remained silent, while some, includ-
ing Buero, compromised, writing what criticisms they could but within parame-
ters largely defined by the regime. To examine the success or otherwise of their
commitment, it is first necessary to analyse the form it took and to find the goals
they set for their social and political theatre.
Buero was consistent in his statements on the subject of art and freedom.
While lamenting the presence of censorship, citing historical examples, he stated
his belief that good literature can be produced under a repressive regime. In
1976, he said of censorship: ‘Mortal lo es circunstancialmente para ciertas obras
o para algún autor incluso, pero no es mortal en general, ni para todas las obras
ni para todos los autores, por muy críticos y comprometidos que éstos sean.’25
Yet he also disagreed with those authors who ‘desde el purismo literario o
poético’ say: ‘ya está bien de hablar tanto de problemática. No hay tal prob-
lemática. La literatura es otra cosa’ (O.C. II: 486–7). The question for Buero
and other committed dramatists was not one of either artistic integrity or
23 George Steiner, Language and Silence: Essays 1958–1966 (London: Faber & Faber,
1985), p. 127.
24 John London, ‘Introduction’, in Theatre under the Nazis, ed. by John London
interview with Amell: ‘No es que yo no crea en la libertad como un factor muy valioso para la
labor creadora, pero lo que sostenía y sigo sosteniendo es que no es imprescindible para crear
grandes obras e incluso obras maestras, y me atengo a los hechos.’ Samuel Amell, ‘Conversación
con Antonio Buero Vallejo’, España Contemporánea, 1 (no. 1, 1988), 119–41 (p. 127).
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commitment, but both. Asked about the role of theatre in society, Buero stated:
It is an ambitious statement and, as was often the case with Buero, one that
stressed the importance of history. Others, such as Carlos Llopis and Miguel
Mihura, when asked the same question, stressed the entertainment value of the
theatre, rather than any social or political role. Sastre, like Buero, held that liter-
ature of necessity had a social role. However, they did not have the same expec-
tations for literature and what it could achieve. Buero obviously believed in the
power of art to influence societal change, but, unlike Sastre and Brecht, he did
not believe that the influence would necessarily be direct:
Entiendo que las actividades de la cultura en sus planos superiores son muy
importantes, pero que su influjo no es resolutivo ni directo; va por vías más
subterráneas, que requieren más tiempo, y sus resultados son a veces mayores
que los de otras actividades más directas.27
Taking a cue from figures such as Brecht, Weiss, Piscator, Sartre and Camus,
these Spanish dramatists sought to use the theatre as a force in a socio-political
battle to change social and economic conditions. Whether or not this was a real-
istic aspiration is debatable. Indeed, both Buero and Sastre adapted foreign plays
for the Spanish stage and a comparison of their adaptations reveals much about
both their theatrical and political interests. Buero adapted works by Ibsen,
Shakespeare and Brecht, while Sastre adapted the works of Sartre, Weiss and
O’Casey, among others. With the exception of Brecht, the plays Buero adapted
would have been considered classical and relatively safe works at the time;
Sastre was interested in the more overtly political works of polemical dramatists,
and in the politics of the dramatists themselves. In the programme notes for his
adaptation of O’Casey’s Red Roses for Me, for example, Sastre stresses
O’Casey’s politics, calling him ‘el gran ejemplo de un escritor combatiente’.28
Sastre was particularly drawn to the works of Sartre and, between the years
1967 and 1970, was responsible for eight adaptations of the French dramatist’s
plays. London maintains that in Spain, Camus was more acceptable than Sartre
because his views were considered less extreme, despite the fact that Camus was
hostile to the Spanish regime. Sartre, he claims, did not rise to prominence in
26 ‘Encuesta (sobre el teatro)’, Primer Acto, nos 29–30 (1961–62), 5–15 (pp. 5–6).
27 Álvaro del Amo and Miguel Bilbatúa, ‘El teatro español visto por sus protagonistas’,
Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3, 43–67 (p. 46).
28 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp. 258-69.
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60 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Spain until the late 1960s, although his name was certainly known before then.
It is interesting that Buero on occasion publicly identified with Camus, while
Sastre favoured Sartre. The Spanish dramatists, like their French counterparts,
engaged in a very public quarrel, yet, like the latter, probably had more to unite
than to divide them in terms of their literary and political aspirations.
Camus’s commitment, while doubted by some, was perhaps similar to Buero’s,
and, like the Spaniard, he was often contradictory. Where his commitment
exceeded that of Buero was in his non-literary political writings. Buero’s rela-
tionship with the Franco regime was similar in some respects to Camus’s ambigu-
ous relationship with Algeria. They were also similar in their deliberate style, and
a certain moral tone permeates the work of both writers. Buero stressed a moral
awakening of man and advocated self-empowerment of the individual in a repres-
sive and unethical society. In this way he was similar to Camus, who, as Said com-
ments, ‘prizes self-recognition, disillusioned maturity, and moral steadfastness in
the midst of a bad situation’.29 Buero was at times ideologically unacceptable to
both sides of the Spanish divide because he was not ideologically committed to
either and, while he wrote political theatre, he was always a moral dramatist.
Perhaps one of the most interesting points of convergence between Camus and
Buero is with regard to the justification of violence. Both disliked violence but
were loath to discard it as an option in certain circumstances. Each stressed, how-
ever, that violence should never be easily undertaken. For both, violence was the
source of moral as well as political dilemmas, and the moral took precedence over
the latter. Accepting that violence might occasionally be the best option for the
common good led them to perceive that morally that brought them closer to their
enemies, who also claimed that violence was at times necessary for the greater
good of society. The tortured must always remember that he is a potential torturer
and seek to avoid this; the rebel must avoid the conversion of revolution into total-
itarianism. Both writers recognized man’s desire for definition of values and roles
in a society that often seemed absurd, and both acknowledged the difficulty of
defining absolute values in such an irrational world. Camus’s rejection of revo-
lutionary Marxism and his demand for a more moral approach were what set him
apart from Sartre’s revolutionary stance, again a difference paralleled in the
works of Buero and Sastre. When Camus criticized revolution, some claimed that
he was defending the status quo, just as when Buero denounced provocation and
imposibilismo, some considered him less than committed. Camus was also wary
of the Marxist ideology that promised future satisfaction if present suffering is
endured: an ideology similar in many ways to that espoused by the churches and
many Nationalist creeds. He was reluctant to sanction the sacrifice of men to an
ideology, and, like Buero, having abandoned the Communist Party, was not pre-
pared to adopt any ideology other than his personal and moral one.
Overall, then, Buero and others of the so-called Realist Generation believed
that the role of art, and in particular that of drama, was to reflect and react to their
society and hopefully to inspire social change. Some, like Sastre, maintained that
revolutionary drama could inspire revolution in society, while others believed in
less radical transformation. One thing that emerges is their determination to bear
testament to the problem of Spain and expose the distortions and falsifications of
the Nationalist ideology. The presence of censorship meant that their choices were
quite limited. Those who, like the Realists, believed that they had to reach an audi-
ence in order to effect social change had to find ways to avoid censorship of their
message. They attempted to do this in a variety of ways.
62 CATHERINE O’LEARY
and political awareness in a society such as Spain under Franco. This, in essence,
is what Buero attempted to do, particularly in his historical dramas, which are
also among his most political plays. As a theatre of demystification, it is centred
on exposing the manipulation of language by the regime and the constant pres-
sure to conform.
In order to demystify, Buero engaged the ideological discourse of the regime
and exposed the distortion of reality that it contained. It was thus often on the
questions of language and silence that he and other committed writers of the
period attacked the regime. Certainly Buero attempted to subvert and expose
the regime’s idiom in his dramatic works, while also condemning the silence of
the apathetic. He presented the official ideology in action and showed its effects
on others. He parodied the language of the Francoists to show how it was moti-
vated. While the king in Las Meninas refers to ‘los fundamentos inconmovibles
del poder’, such absolutism is rejected by the character Velázquez, as it was by
the dramatist (O.C. I: 932). Characters in Las palabras en la arena employ reli-
gious terminology to justify their bigoted actions, and Buero seemed to criticize
all of those who sought to grant exclusive righteousness to a particular Church
and then use this to exculpate wrongs. La tejedora de sueños (1950) delivers an
analysis of the idiom of Nationalist ideology and mythology. In many of his
works, Buero employed the language of the clergy, of artists, of writers, of doc-
tors, and gave an interpretation of Spain’s reality that was at odds with the offi-
cial version. He showed how language was used as a tool and manipulated to
present a certain attitude as natural or evident. Thus, he highlighted the import-
ance of the interpretation of language, and in plays such as Las cartas boca
abajo (1957) and El sueño de la razón warned against the flatterers and pre-
varicators who tell people what they want to hear rather than what is true. In
addition, in La doble historia del doctor Valmy and El sueño de la razón, the
language of medicine is used to offer a diagnosis of a sick society. This same
language was employed by Franco, when he referred to the communists as
‘el virus bolchevique’, and indeed in the Nationalist emphasis on ‘limpieza de
sangre’.31 In Las Meninas and Las palabras en la arena, Buero illustrated how
the language of patriotism and moral rectitude can be appropriated and given a
new meaning by a ruling power in a way that contradicts the original or
accepted meaning. Drawing on the Generation of ’98, he employed the notion
of criticismo como patriotismo auténtico, but warned in his plays that this type
of patriotism might be branded treasonous, while pernicious ruling ideolo-
gies, expressed in the language of patriotism and loyalty, might be rewarded.
Again in Las palabras en la arena, Las Meninas and Diálogo secreto (1983),
Buero demonstrated how the language of the expert could be used to confuse,
rather than to clarify, an issue.
The committed dramatists believed that they could inspire social change and
the regime acted to prevent this. Nonetheless, the doubt remains as to whether
they were realistic in their aspirations. They certainly did not constitute the
serious danger to the Francoist hegemony that they had hoped to be. David Ladra
wrote of the committed dramatists: ‘Su obra sería como el grito airado, desgar-
rador, contra la injusticia. Pero también sería el grito perdido en el desierto.’32
But then as Bentley stresses: ‘Art is nearly always represented, in print, as hav-
ing far more importance than it really possesses.’33 Szanto’s analysis of the pur-
pose and possibilities of a socially and politically committed theatre is similarly
more unsentimental than that of many other theorists. Recognizing that art can-
not change society directly, he regards its role in society as, at most, to be that
of demystifier:
32 David Ladra, ‘Reflexión, aquí y ahora, sobre el teatro comprometido’, Primer Acto,
64 CATHERINE O’LEARY
excuse for their failure to produce good drama, or that they were using the unfor-
tunate circumstances at home to further their careers abroad.35
The question of art and ideology is a complicated one and the crux of any
examination of the relationship between an artist and a repressive regime.
Buero’s commitment must be judged in relation to his artistic integrity. Was one
achieved at the expense of the other? Is there a correct role for the artist to adopt
in such circumstances? Accepting that the artist may have a political or social
obligation, how far must he take it? At what point does the political threaten the
artistic? What are the alternatives? It is surely the case that those who ally their
art too closely to their politics or their ideological beliefs are in danger of sub-
jecting their art to another form of censorship, one with different parameters on
style, content and politics, but nevertheless not unlike that censorship applied by
the dominant ideology they oppose.
How far can absolutism go before art falls servile or silent? Where do we cross
the line between the artist as conveyor of the ideals of his society and the artist
as maker of mere propaganda? Just where is the difference between Andrew
Marvel’s ode to Cromwell and Becher’s rhapsodies to Stalin and Ulbricht?
nuestra incapacidad de expresión justa y serena, nuestras propias cobardías, incluso nuestro
extreñimiento literario?’ Quoted in ‘Al margen del teatro: la noticia y su eco. A vueltas con la
crisis’, Yorick, no. 21 (1967), 2. Buero’s comments on the imposibilismo employed by certain
dramatists in order to make a name for themselves outside Spain led to the polemic with
Sastre in the 1960s (O.C. II: 627).
36 Steiner, Language and Silence, p. 395.
37 Steiner makes an exception for Brecht. Language and Silence, p. 339. However, as Buero
pointed out, Brecht’s plays are much more than political propaganda (O.C. II: 693–701).
Mono213_Ch02.qxd 3/8/05 9:14 AM Page 65
essence of the posibilismo debate, which engaged Buero and Sastre and later
Arrabal.
For Sartre, and for the Spanish dramatists, the aim of the social theatre was to
expose the gap between myth and reality and to demonstrate to the audience how
society can be changed. Yet Jordan also notes Sartre’s insistence that:
The writer should be careful not to alienate the reader by telling him what to
think or involving him in an enforced participation. This not only put the
reader’s freedom in jeopardy but also threatened the artistic integrity of the
work and its effectiveness as a communication.38
Sastre understood that ‘hacer teatro a nivel político no significa, para un autor,
convertir absolutamente su obra en una herramienta de protesta, denuncia o inter-
vención inmediatas en el medio’.39 Nevertheless, while drawing heavily on the
theories of Sartre, Sastre did not always respect them and would at times put
ideology before art, both in his own work and in his comments on the work of
others. His reaction to Buero’s Historia de una escalera is a case in point.40
Admitting much later that he did not care for the play when it came out, Sastre
owned to having written a positive review of it for La Hora, based simply on
what he knew of the politics of its author and an assumption that Buero would
have been more explicit about the Civil War had this been possible. When Buero
told him that he would have written it in the same way had there been no cen-
sorship, Sastre informed him that he therefore did not like the play.
In the TAS (Teatro de Agitación Social) manifesto, and later in Anatomía del
realismo, Sastre proclaimed that the social was superior to the artistic, yet he
clearly believed that he could produce plays that were primarily social while
maintaining artistic integrity. However, Haro Tecglen wrote of Sastre: ‘Se declara
contrario al teatro de tesis y al teatro ideológico.’41 Mangini noted Sastre’s uncom-
promising attitude in his dealings with the regime and of his determination not
to judge other writers for their political ideology, but rather for their work.42
Nonetheless, with Sastre, it is difficult to separate the politics from the work, and
indeed on many occasions he has been quick to criticize other writers, not least
Buero in the infamous posibilismo polemic, which was about politics and art.
Cramsie was probably more accurate when she said that Sastre, like Lukács,
refused to accept that there was more than one correct way to deal artistically with
the social. She went on to say that Sastre was not justified in his criticism of
(p. 17).
42 Mangini, Rojos y rebeldes, p. 125.
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66 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Buero. Although he was harsh and perhaps unfairly personal in his attack on
Buero’s posibilismo, it must be admitted that Sastre raised some interesting and
valid points about Buero’s commitment. Buero defended no particular political
ideology, and while some may have gone too far in allying their art to an opposi-
tional ideology, thus sacrificing their artistic integrity, the question remains as to
whether Buero went far enough.
Steiner asks:
Should the poet cease? In a time when men are made to pipe or squeak their
sufferings like beetles and mice, is literate speech, of all things the most
human, still possible? Kafka knew that in the beginning was the word; he asks
us: what of the end? 43
Apart from the problem of silence imposed by the censors and the repressive
state apparatuses, it is worth considering the issue of silence as a response to
repression. When words become the vehicle of lies, falsity, distortion and ter-
ror, is silence the answer? Does silence then become the strongest form of
protest? Instead of allying himself to an oppositional ideology or employing
euphemism and allusion to insinuate the truth, should the poet cease? For surely
to remain and write in Spain was to work within the linguistic confines set by
the regime, to accept them even, and thus to aid in their normalization. For those
who wished to portray the reality, a culture of symbolism and allusion became
a normalized feature of Spanish writing. Language is used to name, define and
claim. It is often about ownership and control. Thus, a deliberately calculated
silence might be a refusal to acknowledge such control. Unless, of course, it is
interpreted as a sign of apathy, an unwillingness to challenge what is clearly
wrong.
It is worth noting, then, that besides Buero’s deliberate choice of language
in the plays, there is also a deliberate portrayal of silence. This is the silence of
the apathetic and the cowardly in El tragaluz (1966) and La doble historia del
doctor Valmy; it is the silence of the posibilista in La detonación, and the silence
of the ideologically inculcated in En la ardiente oscuridad; it is also the silence
of the victim in Las cartas boca abajo, and of the provocative imposibilista in La
detonación. Added to this is the silence of the victims whose voices have been
taken from them by the censor, the torturer and the defender of state or faith.
These silences, whether self-imposed or imposed by others, are of great signifi-
cance in the works of Buero. Silence was as much a part of his dramatic idiom as
the language he employed. Inevitably, this use of language and silence also offers
problems to the reader or spectator. At times, silence was praised as the correct
response in a difficult situation, yet at other times it was viewed by the dramatist
as evidence of cowardice or apathy. Some have contended that Buero’s own use
of silence was similarly erratic. It has been suggested that his use of symbolism,
allusion and euphemism often confused rather than clarified and that by using
such devices he allowed others to be silent. His work does not demand a response;
it merely hopes for one. Arrabal for one suggested that Buero’s posibilismo was
a negative silence when the dramatist could have used his not inconsiderable rep-
utation to speak out for others. Nonetheless, regardless of the posibilismo
employed and the care taken to fool or evade the censors, for the writer working
in Francoist Spain, silence was primarily an imposition, not an option.
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3
Buero Vallejo and Theatre Censorship
1. ¿Ataca al dogma?
2. ¿A la moral?
3. ¿A la Iglesia o a sus ministros?
4. ¿Al Régimen y a sus instituciones?
5. ¿A las personas que colaboran o han colaborado con el Régimen?
6. Los pasajes censurables, ¿califican el contenido total de la obra?
7. Informe y otras observaciones.
The concern is clearly the preservation of the dominant ideology of the regime
through the protection of the state apparatuses. The early report on theatre shows
similar concerns, which were later incorporated in the 1964 legislation. The
problem was the interpretation of such vague questions, and the censorship of a
work of literature tended to depend upon who the censor was. This difficulty was
addressed by Buero Vallejo in Las Meninas, a play highly critical of censorship
and its arbitrary application. Interestingly, the censor Padre A. Avelino Esteban
y Romero, who read the play, drew a parallel between his own actions and those
of Velázquez’s detractors in Las Meninas.
Reconozco que ‘ver’ las intenciones en una obra teatral se presta a fáciles
defensas por parte del autor, que se convierte en acusador, como en la trama
VELÁZQUEZ contra las interpretaciones de sus cuadros por parte de
NIETO . . . De aquí el que sea muy delicado pronunciarse contra la obra por
los motivos reales, disimulados en el parlamento fictício de los personajes
teatrales. Decir que no son ellos los que hablan . . . sino el autor puede
prestarse a que se diga que son los espectadores, y no el autor, los que
‘oyen’.1
So, just as Velázquez suggests in the play that lasciviousness is in the eye of the
beholder of a beautiful nude, Buero also suggested that any negative commen-
tary the censor detected in the play was read into it by the censor and not neces-
sarily meant by the author.
It is interesting to note that in a survey of forty theatre professionals carried
out for Primer Acto, only twenty-four of them considered that censorship should
be or could be completely eliminated. Miguel Bilbatua’s response was perhaps
the most enlightened: ‘Debe suprimirse. Física y moralmente, la censura y, sobre
todo, la estructura social que la sustenta y necesita.’2 None of the other respond-
ents recognized or commented on the need to examine not only censorship but
the ideological and social structures that allow it to exist. Many of the commit-
ted dramatists worked or attempted to work within the commercial theatre with-
out any attempt to find or create a new audience, perhaps evidence in itself of
the success and prevalence of the new ideology. Buero, while not supporting
censorship, maintained that it did not completely impede the work of the artist.
Others too, like Antonio Gala, chose to view censorship as a minor obstacle,
which could be overcome, or at least accommodated, by the determined writer.
This view is perhaps more than a little ingenuous. While Buero and Gala, for vari-
ous reasons, may have had success despite the regime, the same cannot be said of
all authors of the time, some of whom suffered greatly at the hands of the censors.
That such censorship should have been accepted with relatively little complaint
from Buero did little to dampen criticism of his stance. Some, such as Arrabal, sug-
gested that Buero, as a prominent member of the theatre world, could have done
more to help other dramatists. Buero however, contended that he did all he could:
With Buero, the question was always one of degree of commitment. It is evident
that his success was greater than that of most of his contemporaries, yet the
regime’s censors were clearly aware of the political content of his works and
2 Manuel Gómez García, ‘1971: así piensan 40 profesionales de nuestra escena sobre
censura, teatro social y teatro político en España’, Primer Acto, no. 131 (1971), 8–24 (p. 20).
3 Robert Louis Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones miran la época postfranquista: Buero, Gala,
70 CATHERINE O’LEARY
sought to protect their ideology from his criticisms. It is thus expedient to exam-
ine what Buero said that others could not or did not say and also to examine
which parts of his work were considered by the censors to be a serious threat and
therefore worthy of censorship.
who sees the trade union movement as his salvation and who is critical of his
erstwhile friend and co-dreamer, Fernando, is in conversation with Carmina,
whom he hopes to marry. He states, in a criticism aimed at Fernando but with
wider implications: ‘Más vale ser un triste obrero que un señorito inútil.’ The
word señorito, with its critical connotations, was changed to soñador by Buero
in consultation with the censors. Later, in Act III, Fernando and Urbano are dis-
cussing their once-cherished but now long-abandoned, dreams for a better future
and escape from their miserable existence. Fernando mocks Urbano’s vision of
progress through his links with the trade unions, reminding him of his claim
that the unions were going to improve life for everyone, including Fernando. The
reference to trade unions was crossed out in the censor’s copy, as was Urbano’s
response, which was deemed unacceptable by the censors.
FERNANDO Sí; como tú. También tú ibas a llegar muy lejos con el
sindicato y la solidaridad. (irónico) Ibais a arreglar las
cosas para todos . . . hasta para mí.
URBANO ¡Sí! ¡Hasta para vosotros, los cobardes que nos habéis
fallado!
The italicized phrase is a bitter reference to those people like Fernando who
opted out of the struggle in the Civil War but who would have been quite happy
to reap the benefits of a Republican victory. Urbano represented the ideology of
the socialists and trade unionists. Fernando, on the other hand, is one of those
characters most despised by the dramatist, who in failing to commit themselves
to, or criticize, any particular ideology, allow the unjust Nationalist ideology to
endure. Over the course of the play the spectator witnesses the fate of those who,
like Urbano, had placed their faith in the defeated ideology, and it is clear that
they do not form part of the development that is witnessed at the end of the
play. Here, Buero negotiated a change to the more acceptable: ¡Sí! ¡Hasta
para los zánganos y cobardes como tú! (O.C. I: 47). Unsurprisingly, Fernando’s
negative reference to the failure of the sindicato was left unaltered by the
censors. There were many other marks on the censor’s copy of the text and in
some of the censors’ reports, yet these proposed cuts were not made. Some were
probably rejected because of lack of unanimity among the censors, but other
phrases were adapted or rescued by Buero in his dealings with the censors. Most
of them referred to the work and aspirations of the unions, although at least one
of the censors had also objected to the use of bad language and a threat of
violence.
Later, Buero agreed to two cuts in Un soñador para un pueblo, saying
that, ‘me había excedido’ and believing that they did not sufficiently alter the
meaning of the play and were therefore not worth risking prohibition for.6
p. 87.
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72 CATHERINE O’LEARY
The first was in a speech by the king in which he equated politicians with
villains:
REY ¿Sabes por qué eres mi predilecto, Leopoldo? Porque eres un soñador.
Los demás son políticos; o sea malvados.7
Buero agreed to cut the slur on politicians and replaced the italicized phrase with
the more acceptable: Los demás se llenan la boca de las grandes palabras y, en
el fondo, sólo esconden mezquindad y egoísmo (O.C. I: 800). However, this did
not alter the fact that the king was referring to politicians, so Buero had made his
point, albeit more indirectly. He also complied with the censor’s demand to drop
a reference to the Pardo, one of Carlos III’s palaces, which was now Franco’s
official residence, for, as O’Connor suggests, it might have led to a comparison
of the two, unflattering to Franco. Buero simply replaced the reference to the
Pardo with aquí, rejecting, as historically inaccurate, the censor’s suggestion that
he employ the word palacio.
His readiness to compromise is again evident in his comments on his version
of Brecht’s Mother Courage and her Children (Madre Coraje y sus hijos)(1962).
Most of the censorship of Buero’s work was political in nature, although his
occasional negative depiction of religious figures also gave cause for concern, as
did his sporadic, at times intentional, lapses in taste. The regime did, in general,
recognize the dramatist’s attacks on its ruling ideology and institutions contained
in the plays. These included attacks on the Roman Catholic ideology of the
regime, attacks on the repressive and the ideological state apparatuses and a con-
demnation of the apathetic masses who by their inaction allow one ideology to
dominate.
of the clergy to give a verdict that reflected the Roman Catholic perspective.
However, prior to its Establishment, plays were read by between one and three
censors, none of whom was necessarily a member of the clergy. Yet even after
the Establishment of the Junta de censura, the first three censors to read a text
might not have included a priest among their ranks, although a plenary session
of the Junta always did. En la ardiente oscuridad was read by a single censor
in 1950. Gumersindo Montes Agudo, a lay censor, felt competent to declare that,
while the open ending and the ambiguity of the play amounted to a dramatic
defect, ‘le resta toda posible peligrosidad moral’.8 However, certain ordinary
censors, not believing themselves qualified to give a moral judgement on a play,
suggested that it should be read by a priest also. Furthermore, on occasion, a
priest was called upon to write a moral report, as opposed to a simple censorship
report. Thus, in 1958, Las palabras en la arena was the subject of a moral report,
even though the play had previously been authorized (Appendix IV). Other plays
that attracted such reports include his versions of Hamlet (1960) and Mother
Courage and her Children. Similarly, on occasion a priest remarked in his report
that, while he could give a moral judgement on the play in question, he was not
the competent authority to deliver a political assessment. It also happened some-
times, such as with Sastre’s El pan de todos (1953), that the censorship board
felt the need to consult a different branch of the state apparatus to gain a purely
political reading of a play.
In the case of Buero’s first staged play, Historia de una escalera, which was
submitted to the censorship offices in October 1949, censorship was both political
and moral. Yet even then the censors evidently saw themselves as not merely
guardians of morals and political correctness, but also, judging from their com-
ments, as literary critics. Indeed, they were required to comment on the literary
merit of the play under scrutiny. One of the censors of Historia de una escalera,
Gumersindo Montes Agudo, while acknowledging that the play was good, went
on to say that it was ‘servido por pluma sin nervio o pasión de artista’. Among its
literary defects were listed monotony, narrowness of theme, slowness of pace and
artificiality, but the play’s ‘perfecta ambientación’ was praised. Overall, the censor
found the play to be morally sound and politically uncontroversial, yet predicted
a poor reception for it owing to the slow pace and ‘porque es demasiado cerebral’.9
Another of the censors, Emilio Morales de Acevedo, found the literary worth
of Historia de una escalera to be commendable, yet decided that it could only
benefit from the suppressions he went on to suggest. Padre Mauricio de Begoña,
while granting that the play was free of immorality, was nonetheless clearly
unimpressed by it and said of it, ‘carece de ideal, de aliento y de toda inspiración
espiritual’ and was therefore depressing. While not attacking the Roman Catholic
ideology, neither did the play support it. He suggested that with a few specified
cuts it might be made suitable for adult viewing. In the end, thanks to Buero’s
willingness to deal with the censors, solutions were found for the politically
74 CATHERINE O’LEARY
motivated cuts, and the only cut made was on the grounds of morality and bad
taste. The cut made was an extract from a conversation between two characters,
Paca and Generosa, who stand in the hallway as the man from the Gas Company
comes around to collect the dues. The two women are discussing financial hard-
ship, and Paca makes a joke of their poverty, saying that her husband and herself
now go to bed in the dark, but that at their age, there is nothing to see anyhow.
Generosa is shocked by the blue tinge of the comment and the ensuing dialogue
caused offence.
This lack of respect for the clergy, despite the fact that Generosa is just as
shocked and disapproving as the censors were, was enough to have the dialogue
suppressed.
Shortly afterwards, in September 1949, Las palabras en la arena, a one-act
play, based on the biblical story in John 8: 1–11, was submitted to the
Dirección General de Cinematografía y Teatro by the Amigos de los Quintero
theatre company. The censor described it as ‘bellísima por su entonación
dramática, brío poético y juego de imágenes’.10 It was authorized for publica-
tion by Editorial Alfil in December 1951. However, when Ramiro Bascompte
Cirici, director of the Teatro Candilejas in Barcelona, applied for approval to
stage the play during Holy Week 1958, it was denied. When the application
was received, the play was made the subject of an informe moral by Padre
Avelino Esteban y Romero. Although the work contained no errors and was
undeniably biblical in theme, the censor objected to the subject of adultery. The
emphasis on the adulteress in the piece merely reflects the theme of the para-
ble. It would appear to have been a no-win situation for the author, whose
Gospel-based work was found morally reprehensible by the over-zealous cen-
sorship authorities. The Director General communicated to the theatre com-
pany that the play could not be authorized for staging during Holy Week
(Appendix V). Ironically, a possible political reading of the play with its
implicit criticism of a corrupt and hypocritical dominant elite, ‘pervertida hasta
el tuétano de los huesos’, reminiscent of the pillars of respectable Spanish soci-
ety in Franco’s time, was not identified (O.C. II: 351).
Padre Villares, one of the censors who read Las Meninas, could not fault the
play on a moral, historical or religious basis because the Inquisition’s investigation
of the artist’s painting of a nude Venus is historical fact.11 However, Padre A. Avelino
Esteban y Romero expressed some reservations, having come across some
passages, ‘que me ofrecen sugerencias tendenciosas’. He went on to cite nine pages
from Part I and a further five pages from Part II, particularly Velázquez’s dialogue
with Nieto in the presence of the king. He also read into the negative portrait of the
unlikable Dominican priest mischievous intent on the dramatist’s part.
Buero’s first adaptation of the work of another playwright was his version of
Carlos Gorostiza’s El puente (1952). While the censors seem to have liked the play,
they objected to the emphasis on social class. There are also some passages marked
in the censor’s copy of the text, including an argument between the character,
Elena, and her mother about the former’s determination not to have children.
Perhaps it was this and other examples of filial ingratitude and of hardship that led
to the prohibition of the play.12 While it obviously contains some social commen-
tary and clearly goes against the Roman Catholic ideology of the regime, the play
does not seem to be sufficiently radical to warrant the treatment it received.
Nonetheless, it is the first of the plays associated with Buero to have been banned.
Also linked to the idea of moral censorship was the censorship of bad lan-
guage and bad taste in general.13 Certain plays were censored because of the
language employed by the dramatist, which was judged to be in bad taste. Buero
described the artist’s relationship with censorship as a war: ‘Es posible dar la
batalla: a veces se pierde, pero a veces se gana’ (O.C. II: 791). In his battle he
occasionally inserted barbaridades in the text as a decoy to divert the censor’s
attention from a more subtly expressed political or social point he wished to
make. He claimed that it was a very successful device, and that almost always
what was censored was what he had inserted for that purpose. José Osuna gave
the example of El tragaluz:
If, on the other hand, as did happen on rare occasions, a particularly lenient, or
incompetent, censor left the bait untouched, Buero himself removed it from the
text. Buero admitted that: ‘los censores no eran tan brutos como luego se han
dicho. Había de todo, pero, por lo general, se trataba de gente que jugaba su
propio juego y que, cuando había que ser implacables, lo eran.’15 At times, the
(pp. 55–6).
15 José Luis Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas y lágrimas: entrevista’,
Cuadernos el Público, no. 13, Monograph: ‘Regreso a Buero Vallejo’ (1986), 6–21 (p. 17).
The use of bait is also mentioned in Tina Sainz, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: un intelectual que
nunca dio la espalda al compromiso’, Mundo obrero, 20–26 February 1981, pp. 26–8 (p. 27).
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76 CATHERINE O’LEARY
censors could also be indulgent. Some were perfectly aware of the game but, ever
mindful of Spain’s image abroad, they at times chose to ignore it.
One of his early plays, Una extraña armonía, which has never been staged and
was only recently published in the Obra Completa, was the subject of an appli-
cation for staging in December 1956. The censor who read the play in January
1957 deemed it to be ‘descarnada y amarga’ and recommended a cut on page 31
of Act II.16 The phrase ‘¡Sucia perra salida!’ was an example of unacceptable
language and bad taste contrary to the regime’s image of the language of a trad-
itional, respectful citizen of the New State. Yet the censors’ efforts to guard
against bad language were not always successful, or even reasonable. Such was
the case with Historia de una escalera, which opened at the Teatro Español in
Madrid on 14 October 1949. At the dress rehearsal, the censors objected to the
use of the term zorra in Acts II and III but, irrationally, authorized the use of the
word golfa in its place.17 Historia de una escalera was published with the same
alterations, but without further difficulty, in 1950.
Even when in 1961 Buero translated the canon of classical drama, Hamlet, it
was cut.18 However, it was finally authorized and staged by José Tamayo in the
Teatro Español. The cuts made by the censors (as opposed to those imposed by
time limits) were presumptuously described by the censor Bartolomé Mostaza as
the ‘suavización de algunos pasajes de diálogo crudo’. In the case of La doble
historia del doctor Valmy, the censor, Padre González Fierro, found the torture
scenes acceptable as, ‘ya está muy visto en cine y teatro y no creo moleste a nadie
que vea la obra con recta intención’, yet expressed a desire to rid the play, as far
as possible, of references to impotence, which he seemed to consider a much
more sensitive issue.19 Suppressions recommended included such offensive
material as Mary’s statement on page 77 of Act II, that ‘Danielín está empapado’,
references to the first case history and Daniel’s conversations with the doctor
about sex and impotence. Later, more applications were made to stage the same
play, and many more censors betrayed similar concerns about the language
employed and expressions of bad taste including references to the sexual act,
impotence and, bizarrely, the word ‘hormonas’. Other censors, less concerned
with matters of taste, reserved their criticism for the political aspects of the play.
Even as late as the 1970s, the censors sought to protect the public from
exposed flesh and other demonstrations of bad taste. Objections made by a cen-
sor of Llegada de los dioses (1971), mostly descriptions of women and girls in
beachwear, were ignored in the published version, with the exception of the
semidesnudez of Inés and Faby mentioned in the stage directions on page 37 of
the censor’s copy, which does not appear in the published play (O.C. I: 1359).20
While most of the problems offered by El sueño de la razón were political
in nature, the priest and some of the other censors demonstrated concern about
the inclusion of a scene in which the character Leocadia is raped.21 Of course, it
is difficult in this case to separate the moral from the political, as the perpetrator
of the crime is a representative of law and order, a member of the Crown forces.
A much later example of offensive language is to be found in La Fundación.
Almost all of the censors objected to the crude reference to masturbation on
page 95.22 This, and the stage directions suggesting a sexual encounter between
Tomás and his imagined girlfriend, Berta, went against the traditional values
propagated by the regime. Interestingly, some of the censors were more concerned
by this than by the very political nature of the play, which suggests that Buero’s
ideas about distracting the censor may have worked on occasion.
Political Censorship
While different censors had different priorities, their work formed a unified
whole that sought to protect the various apparatuses of the dominant ideology.
Aventura en lo gris (1949) was one of the plays prohibited by the regime. Buero
termed the play ‘un modestísimo drama insobornado e insobornable, tal vez
mediocre, pero sincero; de un grito más, débil como mío, en favor del hombre y
de su dolorida humanidad, siempre en peligro y tantas veces pisoteada’ (O.C. II:
374). In 1951, the Consejo Nacional de Teatro seemed set to stage it at the María
Guerrero theatre in Madrid, but this attempt fell through. The following year
it was the subject of another application. In his report in December 1952,
Bartolomé Mostaza was quite positive and concluded: ‘Carece de sentido reli-
gioso. No ofrece pelígro político.’23 In January 1953, it was read by Gumersindo
Montes Agudo who, while acknowledging its merits, found the play to be con-
fused, yet he saw no reason to prohibit it. It was also read by Padre Mauricio de
Begoña, although his report is missing from the file. At this stage, there is no evid-
ence that the play was staged, or even authorized, despite the censors’ lack of
objections. In November 1953, Huberto Pérez de la Ossa, the director of the
Infanta Beatriz theatre company, made an application to stage the play. This time
it was read by new censors, although the previous censors were called on again
to give their verdict. Francisco Ortiz Muñoz found the play to be both confusing
and pessimistic, and predicted little interest on the part of the public. He too
believed that it could be authorized, although he suggested some cuts on five
pages of Act I and on one page of Act III. Sr Morales de Acevedo, who also read
the play, commented that it suffered from the influence of foreign theatre, and
classed it as ‘obra insincera, muy trabajada y pretenciosa, escrita al modo de la
nueva e incoherente literatura mundial’. Despite this, he did not object to its
authorization.
78 CATHERINE O’LEARY
On his second reading of the play Sr Mostaza agreed with the cuts suggested
by the other censors. Sr Montes Agudo advocated its authorization, although he
wrote: ‘Nos hemos detenido especialmente en la consideración de posibles ref-
erencias políticas, que existen, evidentemente – por clima, situación y dialáctica
se supieran las horas postreras de Mussolini.’ The regime, in post-war Europe
shaped and dominated by those who had defeated the Axis powers, was still
engaged in an effort to purge itself of links to, and reminders of, its former allies.
Padre Mauricio de Begoña concluded that ‘religiosa y moralmente no ofrece
dificultad’, but recognized that he was not the competent authority to judge it on
any other criteria; this did not prevent him from adding: ‘juzgo que se exponen
principios correctos’ and recommending its authorization. Despite these positive
reports and the fact that no censor advocated prohibition, Aventura en lo gris was
banned on 5 January 1954. However, it was authorized for publication in the the-
atre journal Teatro the same year. Buero claims that he never knew for certain
the reasons for the prohibition and can only surmise that it might have been the
criticism of war and Civil War that can be inferred from the play.24 However, the
censorship documents seem to suggest that the censors’ initial concerns were on
the grounds of bad taste rather than political deviance. The censors also saw fit
to authorize publication of the play by Ediciones Puerta del Sol in 1955, despite
the continued prohibition of the work in commercial theatres. In a communiqué
from José María Ortiz, Jefe de la Sección de Teatro to J. Ubeda, Jefe de la
Sección de Inspección de Libros, dated 21 July 1955, Ortiz stated that the regime
might tolerate the authorization of the play in non-commercial theatres. There is
no suggestion that this information was passed on to the author. By now Buero
had abandoned his plans to find another company to stage the play, as a French
play, La maison de la nuit by Thierry Maulnier, which was similar in theme and
plot, had been staged recently in Madrid.
However, Buero continued to value the play, and he revised it and resubmit-
ted it to the censor’s office in 1963. In the newer version some names were
changed, but the criticism of war and tyranny was as harsh as ever. Certainly
Sebastián Bautista de la Torre seems to have given it a more political reading,
although he noted Buero’s caution in dealing with the theme of dictatorship and
believed that the play suffers for it. He concluded ‘Puede autorizarse sin ningún
reparo’, but suggested that those viewing the rehearsal should carefully monitor
the dream sequence. Interestingly, in such a political play, the concern would
seem to have been more a moral than a political one. Arcadio Baquero, without
a trace of irony, found nothing to warrant the prohibition of the play, which he
classed as ‘una crítica de las guerras, a la política fanática’. Victor Aúz Castro
similarly found no problems and the play was authorized without cuts for over
18s, although it was judged unsuitable for broadcast. The mood in Spain had
changed, and the Civil War and Franco’s dalliance with the Axis powers seemed
distant; the MIT was promoting a progressive image of apertura and Buero’s
24 Amador Rivera and Santiago de las Heras, ‘Encuesta sobre la censura. 25 autores
cuentan sus experiencias con la censura’, Primer Acto, no. 166 (1974), 4–11 (p. 9).
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play benefited from the mood swing. Once again, the treatment of this play
seems to highlight what was not spotted: the censors seem not to have seen any
parallels between the political situation in Surelia and that in Spain.
Forbidden by the Provincial Delegates in two cities, Un soñador para un
pueblo was nevertheless authorized elsewhere.25 This was the first of Buero’s
so-called historical dramas, and it deals with Spain in the time of Carlos III and
more specifically, with the Italian-born Minister, Esquilache, whose attempts at
reform were rejected in a popular rising in Madrid in Easter Week 1776. In the
play, the revolt was orchestrated by manipulative traditionalists whose privileged
position in society was threatened by this social reform. As with most censorship
of Buero’s work, the offensive passages were political in nature and could be
interpreted as slanderous attacks on the Franco regime and not just a criticism of
historical figures. Originally the censors suggested cuts, some of which Buero
accepted and some of which he rejected. The censors objected to an Act I scene
in which the king declares in a dialogue with Esquilache that the Spanish people
are like children who fail to recognize something done for their own good and
seem to prefer tyranny to reform (O.C. I: 799). Buero refused to allow the scene
to be cut, and the censors eventually authorized it. According to Härtinger,
Un soñador para un pueblo was authorized with cuts on 9 December 1958.
Based on his reading of the files, he claims that O’Connor’s assertion that Buero
agreed to certain modifications with the censors may be true. However, he does
not rule out the possibility that the passages missing from the published text may
have been removed by the author independently of the censors: ‘Ob der Autor
diese Textstellen aus eigener Motivation oder auf Druck der Zensoren gestrichen
hat, läßt sich aus den Unterlagen nicht rekonstruieren.’26 When the play was sub-
mitted to the censor by the Escelicer publishing company in November 1959, it
was authorized.
José Tamayo Rivas, representing the Teatro Español, sought permission in
November 1960 to stage Las Meninas in the 1960–61 season.27 The play fea-
tures Velázquez as protagonist and deals with art censorship, corruption in the
court and the exploitation of the Spanish people by their political masters.
The censor José María Cano considered it ‘una obra muy digna por su densidad
psicológica y su profunda densidad dramática’, and for its ‘excelente calidad
literaria’, yet he did pick out ‘posibles alusiones a problemas actuales’, includ-
ing the portrait of a corrupt court and particularly the opportunistic marquis.
25 Unfortunately, the documents in the Archive relating to this play are unavailable for
consultation, owing to their poor condition. Therefore, secondary sources must be relied upon,
such as the information provided by P. W. O’Connor, who viewed the documents in 1966, and
Heribert Härtinger, who viewed them in 1996.
26 Heribert Härtinger, Oppositionstheater in der Diktatur. Spanienkritik im Werk des
Dramatikers Antonio Buero Vallejo vor dem Hintergrund der franquistischen Zensur, Studia
Litteraria, Band 8 (Wilhelmsfeld: Gottfried Egert, 1997), pp. 156–7. Whether the author of
these passages deleted them for his own motives, or as the result of pressure from the censors,
cannot be determined from the documents.
27 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60.
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80 CATHERINE O’LEARY
frío, despiadado’. The report also notes that, of the dramatist’s opus, Mother
Courage and her Children was the least political play; yet, according to the
author of the report, this fact simply highlights the dramatist’s ideas about ‘la
malignidad de la despreciable sociedad actual’. Moreover, the report observes
that, ‘desde el punto de vista moral, la obra es realmente terrible.’Another applica-
tion to stage Buero’s version of the play was made in 1964, and the director was
the influential José Tamayo. Madre Coraje y sus hijos (Mother Courage and her
Children), because of its author and, given the circumstances because of the
adaptor also, was the subject of intense censorial scrutiny. It was subjected to a
plenary session of the Junta de censura at which, of the sixteen censors, fifteen
recommended its authorization and only one advocated prohibition. Cuts sug-
gested by many censors included the elimination of derogatory references to
God, soldiers, Catholicism and the clergy. Marcelo Arroita Jáuregui Alonso, who
recommended the prohibition of the play, noted in his report that if it were
merely an anti-war play, he would not object to it, but as it was ‘anti-militarista’
and ‘anti-religiosa’ as well as ‘rotundamente marxista’, pessimistic and divisive,
he found it unacceptable. Yet despite this, he concluded: ‘Todo ello no supone
un juicio adverso sobre sus calidades dramáticas y literarias, que son extraordi-
narias, y que tienen adecuado reflejo en esta versión española.’
The moral report penned by Padre A. Avelino Esteban y Romero is remark-
able for the lack of offence taken. Having highlighted the protagonist’s lax
morals and political opportunism, he concluded: ‘Tal vez si hubiese de señalar
tesis en la obra, destacaría el posible sentido pacifista que encierra su trama, al
presentar la inutilidad de las guerras, el negocio que suponen para muchos de los
que las provocan.’ He pointed out that the priest’s attempts to seduce the protag-
onist might be suppressed, ‘teniendo en cuenta la sensibilidad del público
español ante escenas de este índole, en referencia a los sacerdotes’. He himself,
however, seemed unshocked, demonstrating an attitude quite typical of the cen-
sors who, in the name of the common good, protected the people from harm. As
in Buero’s Un soñador para un pueblo, the populace are viewed as intellectually
weak, a bewildered herd in need of strong leadership. The play was authorized
with nine cuts in April 1964. However, a letter from Tamayo in October 1966,
the month of its estreno in Madrid, suggests that it had not been staged in the
interim. Moreover, the play, like his version of Hamlet, had to be further cut to
accommodate the Spanish theatre timetable.
La doble historia del doctor Valmy is a direct attack on one of the repressive
ideological apparatuses used by the Spanish dictatorship. The structure of the
play demands that the spectator recognize it as such and elect to believe or dis-
believe Buero’s exposé of this ideology. The play is critical of torture as a
weapon but also of the ideological concept of patriotism, exposed here, as in Las
Meninas, as falsified. Buero wrote La doble historia del Doctor Varga (later
renamed La doble historia del doctor Valmy) in 1964, and a theatre company
expressed an interest in staging it. However, the censors who read the play were
not forthcoming with a verdict. La doble historia del doctor Valmy focuses on
two separate, but related, case studies, which are enacted on stage from the case
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82 CATHERINE O’LEARY
notes of the doctor. The second of these is the centre of most of the dramatic
action. It is the story of Daniel and Mary Barnes, who live with their child and
Daniel’s mother in a city in the fictional land of Surelia. Daniel, a member of the
security police, is involved in the detention and torture of political prisoners.
While ‘just doing his job’, he tortured and castrated a prisoner called Aníbal
Marty, who died as a result. Daniel’s psychosomatic impotence is a consequence
of this incident. His wife Mary who, like his mother, has lived in comfortable
and wilful ignorance of his actions, is enlightened by Lucila, the dead man’s
widow, and is repulsed and outraged by her husband’s actions, demanding that
he act positively and leave his job. When Daniel eventually sees past the propa-
ganda and attempts to leave his job, he is threatened by Paulus who considers his
behaviour to be treasonous. Paulus, ostensibly a family friend and father figure
for Daniel, is a former beau of Daniel’s mother who may be taking revenge on
Daniel for his mother’s rejection of him. Daniel’s failure to leave his job leads
Mary to kill him in a negative action that will lead to her own demise and pos-
sibly ruin her son’s life, as he will be left in the care of his grandmother whose
decision to ignore the truth of the situation already damaged her son. In the end,
both Mary and Lucila are arrested by her husband’s former colleagues and are
destined to become two more victims of a brutal regime. The cycle of terror can
be halted only by those willing to open their eyes, recognize the problem and
then fight to change it. Mary took the first step and will suffer for it.
However, the fate of the other Marys and the next generation is determined by
the characters of the first case history, the ‘normal’ couple, dressed like other
theatre-goers, who refuse to accept the truth of the Barnes’s story, preferring the
official rose-tinted version of events, that everything is fine and that the police
and their political superiors always act in the best interests of the populace. The
play is a direct challenge to members of the audience to open their eyes and
accept responsibility for their actions or inaction. It emerges that the ‘normal’
couple were neighbours of the Barnes family, whose denial of the reality of the
events described in the second case history is diagnosed by Doctor Valmy as
delusional behaviour. Buero, through Doctor Valmy, thus commented on the
sanity, or otherwise, of a society that is prepared to tolerate torture in the name
of the common good and suggests that torture damages, not only its victims but
the torturer and society at large. Mary’s action, which could be seen as a type of
madness, is a further comment on sanity in a world gone mad. It is thus an attack
on the collusion of the public, which is a necessary element in the upholding of
any ideology, and particularly in the extraordinary success of the Francoist ideol-
ogy in Spain; it is also a frank condemnation of police brutality and torture, at a
time when this was a topical issue in Spain. In all, then, it is hardly surprising
that the play did not make it past the censors.
In July 1964, the resident company at the Teatro de la Comedia applied to the
MIT for permission to stage La doble historia del doctor Varga, as it was then
called. The play was read by three censors, Padre Luis González Fierro,
Bartólome Mostaza and José Luis Vázquez Dodero. Bartolomé Mostaza, like
Padre González Fierro, deemed the play suitable for over 18s, once the many cuts
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were made. Neither considered it suitable for broadcast. The third censor, José
Luis Vázquez Dodero, made similar recommendations. The verdict of the cen-
sorship board, which met on 28 July 1964, was that the play could be authorized
with cuts for over 18s but not for broadcast. The suggested suppressions dealt
mostly with matters sexual. Another prerequisite for authorization was the
‘extranjerización de los nombres de los personajes’ and the date proposed for the
staging would also be taken into consideration.30 However, the theatre company,
not having received a definitive answer, withdrew its proposal to stage the play.
Later that same year, Alfonso Paso wrote to the Director General de
Cinematografía y Teatro, on behalf of the Ramón Clemente theatre company,
seeking permission to stage La doble historia del doctor Valmy in Madrid’s
Reina Victoria theatre in early 1965. He had written to Manuel Fraga two months
previously, in August, to announce his plans to stage the play, still referred to as
La doble historia del doctor Varga, in Barcelona in October 1964 and in Madrid
in early 1965. Unofficially, he had been told that the play would be authorized
once some minor cuts had been made. One of these changes was the renaming
of the play so that it now referred to Dr Valmy and not Dr Varga. The newly
named play was then sent to the censors once again for a verdict. The first meet-
ing of the Junta de Censura on 3 October 1964 involved the same three censors
who had read it in July. Padre Fierro referred the Board back to his earlier ver-
dict and added that the first case study should be eliminated. Sr Mostaza also
proposed the elimination of the two characters of the first case history and the
references to sex and impotence on pages 23 and 25 of Act I. Sr Vázquez Dodero
agreed with the other censors and added to their verdicts a recommendation that
further examples of bad taste be censored. This time it was decided to submit the
play to the rigours of a full censorship board, and the play was dispatched to a
further seven censors before a meeting of the Junta was convened on 27 October
1964. Once again, the censors found rather a lot to occupy them.
Sebastián Bautista de la Torre disapproved of the name of the imaginary coun-
try, Surelia, for it contained the word sur, and therefore could be taken to imply
that such police abuses did not take place in the North or in the Centre (of
Europe?): ‘Aunque creemos que en Nortelia o Centralia se dan más estos casos
sería mejor que no se jugase con ningún punto cardinal y se diere un nombre
totalmente neutro.’ In short, by now the number of recommended cuts had
increased and the entire first case history had been blackballed. The characters’
names were to be changed to foreign names and the name Surelia changed. In
an uncharacteristic expression of imposibilismo, Buero refused to accept the cuts
and, as a result, the play was not authorized. In their reports on the play, not one
of the censors refers to the censorship norms on which they based their verdicts.
30 ‘No se expidera guía de censura hasta conocer la fecha de su estreno para decidir una
vez en posesión de este dato sobre la conveniencia o no de otorgar la documentación dada las
características de la obra en relación con su posible negativa interpretación en el caso de
coincidir su estreno con detenciones y condenas de extremistas o autores de atentados.’
AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64.
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84 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Esta obra fue presentada a la censura hace ya años. La Junta entendió que se
podía autorizar con los cortes que figuran en el texto, impuestos tanto por lo
delicado del tema, como por sus posibles implicaciones políticas. En atención
a estas, entendió, además, que no debía dar dictamen definitivo sobre la obra
hasta conocer la fecha en que fuera a estrenarse, teniendo en cuenta la posi-
bilidad de que, circunstancias determinadas la hicieran peligrosa en ese
momento. Por consiguiente, no hubo dictamen oficial de censura.31
He noted that Buero had alluded to the play in the press and had reiterated his
intention not to accept any cuts. It is likely that this act of defiance on the drama-
tist’s part influenced the ensuing decision to ban the play. It was prohibited by
the Minister on 15 March 1966, in accordance with Article 22 of the Reglamento
de Régimen Interior (Appendix VI).32 One year later, in February 1967, Juan
Calet Pérez, representing the Ismael Merlo theatre company, sent an application
to the MIT requesting authorization to stage La doble historia del doctor Valmy.
Permission was refused in a letter dated 13 March 1967.
La doble historia del doctor Valmy was first published in the United States in
1967 in both Spanish and English in the September issue of Artes Hispánicos.
An English version, by Farris Anderson, was premiered at the inauguration of
the Gateway Theatre, Chester (England), on 22 November 1968. In Chester the
play received mixed reviews, mostly good, in the press, although some people
walked out of the Gala premiere in disgust, leading one to conclude that perhaps
Buero was right and voluntary blindness is a universal rather than a merely
Spanish failing. The play was not staged in Spain until after the death of Franco,
and even then only after much deliberation by the censors.
El tragaluz is a social drama with futuristic, science fiction-inspired elements.
The action of the play is introduced by two researchers from the future as a type
of virtual reality trip back through time to late twentieth-century Madrid. There
are references to the immediate aftermath of the Civil War and the hardships
endured by one particular family as a result of their post-war experiences. It is
Letter dated 15 March 1966. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-64.
31
Pleno y solicitar del Ministro de Información y Turismo su revisión por una Comisión especial
constituída al efecto para cada caso por las personas que el Ministro designe. Éste, por propia
iniciativa, podrá ordenar dicha revisión e incluso, en casos extraordinarios, acordar por sí
mismo, en el momento en que especiales circunstancias lo aconsejen, la decisión que
considere oportuna en orden a la autorización o prohibición de las obras o a las medidas
excepcionales a que se condicionen la autorización. Orden 6 febrero 1964, de la Junta de
Censura de Obras Teatrales y las Normas de Censura, p. 2506.
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a tale of persecution, abuse and exploitation and questions not only the exploiter,
but the victims, some of whom exempt themselves from action. The Archive
contains copies of the text, with four cuts recommended by the censors in Part I
(pages 31–2, 33, 35, 41) and two in Part II (pages 13, 45), with other minor marks
on a further eight pages. The latter seem to have been ignored. The cuts high-
lighted on pages 31–2 and 45 are amended in the censors’ copy of the text, pre-
sumably salvaged by Buero himself. They are published in the agreed amended
form in the Obra Completa. In the censored dialogue on pages 31 and 32 of Part I,
the character Encarna talks of her family’s move to Madrid from the country in
search of a better life:
Encarna’s statement about the hardship suffered by her father in the aftermath of
the Civil War was not cut. Such a cut might have been expected, given that this
hardship, suffered by many Spaniards who migrated to Madrid and the larger
cities, was denied by government propaganda, which attempted to create the illu-
sion that the post-war years were years of sufficiency, if not of plenty. However,
Mario’s sarcastic equation of this sorry state of affairs with progress, in a direct
jibe at the regime’s propaganda, was too much for the censor to accept. The
censor crossed out the end of Encarna’s speech and moved ‘como tantos otros’
to where Mario’s reply had been (O.C. I: 1129). Buero, perhaps feeling that the
point had been made in Encarna’s speech, accepted the suppression and replace-
ment proposed. On page 45 of Part II, Mario confronts Vicente about his past
action, when, in the immediate aftermath of the war, Vicente had boarded the
train to safety, thus saving himself. However, by taking the family’s food supplies
with him, he condemned his young sister to death by starvation. Nonetheless,
Mario’s reproach is more for his continued victim-making in adulthood, rather
than for one selfish and terrible action when a boy:
MARIO La guerra había sido atroz para todos, el futuro era incierto y, de
pronto, comprendiste que el saco era tu primer botín. No te culpo
del todo: sólo eras un muchacho hambriento y asustado. Nos tocó
crecer en un tiempo de asesinos y nos hemos hecho hombres en un
tiempo de ladrones.
This last sentence was bowdlerized and replaced with Nos tocó crecer en años
difíciles, a much less harsh version of events, more in keeping with the official
86 CATHERINE O’LEARY
myth (O.C. I: 1176). This still leaves four recommended cuts, on pages 33, 35 and
41 of Part I, and on page 13 of Part II. However, there is some confusion about the
cuts made. O’Connor suggests that a further two of the original six proposed cuts
were avoided, but claims that the cuts finally made were those on pages 13 and 45
of Part II.34 A report on the publication of the play by a censor in the Sección de
Lectorado seems to support O’Connor’s claim that two cuts were made. However,
the cuts referred to here correspond to those on pages 35 and 41 of Part I.
A comparison of the suggested cuts with the version of the text published in the
Obra Completa leads one to conclude that all but the cut on page 13 of Part II
were avoided. On page 13, Vicente tries to persuade his brother to come to work
at the publishing company where he works. Mario refuses, for he equates that
world with his brother’s exploitation of others. He has chosen poverty and
inaction over his brother’s comfortable, but destructive, lifestyle. In answer to his
brother’s offer, he states:
The idea of people being forced, because of hardship, into jobs to which they are
not suited or in which they are unhappy, is bad enough, but to suggest that there
are policemen without love of country and priests without vocations, and more-
over to associate them with prostitutes and rogues, was tantamount to a direct
attack on the pillars of Francoist society. The italicized phrase does not appear
in the published version (O.C. I: 1158). In contrast, the cuts recommended on
pages 33, 35 and 41 of Part I appear uncut in the published version.
The cut indicated on page 35 was a direct mention of the Civil War:
less sure about which cuts were made. Oppositionstheater, pp. 142–3.
35 AGA/IDD 50.06 Topogr. 21-23 Ca. 18.765 Exp. 1407-68.
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would appear to be supported by the fact that both appear in the published
version:
88 CATHERINE O’LEARY
criticism of an oppressive regime comparable to the one they served and the usual
objections to any suggestion of sexual impropriety on the part of some characters.
The parallels between the circumstances of the artist Goya during the reign of the
tyrannical King Fernando VII and the circumstances of the modern artist or writer
struggling to work in Franco’s Spain did not pass unnoticed by the censors. In July
1969, José Osuna applied to the MIT for permission to stage El sueño de la razón
in the Reina Victoria theatre in Madrid in the January 1970 season. The play was
read by three censors, Padre Artola, Sebastián Bautista de la Torre and Srta María
Nieves Sunyer, before the Junta de Censura met on 22 July 1969. Padre Artola’s
main concern was the scene in Act II where Leocadia is raped by the Royal
Volunteers, but overall he considered the play suitable for adults. Sr Bautista de
la Torre agreed with Padre Artola that the rape scene could not be tolerated. He
also accused Buero of propaganda, stating ‘se le ha ido la mano con el chafarrinón
folletinesco y subversivo’ and recommended that the play be viewed by more
censors and possibly their superiors.38 Srta Sunyer also expressed her disquiet
about the rape scene and recommended that other censors read the play.
Following the first meeting of the censorship board a nota informativa about
the play was sent from the Jefe de la Sección de Teatro to the Subdirector General
de Espectáculos, with a summary of the verdict and comments of the censors and
highlighting the ‘tendenciosa intención’ of Buero Vallejo in his condemnation of
absolutism and his sympathy for ‘los liberales oprimidos’ (Appendix VII). The
prologue was also highlighted as in it Buero explained that although he was not
a Monarchist, the play was not anti-Monarchist, but rather anti-absolutist. There
was also mention of the ‘inoportunidad del tema en los presentes momentos
políticos del país’, a concern earlier displayed at the time of the proposed staging
of La doble historia del doctor Valmy.
No more was heard about the play until November when José Osuna, having
been promised a verdict by September, wrote to the Subdirector General de
Espectáculos, Sr Francisco Sanabria, to enquire about the delay; he had prom-
ised to provide the theatre in question with the necessary documentation by
October, but he received no satisfaction from the censors. In late November
the play was sent to a further thirteen censors for review. Eleven of these had
returned a verdict by the meeting of the Junta on 2 December 1969, and a fur-
ther two censors were consulted on that date and asked to return a verdict by the
ninth, when the Junta was to meet again. Most censors agreed that Fernando VII
was deserving of the criticism meted out in the play, and one censor noted:
‘Fernando VII es el único monarca de esa familia que no tiene calle en Madrid.
Por algo será.’ The overall consensus was that the play should be authorized for
adults, but not for broadcast, and that special attention should be given to the
final scenes depicting the assault on Goya and Leocadia, strangely considered by
one of the censors to be erotic. Another expressed his concern that the end of the
play might degenerate into pornography. Furthermore, a note was sent to the Jefe
de la Asesoria Jurídica del Departamento, requesting clarification on the issue
JULIO Pero hay locos . . . y el temor los multiplica . . . Y una legión de gen-
eralotes en todos los países, convencidos de que el estado perfecto del
hombre es el de combatiente . . . Y también hay accidentes. Cerca
de aquí ya hubo uno. Hasta un ministro se bañó en el mar para
demostrar que la irradiación no afectó al agua . . . Los irradiados de
tierra no pudieron bañarse con él: estaban hospitalizados. Habrá más,
lo mismo que, de vez en cuando, estalla un polvorín. Y la tierra es hoy
un polvorín gigantesco.41
JULIO Pero hay locos . . . Y el temor los multiplica . . . Y también hay acci-
dentes. De vez en cuando, estalla un polvorín. Y la tierra es hoy un
polvorín gigantesco (O.C. I: 1370).
Another political point made by one of the characters was also removed. Julio
and Nuria are discussing their parents’ wealth:
NURIA Los pobres ya no son tan pobres.
JULIO No digas tonterías.
39 In the censor’s copy of the text the Nota al programa is crossed out, although it seems
to have been accepted later. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.583.
40 In 1975, Llegada de los dioses was authorized for over 14s under the recently introduced
classification system. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.612. However, the censors used
an old copy of the text, which had cuts indicated by an earlier censor. Of his seven recommended
cuts, only that on p. 37 seems to have made it to the final report.
41 Llegada de los dioses, Censors’ copy of text. AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-57 Ca. 87.612.
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90 CATHERINE O’LEARY
The italicized phrase appears on page 42 of the censor’s copy, but is not in the
published copy (O.C. I: 1361).
La Fundación was the last play to be written and staged by Buero Vallejo
before the death of Franco. It was premiered in 1974. After initial difficulties
with the company that was going to stage the play, it was taken on by another
company, which applied to the MIT for authorization in February 1973. The play
was referred to a Comisión especial, which had the power to overrule the deci-
sion of the plenary, and the prognosis seemed bad; it was lost in silencio admin-
istrativo for months. Its eventual authorization with some cuts of a political
nature coincided with a ministerial reshuffle.42
The play, which is set in a prison, deals with a group of political prisoners and
in particular Tomás, the prisoner whose inability to withstand torture had led to
the arrest and imprisonment of the others who share his cell. Since his incarcer-
ation he has retreated into a fantasy world where the prison cell has become a
room in a luxurious research foundation, the warders are the foundation’s help-
ful staff, eager to satisfy his every whim, and the men he helped to condemn are
his friends and fellow researchers. The play is not only a call to Tomás and oth-
ers beyond the stage to ‘abrir los ojos’, to face reality and responsibility and thus
move on, but also a denunciation of sadistic, cruel violence and torture and the
political masters who use it to eliminate the voice of the opposition; it is also one
of Buero’s more developed explorations of ideology and society, in which he
acknowledges, through the character of Asel, the similarities of all dominant
ideologies, or at least of the methodology employed to uphold and defend them.
In this play, as in La doble historia del doctor Valmy before, he examines the ideo-
logical similarity of torturer to the tortured.
The play was the subject of an ordinary and later, on 30 March 1973, a plen-
ary session of the censorship board. Sr Mampaso summarized the argument of
the play thus:
42 Buero also commented: ‘De otras dificultades en cuanto a reparto, hallazgo de decorador,
etc., no merece la pena hablar, pero también fueron angustiosas.’ In ‘Cinco preguntas a los autores
que estrenaron’, Primer Acto, nos 170–1 (1974), 13–23 (p. 14).
43 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.495 Exp. 145-73.
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He noted Buero’s intention and indeed seemed to recognize the point about the
nature of ideology and struggle, and the concept of freedom in society:
Es otra vez el Buero Vallejo de los buenos oprimidos y los malos en el poder,
de los vencidos y los verdugos, el de los recuerdos de sus años de carcel,
aunque en esta ocasión, la obra está menos localizada y no tiene alusión a la
Guerra Civil, ni a España y además en algún pasaje se insinúa la duda fatalista
de si el triunfo será siempre así, si los mismos revolucionarios encarcelados,
no llegarían a ser también verdugos en su hipotético triunfo.
92 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Also included among the documents in the file is an urgent note from the Jefe
de la Sección de Promoción Teatral to the Subdirector General de Teatro,
informing him of the censors’ reports, ‘tanto por la importancia del texto como
por la personalidad del autor’. While Buero was not a banned author, the cen-
sors’ emphasis on his ‘personality’ here, as in the report on Madre Coraje y sus
hijos (Mother Courage and her Children), suggests that the dramatist was con-
sidered, by the regime at least, to be opposed to its rule. Despite the care taken
at the rehearsal, it must be acknowledged that, given the circumstances and the
country in which it was being staged, it seemed unlikely that the audience
would be unaware of the similarities to their own country and political
situation.
Of course, in any examination of censorship as an ideological tool, that which
escapes censorship is also of note. Many of Buero’s attacks on ideology and
society in Francoist Spain escaped the attention of the censors. Certainly, the
censors who read La tejedora de sueños, like those who read En la ardiente
oscuridad and Las palabras en la arena, seem not to have been aware of any
political analogy contained in the drama. Emilio Morales de Acevedo wrote of
La tejedora de sueños: ‘Sin ofensar a la ortodoxia,’ yet clearly there exists a pos-
sible anti-regime reading of this play, which can be interpreted as Buero’s sub-
version of the Nationalist redemption myth.44 However, if those whose job it is
to find such readings failed to do so, one must ask if the audience and indeed the
actors, picked up the criticism of the dominant ideology contained in the portrait
of the returning hero. If not, then Buero’s effort was in vain. La tejedora de
sueños was authorized without cuts on 9 October 1950. Likewise, in Las pal-
abras en la arena, Buero turned traditional Catholic mythology into an argument
against the Catholic-supported regime.
Similarly, Hoy es fiesta, an early play containing some mild criticism of
poverty and social conditions, was judged to present neither political nor moral
problems for the regime and was authorized without cuts. Las cartas boca abajo,
while initially authorized without cuts for over 16s in 1957, was thereafter
staged mostly in teatros de cámara. Sr Morales de Acevedo did not rate highly
its literary worth but found it suitable for a ‘público selecto y bondadoso’.45
El concierto de San Ovidio (1962) is a historical play critical of the negative
influence of state and social institutions, such as the Church and the police;
it also condemns opportunistic and exploitative businesses, which abuse the
weakest members of society for personal gain, while at the same time making
Buero’s Contemporaries
Many other dramatists besides Buero suffered at the hands of the censors. The
most interesting of these is probably Alfonso Sastre. More than most other
dramatists of the period, Sastre demonstrated a real interest in reforming the the-
atre structure and attracting a new audience, with groups such as Arte Nuevo,
TAS and the Grupo de Teatro Realista (GTR). In contrast to the pre-Civil War
reformers, his ideological motivation was, initially at least, Nationalist. However,
contrary to common opinion, most of the works of Alfonso Sastre that were the
subject of applications were authorized by the censors. Of the 57 applications
listed in the Archive (47 under Franco), only 5 are listed as prohibited (AGA/IDD
46). It must be granted however, that Escuadra hacia la muerte, listed as author-
ized, was later withdrawn and was refused authorization for almost a decade.
Other plays were approved for teatros de cámara only, or were later prohibited.
A further 10 were listed as authorized with cuts. This was variable, however, and
a play authorized without cuts at one time could be cut later.
Since he is generally viewed as the most radical of the committed dramatists,
it is interesting to note that initially Sastre’s plays seem to have been authorized
because of what was correctly perceived to be the dramatist’s Nationalist ideo-
logy. Even though Buero’s works were less overtly politicized, they were cer-
tainly never interpreted by the censors as pro-regime or anti-Communist, as the
works of Sastre occasionally were. Yet on the whole, Sastre’s dealings with the
94 CATHERINE O’LEARY
censors would seem to have been more difficult than Buero’s. Sastre has stated
that the overall effect of censorship on his work was devastating: ‘No existo. He
sido borrado de todas las listas . . . Salvo de las listas negras, por supuesto: por
lo que se refiere a éstas, estoy en todas.’47 While the censorship of his work was
certainly harsh, he may have been overstating his case. Alfonso Sastre was cer-
tainly more heavily censored than Buero Vallejo, but not as much as some of his
statements might induce one to believe. His less than conciliatory attitude
towards the censors did little to help in his struggles to have his work staged.
Like the works of Buero, most of Sastre’s plays suffered some cuts.
The initial confusion among the censors regarding Sastre’s ideology is exem-
plified in the documents relating to Escuadra hacia la muerte, which was viewed
by the censors in 1953. The application to stage the play came from a branch of
the SEU.48 Sastre termed the play:
The censor Bartolomé Mostaza considered the play to be pessimistic but morally
sound. Sastre’s connections with the SEU and his Nationalist leanings at the time
seem to have helped him. The report of the Sección de Teatro stipulated that the
play was only suitable for teatros de cámara y ensayo, and ‘siempre que su
puesta en escena se lleve a cabo por organizaciones u organismos de signifi-
cación política perfectamente definida y encuadrada en la línea doctrinal de nue-
stro Estado’. Thus the fact that the application came from the SEU allowed for
a non-threatening interpretation of the play, which in other hands might have
been given an anti-regime slant. Another censor, Gumersindo Montes Agudo,
also recognizing the possible danger, wrote: ‘No debe darse ante públicos prop-
uestos a dudas y extrañas ideologías.’ In March 1953, the play was staged by the
Teatro Popular Universitario in the María Guerrero theatre in Madrid; it was to
move to the normal programme of the María Guerrero but was withdrawn after
the third show, owing to pressure on the censorship body from the military,
which correctly interpreted its anti-militarism.
Rivera and de las Heras, ‘Encuesta sobre la censura: 25 autores’, no. 165, 4–14 (p. 5).
47
fact, in 1954, the staging of the final scene was authorized by the Ministry, for one
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performance only, in a homage to the author on the occasion of the staging of La mordaza. As
the documents in the Archive demonstrate, by 1962, this play was being authorized again,
albeit with certain restrictions on the style of uniforms to be used.
51 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.681 Exp. 377-53; Ca. 71.678 Exp. 401-53;
96 CATHERINE O’LEARY
Once again, and rather naïvely at this stage, it appears that the censors consid-
ered Sastre’s intention to have been other than malicious, and instead blamed
audience misinterpretation of the play.
Yet Sastre was not always a posibilista, and the correspondence between the
dramatist and the censors betrays an at times confrontational attitude on the part
of Sastre in his dealings with the censors. In 1958, Tierra roja was prohibited.53
The provocative nota previa written by the author and included in the text exam-
ined by the censors cannot have helped. In it Sastre pointed out that the play,
about a popular revolt in a mining community, did not refer to a particular event
in Spanish history; yet he then went on to state: ‘Los hechos a que asistimos en
el drama han sucedido, de un modo o de otro, en una tierra de España, y en uno
o en otro momento de su historia reciente.’
Clearly chosen for their ideological as well as their artistic worth, the plays
adapted by Sastre also had difficulties with the censors, although to a lesser
degree than the author’s own work. This seems to support the complaint of many
Spanish dramatists that home-produced drama of protest was less acceptable in
Spain than that written by foreign authors. In June 1958 his adaptation of
Euripides’ Medea was authorized without cuts, and in 1960, his version of
Strindberg’s Los acreedores (Creditors) was also authorized.54 The problems
arose with Sastre’s more political choices, such as his adaptations of the plays of
Jean-Paul Sartre, an author unloved by the Franco regime. Sastre’s version of
Huis clos, called El infierno, was the subject of a plenary session of the Junta de
Censura.55 It was finally authorized, but with certain modifications, including the
changing of the title from El infierno to A puerta cerrada. Certain censors also
found fault with the references to lesbianism and to God, and the atheism of the
author; the inclusion of an introduction by Simone de Beauvoir, explaining the
political commitment of Sartre, was struck out. Sastre’s version of Morts sans
sepulture (Muertos sin sepultura) was authorized in December 1967 for teatros
de cámara.56 Objections were made to the inclusion in the set design of a por-
trait of Pétain. A definitive version, approved by Sartre himself, was subjected to
censorship in February 1968. It was read by sixteen censors, six of whom rec-
ommended its prohibition; it was finally authorized with cuts on thirteen pages.
The violent language and the representation of torture seem to have been the
cause of concern for the censors. Some also mention the need to stress the
historical nature of the play, or the fact that it is an attack on a French regime,
taking care not to link it in any way to recent events in Spain. Interesting too is
the censors’ defence of Pétain, who is portrayed less than favourably in the play.
María Luz Morales wrote in her report that ‘el retrato de Pétain y la escena de la
página 56 [que] ofende a una figura gloriosa a quien no podemos ni debemos
juzgar’. Sr Romero also refers in his report to the unjust treatment, both in the
play and in French society, of ‘el glorioso mariscal Pétain’. Finally, Srta Sunyer
wrote that ‘en la puesta en escena en España trataría de salvar la figura de este
gran francés y tan amigo de España’.
Many other Spanish dramatists also saw their work modified, mutilated or pro-
hibited. Of the twenty-four plays by Carlos Muñiz listed as the subject of applica-
tions under Franco, two were prohibited (AGA/IDD 46). They were Lola, espejo
oscuro, based on the novel by Fernández Flórez, which was prohibited in 1964,
and his Tragicomedia del serenísimo príncipe Don Carlos, which was prohibited
54 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.706 Exp. 150-58; Ca. 71.715 Exp. 305-60.
55 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.166 Exp. 125-67.
56 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 72-38 Ca. 87.547 Exp. 363-67; Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.814
Exp. 76-68.
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98 CATHERINE O’LEARY
in 1972. A further two are listed without a verdict, perhaps the subject of silencio
administrativo, and another seven plays were cut. One of these, El tintero, was
finally authorized in 1961 for staging in Madrid only.57 The application to stage
the play had been made in November 1960. The censors reacted negatively to the
play, and one of them, Sr Villares, wrote: ‘Fomenta la amargura y el resen-
timiento y muchos que llevan una vida estrecha podrían encontrarse en el mismo
caso.’ For Sr Montes Agudo, El tintero was highly politicized, a ‘panfleto lleno
de violencia discursiva y pretenciones demogógicas’. The most interesting
comments however, were contained in the patronizing moral report submitted by
Padre Avelino Esteban y Romero, who wrote: ‘No creo se deba prohibir. Se debe
castigar al autor autorizándole esta comedia, y que se enfrente con el público.’
Like Buero and Sastre, Muñiz protested against the regime’s treatment of the
Asturian miners, and his action earned his dismissal from his job at the state
broadcasting service. He stated in an interview: ‘En la mayoría de mis obras han
sido prohibidas frases o palabras sueltas. Casi ninguna salió de censura sin
mutilación.’58
The first Spanish play to deal specifically with the Civil War was written by
another committed dramatist, José Martín Recuerda, in 1953. Not surprisingly,
La llanura was heavily censored. Another of his plays, titled Las arrecogias del
Beatario de Sta. María Egipciaca, based on the life of Mariana Pineda, was pro-
hibited in 1971 and remained unstaged until 1980. In Martín Recuerda’s El
engañao, foul language and criticisms of the Roman Catholic Church were
removed.59 Of the eighteen of his plays listed as subjected to Francoist censor-
ship, one was prohibited and eight suffered cuts (AGA/IDD 46). Another of the
so-called Realists, José María Rodríguez Méndez, wrote Bodas que fueron
famosas del Pingajo y la Fandanga, which was set among the poor in Madrid
in 1898 and was decidedly anti-military in sentiment. Its inclusion in a theatre
collection was prohibited in 1968. On the list held in the Archive, it is included
four times (AGA/IDD 46). There is no verdict listed in 1967 or 1970. In 1974
it was authorized, and in the post-Franco period it was given a 14s rating.
Another play, Los quinquis de Madriz was prohibited in 1970. Other works
were prohibited or cut, yet there seems to have been little continuity in the appli-
cation of the legislation. Vagones de Madera, first listed in 1960, was sometimes
authorized, sometimes not. Occasionally, a play would be judged suitable for
staging, yet not for broadcast. Other plays, such as his El milagro del pan y de
los peces, even after pruning, were considered suitable only for teatros de
cámara. His version of The Caucasian Chalk Circle was prohibited in May 1962
but authorized later that same year. A play titled El Ghetto, o la irresistible
ascención de Manuel Contreras was prohibited in 1972, and Flor de otoño: una
historia del barrio chino was prohibited in 1974 before finally being authorized
in 1982.
Government Censorship’, Theatre Survey, 14 (no. 2, 1973), 33– 45 (pp. 42–3). The play is
listed as authorized in AGA/IDD 46. It must be acknowledged that this list is not always
reliable.
61 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.155 Exp. 127-66.
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Even the considerable weight of an application from the director of the Nuria
Espert Company, with its stress on the worldwide fame and acceptance of the
play, was insufficient to sway the censors from their prohibition of El gran cer-
emonial, which the censor Florentino Soria termed a ‘cúmulo de atrocidades’.62
Regarding the works of Arrabal, the censors were conscious that the innocent
tone adopted usually disguised something objectionable. The censor Bautista de
la Torre condemned the play Ciugrena (an anagram of Guernica) for its title
alone, as he believed that the content was sufficiently obscured by Arrabal’s
style:
Sin embargo me previenen para un informe favorable las muy especiales cir-
cunstancias del dramaturgo. Aunque yo no advierto en la obra ningún sentido
oculto de supuesta simbología, ¿quién nos asegura, siguiendo las últimas sali-
das de Arrabal, que la amante torturada no sea la España vencida y que el
amante que la somete a las dulces caricias de los latigazos y las ortigas no sea
el actual Regimen? . . . Y aunque así no fuera, ¿quién nos garantiza que su
estreno no le brindaría la oportunidad de nuevas arremetidas contra España
como ya lo hizo recientemente?
The other two censors, while also noting the significance of the author, recom-
mended its authorization for teatros de cámara. However, the Minister was con-
sulted and the play was banned, like Buero’s La doble historia del doctor Valmy,
in accordance with article 22 of the Reglamento de Regimen Interior de la Junta
de Censura Teatral (1964).
Unlike Buero, Arrabal made few concessions to the sensibilities of the censors
or a bourgeois audience. He has said: ‘Yo ignoro la censura: jamás he escrito una
línea preocupado por ella. Soy optimista: lo que hoy se nos prohibe mañana verá
la luz.’65 His work could not be described as posibilista. Rather, it was imposi-
bilista, but as defined by Sastre, not Buero. His success abroad and his self-
imposed exile in France meant that he did not rely upon success in Spain for his
livelihood. Yet even in France, his work was polemical.
While it often seemed that it was easier to stage foreign committed drama
than the domestic variety, works by European committed dramatists, such as
Camus, Sartre and Brecht also faced censorship difficulties in Spain. The cen-
sors generally, and often correctly, suspected the ideological motivation behind
an application to stage such plays. In the case of Brecht’s Antigone, for example,
Padre Cea wrote: ‘Se supone mala intención el ponerla ahora en escena.’66
Sr Bautista de la Torre mentioned the ‘marcada intención política’ of the play
and noted the risk involved in staging it at this time (1969). Sr Martínez Ruiz
considered it dangerous, both for the background and intention of the author and
the version being considered. In the second reading of the play, Sr Mampaso
found it to be not very tendentious, but nonetheless warned of those who ‘con
el pretexto de representar una obra clásica, hacen una puesta en escena de sig-
nificación política contra el Régimen y las instituciones españolas’. Sr Soria
noted: ‘Hay una evidente intención de acercar la obra a las coordenadas políti-
cas de hoy’, but nevertheless recommended its authorization. Another play by
Brecht, The Caucasian Chalk Circle, was authorized for the Teatro Nacional
Universitario in February 1965, once particular negative references to clergy
and soldiers had been eliminated.67
Environmental Censorship
The successful establishment of a New State and the development and inculca-
tion of a supporting ideology meant that censorship was not a labour confined to
those who worked in the ministries in charge of culture and information,
although this was the most direct form of cultural ideological control. Censorship
was in fact much more widespread and insidious. In the state system established
by the Civil War victors, other apparatuses were also used to threaten or punish
the author who failed to toe the official ideological line. State influence reached
the commercial theatres and publishing companies, which in turn established
limits and demanded certain compromises from authors:
65 Rivera and de las Heras, ‘Encuesta sobre la censura: 25 autores’, no. 166, p. 6. This
is generally true, with the possible exception of Ciugrena. However, as the censor noted, the
title of the play so obviously refers to Guernica as to give rise to doubt about Arrabal’s
employment of the anagram as an attempt to fool the censors.
66 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.237 Exp. 89-69.
67 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 72-38 Ca. 87.546 Exp. 93-65.
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de Sociología, no. 21 (1984), 153–72 (p. 154). Abellán has written about the form of
censorship employed by publishing companies in Censura y creación, pp. 97–104.
69 Mangini, Rojos y rebeldes, p. 77.
70 Abellán, ‘La censura teatral’, p. 22.
71 Over the years, Buero signed quite a few documents and manifestos calling for
increased liberty in the arts and fair treatment of certain groups in society. In March 1965, he
signed a document that called for freedom of expression in Spain and later wrote in defence
of Arrabal when he was on trial. He did the same when Alfonso Sastre was a political prisoner
of the regime in 1975. Some of these are contained in the Archive in Alcalá de Henares.
AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 653 Orden público. Armario 48. Hamaca 20.252. Cartas
de intelectuales colectivas.
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striking Asturian miners. Another letter, dated 31 October 1963, was signed by 188
intellectuals. Fraga had written to José Bergamín offering to speak to him on foot
of the first letter. This second letter was the response from the intellectuals.
Durante las pasadas semanas algunos de los firmantes de la carta que se dirigió
a V.E. con motivo de los presuntos malos tratos y sevicias infligidos por miem-
bros de la fuerza pública a mineros y mujeres de la cuenca asturiana, en ocasión
de las recientes huelgas, han tenido comunicación oficial de su respuesta a don
José Bergamín. Ulteriormente, parte de la prensa española ha reproducido
ambas cartas. [. . .] Entendemos que la misión del intelectual en toda sociedad
libre, máxime si dice inspirarse en los principios cristianos, es promover el
esclarecimiento de la verdad y contribuir a la formación de una conciencia
pública. En consecuencia, nuestra actuación se ha guiado y se guía por un
estricto concepto de la responsabilidad; y, de acuerdo con éste, juzgamos que
ninguna autoridad gubernativa en un Estado libre y de derecho se halla titulada
para fijar las normas que han de regir los deberes del intelectual con respecto
a la conciencia pública, deberes de carácter eminentemente privativo y moral.72
They also call for ‘una comisión de juristas, integrada por abogados del Ilustre
Colegio de Madrid’ to examine the events.
As a result of this action, all mention of the names and works of Buero and
the other signatories was excluded from the media, and their work was banned
from the boards of the National Theatres. In fact, it was not until José Osuna used
his considerable influence to stage El tragaluz in 1967 that Buero’s work became
acceptable again. This environmental censorship was not limited to a silence in
relation to those protesters, but also included a media campaign against them.73
Buero commented in an interview with José Luis Vicente Mosquete:
El país entero, el país oficial, se echó sobre nosotros de una forma muy dura
e incluso llegamos a estar procesados. Sólo que con el tiempo decidieron
no seguir adelante: pasaron el caso y lo sobreseyeron, aunque a mí no me ha
llegado aún notificación de tal sobreseimiento. Después de esto, en teoría,
no pasaba nada, pero en la práctica la mayor parte de los firmantes quedamos
muy congelados en los medios de comunicación y yo, concretamente, me pasé
cuatro años sin estrenar.74
El tragaluz fue y es el primer gran éxito que yo tuve con Buero. El concierto
de San Ovidio había sido un éxito de apreciación pero no duró en cartel lo que
todos deseabamos, mientras que El tragaluz estuvo toda la temporada gracias
a un hecho fortuito y quizá malintencionado. Alguien publicó un artículo en
un periódico en el que desvelaba exactamente las claves de la obra. Este
desvelamiento fue lo que hizo que el público acudiera masivamente a
presenciarla.79
imprisoned in 1956, and again briefly in 1961 and in the early 1970s for his
extra-theatrical activities and for those of his wife, Eva Forest.
The culture files also contain information about a Colloquium on Theatre
and Society, organised by the Fulbright Commission, the Asociación Cultural
Hispano-Norteamericana and the American Embassy in Spain. Buero was one of
those invited to participate. However, the conference was not authorized by the
regime, and there is evidence that those in power were unhappy at not being con-
sulted prior to the invitations being sent. A note included in the file suggests
another reason why the event was prohibited:
Sobre la cuestión de los premios en la época, hay que decir que con ellos se
practicaba un ‘bonito’ juego. A un autor lo prohibían pero lo premiaban. Y pre-
miarlo suponía asimilarle, una suerte de tráfico de influencias de la época: te
daban un premio, te influían, te pasaban a su bando y luego te mostraban.
Incluso algún gran autor de ese tiempo fue mostrado como el gran monstruo
de la oposición, de la rojez, asimilado y lleno de honores, lo cual permitía al
poder proclamar: ‘¿Ven ustedes lo buenos que somos?’81
This sounds remarkably like the case of Buero Vallejo, and it fits in with what
he said and with what has been said about him. He claimed not to have sub-
mitted work to competition after the Lope de Vega in 1949, yet he was
awarded many prizes by the theatre Establishment, a fact that led some others
to criticize the dramatist for his collaboration with the regime. The awarding
of the Lope de Vega prize to Buero Vallejo is interesting for another reason.
It caused some controversy, particularly as those in charge of the ceremony
seemed unaware of Buero’s politics until part way through the event.82
80 AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 582 MIT/ 00.725. Notas informativas en general.
81 Lorenzo López Sancho, ‘Carlos Muñiz’, in Teatro breve contemporáneo, pp. 11–13 (p. 12).
82 José Monleón, ‘El Lope de Vega: las subvenciones y la política teatral’, Primer Acto, 3
(no. 259, 1995), 23–5 (p. 24). Ramón de Garciasol remembered the awarding of the
prize to Buero: ‘El alcalde de Madrid le recibió en el Ayuntamiento. Antonio subió por las
escaleras con el monterilla, quien amable y confianzudo le halagaba: “Hombre, ¡qué
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He was not even informed that the rehearsals had begun. Anthony Pasquariello
claims that, in the aftermath of Buero’s victory, stricter controls were introduced
to avoid a repetition of such an error. He further claims that an examination of
those who received the award in the 1950s and 1960s bears this out.84
Pasquariello maintains that the Lope de Vega prize was later used as a tool of
ideological affirmation, to promote certain dramatists. These were the dramatists
who wrote theatre of integration propaganda and who, therefore, served the
regime well. Those promoted by the regime included Ignacio Luca de Tena,
whose work, Pasquariello suggests, did not merit the awards it received or the
elevation of the dramatist to the Real Academia in 1946; he suggests that the
honours bestowed upon him were rather the result of the dramatist’s political
allegiance to the Franco regime. Others who, according to Pasquariello, deserved
neither the praise nor the status awarded to them, included José María Pemán,
Joaquín Calvo Sotelo and José Antonio Giménez Arnau. He logically argues that
when these authors won the Lope de Vega and other prizes, they did so at the
expense of better works by less favoured dramatists. Furthermore, the presence
of a government official and a clergyman on the judging panels for the Lope
de Vega and the Calderón de la Barca awards ensured that the panel would
choose an author who respected the ideological line of the regime. He cites the
example of Calvo Sotelo, who sought advice from Church authorities about
maravilla! Es preciso que haya hombres como usted para que España suba, porque España,
y entre todos . . .”, y toda la mala retórica del régimen. Antonio, como buen dramaturgo,
escuchaba. Y el munícipe quería ser simpático: “Bueno, ya que somos un poco amigos, le voy
a decir a usted una cosa que circula por ahí.” Buero callaba, respetando el papel del alcalde
que proseguía: “Hablando en confianza y con un poco de sinceridad, me han informado que
tienes un hermano . . . ¿cómo diría yo?, un poco así, vamos . . . de la cáscara amarga.”
Antonio, sonriente: “que es rojo”. Y el buen señor: “Hombre, no iba a decir eso . . .”. Antonio
cambió la escena: “Señor alcalde, mi hermano soy yo.” ’ O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en
sus espejos, p. 233.
83 Quoted in O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 255.
84 Anthony Pasquariello, ‘Government Promotion, Honours and Awards: A Corollary to
The truth of this statement is borne out in the treatment of Arrabal, for one. He
further insinuated that the actions of certain critics were ideologically motivated.
Further evidence of this type of environmental censorship is to be found in the
culture files in the Archive at Alcalá. A file on literary prizes contains a note
dated 7 March 1974, which seems to support the theory that the awarding of
literary prizes under Franco was ideologically motivated. The note, signed by
Ricardo de la Cierva, and sent to the Ministro de Información y Cultura, deals
with the Premio Larra dedicated to ‘la memoria sobre la guerra civil española’.
He cites as the three most important works the books by Largo Caballero, the
Marqués de Valdeiglesias and a book titled Chantaje a un pueblo, by Justo
Martínez Amutio. He goes on to state:
Effects of Censorship
Censorship, both official and environmental, exists not only as a reality imposed
by a regime, but also as a threat, a reminder of the dominance of a certain ideology
in society. For the population at large, it might mean being fed only the official
line on any story and being unable to express adequately its opposition to the
government. For the author, the threat of censorship permeates his working envi-
ronment. The artist or writer must suffer the mutilation or suspension of his work,
and he may react by attempting to protest more, by resigning himself to produce
an acceptable work or by choosing to abandon his vocation or his country.
The vagueness and ambiguity of its rules and its resultant arbitrary application
compounded the problem of censorship in Spain under Franco. Even after the
long-awaited apertura introduced by Manuel Fraga Iribarne at the MIT, the
censorship norms remained vague and open to subjective interpretation by
the censors. It did not help the situation that prior consultation was now voluntary
(but the work was liable to confiscation if not submitted), or that the publishing
company could now also be prosecuted if the work of an author was deemed,
after publication, to be censurable. So-called liberalization may have led to an
increase in other forms of censorship, because now the work was carefully scru-
tinized and edited by the publisher before even being submitted to the official
censor for voluntary prior consultation. Although it is difficult to estimate the
effect this double censorship had and the degree to which the editorial houses
engaged in censorship, the boom in foreign and classic titles published at this
time would suggest a high incidence of risk reduction by publishers. Yet cinema
and theatre were still subject to prior censorship. The fact that neither the
publishers nor, it would seem, the official censors, knew how to interpret the
vague guidelines, meant that the authorization or rejection of a work was largely
a matter of luck, dependent upon who read it. A work banned in one province or
in one city might be permitted in another or deemed suitable for a particular type
of venue only; a play that was authorized for staging one year might be refused
the next. The influence of the Church in matters of censorship merely added to
the confusion. The propagation of certain values, judged to be contrary to Roman
Catholic teaching, was to be censored. However, as these values were not always
clearly declared by the author, it was left to the censor to interpret the moral
content of a book or play and to estimate the possible level of corruption and
damage this could cause. Once again, it came down to interpretation of the work.
87 AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 581 MIT/ 00.590 Premios de literatura.
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The worst, most insidious effect of censorship is that, in the end, it can deaden
the imagination of the people. Where there is no debate, it is hard to go on
remembering, every day, that there is a suppressed side to every argument.
Those who chose to accept the official myth of censorship for the common good
were in a sense colluding with the regime by refusing to see the injustice of the
situation. In an interview with Beneyto, José Luis Cano, author and secretary of
Ínsula magazine, condemned the damaging links between culture and politics
in Spain under Franco: ‘Desde 1936, la cultura española ha vivido sometida a
un control y represión permanentes. Ha sido, pues, una cultura minusválida,
temerosa, consciente de su debilidad y su frustración.’90 Many writers of the time
engaged in self-censorship, intimidated not only by the regime, but in the post-
apertura period, by the publishing company also. In 1974, Manuel Abellán
conducted a survey of ninety-five Spanish writers: thirty said that they had never
engaged in self-censorship, while sixty-four readily admitted that they had.91
Self-censorship is impossible to quantify as it often means not writing some-
thing, as opposed to cutting something that has been written, yet few, if any,
authors writing in such circumstances could hope to avoid it; the result is the
growth of a particular mode of writing, peculiar to those in this situation and
perhaps understood only by them. In essence then, self-censorship is a series of
self-imposed limitations in response to the fear created and maintained by the
regime’s use of official censorship and sanctions. The supporters of official
censorship prefer to view self-censorship as a form of self-discipline. It is not
necessarily consciously imposed, but even those authors who refuse to rewrite a
piece once it is written may nevertheless limit themselves before they commit
words to paper, so conditioned have they become to what is and is not accept-
able to the regime.
Self-censorship gradually became normalized in Spain, which meant that even
though a play may not have reflected the dominant ideology, it did not necessary
challenge it. It became an automatic action, rather than a last resort. Concha Alos
remarked that ‘lo dramático (la autocensura) se ha hecho normal y ha dejado de
ser dramático’.92 Abellán cogently argues that self-censorship can be divided into
explicit and implicit varieties.93 Explicit self-censorship is censorship carried out
by the author in order to satisfy the demands of the censor and in order to salvage
something of the text. Implicit self-censorship can be conscious or unconscious.
Conscious implicit self-censorship is that carried out by the author while writing
or proofing the manuscript before submission to the censor: the author decides
to eliminate that which he feels might hinder its progress through the censor’s
office. Unconscious implicit self-censorship is that which the author engages in
without direct or conscious knowledge: it might be some habit in his writing
style picked up through education or conditioning or past experience of the
censor’s demands.
Some of Buero’s comments tended to underplay the significance of censorship
in Spanish literature, perhaps in an unconscious effort to justify his own actions.
Buero himself believed that self-censorship was inevitable, although he admit-
ted that this assertion might be a form of self-defence. He tended towards the
view that absolute personal and political freedoms may not be possible in any
organized society and that one must therefore always strive to maximize what
one can achieve rather than hold out for the ideal. His comments could even be
interpreted as a justification of self-censorship:
In so far as official censorship was successful, it was when the work was
prohibited and its message silenced. When it was a case of editing and modifying
the tone of a work, however, the underlying criticism often remained unchanged,
and the attack on the ideology endured. Where censorship was really effective
was in the atmosphere it created and the effects it had on both author and
editorial or theatre company. Buero exemplifies, with his posibilismo, the author
who was affected by the ideological apparatus of censorship, and who carefully
considered what he wanted to say before committing it to the scrutiny of the
censors.
4
Posibilismo
Compromise
Tenga razón o no Buero, consta que ha llegado a hacerse el
primer dramaturgo de España. Ha sabido dorar la píldora.1
One of the principal reasons for Buero’s enduring success under Franco was his
willingness to compromise. Whether this compromise was admirable or not has
long been cause for debate, and the fact remains that the essence of Buero’s well-
known posibilismo is concession. His posibilismo encompassed not only the
style and themes of his theatre, but also his dealings with the censors, the theatre
directors and the media. Hence posibilismo was what enabled him to deal effect-
ively with the state apparatuses of Francoism.
It can be argued that all, or almost all, of the authors who chose to remain and
work in Spain during the dictatorship were compromised. The few exceptions
were those who wrote for posterity without the objective of publication or success
in the lifetime of the regime. Buero himself acknowledged, to some degree, the
compromise he engaged in, although he chose to portray his actions as fighting the
dictatorship from the front line. There is no denying that his situation was some-
times an uncomfortable one. His position within the commercial theatre world at
times alienated him from those outside it, many of whom saw the state-controlled
commercial theatre as part of the ideological apparatus of the state. Nonetheless,
as official censorship documents confirm, the regime did not trust Buero.
He tenido un poco más de suerte, es probable. Pero algunos han dicho que he
tenido suerte porque me he adaptado más; eso a mi me parece incierto y desleal
por parte de quien lo dice. Lo que sucede es que, aunque cada vez se hayan
podido ir diciendo más cosas, también es cierto que la suspicacia de la censura
ha sido cada vez más creciente en la medida misma en que iban viendo cómo
estas plataformas críticas del teatro, o de otros géneros, se iban ampliando y
consolidando. Entonces, claro, para un autor como yo, que ya estaba bastante
instalado, se crea una especie de inercia relativa en la cual, sin faltar momen-
tos de prohibición, congelación y de grave dificultad, se van obteniendo algo
menos difícilmente autorizaciones de algunas obras. Si otros autores menos
consolidados las hubieran escrito, exactamente iguales a como las escribí yo,
1 William Giuliano, Buero Vallejo, Sastre y el teatro de su tiempo (New York: Las
POSIBILISMO 113
hubieran tenido más dificultad porque la censura habría podido frenarlos con
mayor impunidad. Posiblemente, el secreto de la cuestión está un poco ahí
y no en la aserción esgrimida por algunos de que mi teatro sea algo más
acomodaticio ante la sociedad española que el de otros.2
Buero was probably correct in his assertion that his position, once established,
helped him to stage and publish works that might otherwise have been pro-
hibited. However, the question of how he reached that powerful position still
remains. His initial success was unexpected and, from the regime’s perspective,
seemingly unwelcome. Yet Historia de una escalera offered something new to
the theatre-going public at the time. By the time it was staged, moreover, the
news of the author’s political allegiance had spread, giving the play a further nov-
elty value that undoubtedly contributed to its popularity. This meant that Buero
moved from professional obscurity to fame and notoriety very quickly. Once
established, it was easier for Buero to have his work staged and perhaps more
difficult for the censors to cut or prohibit his later work.
A feature of Buero’s posibilismo was his willingness to trade on both his repu-
tation and that of the administration. On occasion the regime’s concern to pro-
tect its name abroad worked to the dramatist’s advantage. A report from October
1964, penned by Federico Carlos Sainz de Robles, proposed the authorization
of La doble historia del doctor Valmy for non-commercial theatres. The reason
was Buero’s fame: to prohibit a play by such a well-known author might cause
a scandal abroad:
Not only did the censor object to the suggested cuts, which he considered ‘un
poco inocentes’ and which ‘mutilan gravemente la intención del autor’, but he
went on to complain that it was unfair to treat Spanish authors differently from
foreign authors, as it not only prejudiced the author but damaged the Spanish
theatre.3 Unfortunately, in this case the theme and timing of the play were the
overriding factors in the regime’s decision, and the play was prohibited.
Buero was aware of the regime’s concern about international opinion; he was
also cognizant that his own reputation afforded him certain advantages when
dealing with the administration. In 1968, when he learned that the number of
suppressions was to be increased in a production of Historia de una escalera,
he wrote to Carlos Robles Picquer, Director General de Cultura Popular y el
Espectáculo at the MIT. In his carefully worded correspondence, he suggested
that the additional cuts might be an error, and then asked for permission to
ignore them and proceed with the production. In the letter Buero stressed the
fame of the play, both in Spain and abroad, and hinted at the damage to the
regime’s carefully fostered new image that could be caused by harsh censorship
of a famous play by such a well-known author. His letter received the desired
response from Robles Picquer, affirming that a mistake had been made; the play
was authorized as before (Appendix X). There were echoes of this in Buero’s
theatre also. In El sueño de la razón, Calomarde suggests that Goya should be
executed, but the image-conscious king is reluctant to follow that path as ‘su
prestigio es grande’ (O.C. I: 1269).
Also working in the dramatist’s favour was the fact that the theatre directors
in the commercial theatres were often Nationalists. Therefore, their endorsement
of Buero aided his career in the commercial theatres. Directors such as Cayetano
Luca de Tena, Luis Escobar, Hugo Pérez de la Ossa, José Osuna and José
Tamayo were powerful in theatre circles. They worked with officially sanctioned
theatre companies in the national theatres and were often involved in classical,
non-threatening and integration drama. For them, the works of a dramatist such
as Buero must have offered a challenge, yet one that was unlikely to involve too
great a risk. Buero usually dealt with the censors indirectly through such direct-
ors. He was not afraid to utilize both their prestige and his own to salvage some
of the cuts demanded:
Yo alguna vez he hablado con algunos censores – con uno o dos llegué a tener
una relación correcta, primariamente afectuosa –, pero normalmente mi
relación con la censura la planteaba a través de la empresa. Mi táctica era
doble: por un lado ese truco que recordaba Tamayo; la otra, la más peligrosa,
era decir seriamente al empresario que advirtiese a los censores que arregla-
ban el asunto o me negaba a estrenar. Y en casos como este ha habido cesiones
sucesivas, mediante las cuales conseguíamos dejar la obra prácticamente
limpia de cortes.4
The first reference is to his insertion of a decoy in the text to distract the atten-
tion of the censors from a more political point. The second is the strategy he
used in his attempts to get Las Meninas past the censors. A look at the censor’s
copy of the play shows that whole pages were to be cut, in what amounted to
complete destruction of the text. Buero refused to accept many of these cuts
and, were it not for the persistence of the director in his dealings with the cen-
sors and Buero’s willingness to compromise on some cuts, the play could not
have been produced.
POSIBILISMO 115
Tamayo’s influence can also been seen in documents relating to the staging in
1966 of Buero’s adaptation of Mother Courage and her Children (Madre Coraje
y sus hijos). The director wrote to the Director General de Teatro, García
Escudero, requesting that one of the cuts made by the censors be reconsidered.
The excised text explained the daughter’s muteness: ‘Se asustó de pequeñina
porque un soldado le metió algo en la boca.’ Tamayo argued his case well, using
all the influence and flattery he could, and citing the support of Buero. He rea-
soned that if the sentence was removed, audiences might conclude that the text
was severely mutilated; furthermore, he stressed the prestige of Brecht, and
referred to Buero’s mild translation of the phrase and his refusal to invent a sub-
stitute (Appendix XI). Unfortunately, the documents in the Archive do not show
if he was successful on this occasion. The support of José Osuna was also cru-
cial later in the redemption of Buero Vallejo after his exclusion from the stage
and the media in the aftermath of the letter of protest to Fraga.
Although by then his reputation was secure, Buero’s elevation to membership
of the Real Academia Española in January 1971 further reduced the chances that
he would be heavily censored. However, it also made him very much a part of
the literary Establishment of Franco’s Spain, a fact that Buero underplayed when
talking about his position in the Academy:
There were other reasons for accepting the position. The Academy offered
protection from the actions of other state institutions. Buero admitted that ‘le
hace a uno más intocable’.6 In an interview with Isasi Angulo in 1972, Buero
confessed his reason for accepting a seat in the Academy:
in 1963 Buero refused José María García Escudero’s offer to form part of the Consejo
Superior de Teatro, and implied that he had also refused advances made about taking up
a seat in the Real Academia in 1957. He continued to refuse offers to join the Academy
until 1971, when, ‘me pillaron en el momento de la debilidad y entré. Privaba la idea
equivocadísima de que la Academia era un órgano oficial que actuaba, o actúa, a toque de
campanilla del poder, y esto no es así y ni siquiera lo era entonces.’ Sainz, ‘Antonio Buero
Vallejo: un intelectual’, p. 28.
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y a pesar del prestigio ganado uno está siempre a punto de la bofetada ajena o
del percance con la censura. La Academia cubre en gran parte.7
In the same interview he suggested that Llegada de los dioses might not have
received such favourable treatment from the censors had the dramatist not been
thus protected by his position. However, while his membership may have aided
Buero to continue to exercise his posibilismo, the injustice of the need for pro-
tection is obvious. Other dramatists, less tolerated than Buero, had no such
defence against the ideological apparatus of censorship. Buero’s acceptance of
the honour was consistent with his posibilismo, although it left him open to criti-
cism for once again lending the weight of his prestige to an institution supported
by the regime he opposed.
7 Isasi Angulo, ‘El teatro’, p. 318. Nonetheless, Buero stressed that he did not seek the
position: ‘Yo nunca busqué entrar en la Academia; incluso lo eludí ante alguna autorizada
insinuación. Pero no tenía, ni tengo, ese prejuicio antiacadémico tan frecuente entre personas
que luego se perecen por entrar en ella.’ Mariano de Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 63.
In an interview in 1982, Buero insisted that he had not compromised by joining the Academy.
Rafael Brines, ‘Buero Vallejo: “Para estar en la Academia no he tenido que renunciar a nada” ’,
Hoja del lunes (Valencia), 22 March 1982, p. 41.
8 Salvador Paniker, Conversaciones en Madrid (Barcelona: Kairós, 1969), pp. 209–10.
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POSIBILISMO 117
Buero chose to write in these circumstances, not because he agreed with or sup-
ported the circumstances in which he wrote, but rather because he considered the
alternative, silence, to be an ally of censorship and a victory for the regime. He
reasoned that the literature of the period would only be judged on what was
produced and not on what might have been produced given more favourable cir-
cumstances. Clearly, Buero determined to be a posibilista in his dealings with
the regime and to write a theatre that not only reflected his social, political and
ethical interests, but would be staged. His posibilismo included his choice of
theme and setting and his use of symbolism, history, mythology and language.
During the Franco years, Buero stated that he did not think that his style
would change radically should censorship cease: ‘Me inclino a creer que
aunque cambiaran las circunstancias yo las seguiría tocando de esa misma
forma indirecta.’9 This was borne out in the post-Franco years, which might lead
one to conclude that his oblique style was not exclusively an answer to the threat
of censorship; alternatively, it can be reasoned that censorship caused his style
to evolve in that way and that he developed it no further, even when he had the
opportunity. Buero maintained that he would have written the same material and
in the same manner even without the constraints of censorship: ‘No creo que
hubiera habido, aunque no hubiéramos tenido censura en aquel tiempo, por mi
parte una diferencia grande entre lo que escribí y lo que pudiera haber escrito.’10
However, he then admitted that without censorship he might have written on
another theme and, interestingly, he added that he might not have written some
of his dramas. Unfortunately, he did not say which ones.
Buero defended posibilismo as capable of being political and social, albeit
within certain limits, and his own case seems to prove this. He was, of course,
criticized for his stance, most notably by Alfonso Sastre and Fernando Arrabal.
Criticisms of posibilismo emanated not only from the left, however; Eloy
Herrera Santos, one of the most successful reactionary dramatists to emerge
in the post-Franco period, claimed that ‘los mediocres se aprovecharon del
simbolismo’.11 Gabriel Celaya was another critic of Buero’s use of symbolism,
which he considered a dishonest means of eluding ‘la dificultad y la respons-
abilidad que exige lo concreto’.12 Interestingly, he claimed that the true drama
was contained in the dramatic ambiguities of the author, a point that is certainly
true to some extent. Miguel Luis Rodríguez also disapproved of Buero’s style
of symbolism: ‘No son el testimonio más expresivo de nuestro tiempo.’ The dif-
ficulty was, he contended, that if the spectator did not recognize the symbol,
‘el propósito se ha frustrado’.13
The reasons for Buero’s choice of stance are controversial. Unlike many other
writers of the previous and subsequent generations, for whom the decision to
oppose Franco’s Nationalist state and to glorify the Second Republic was a sim-
ple one, Buero took a more conciliatory approach. The explanation may be that
his own family had suffered at the hands of the Republicans. Terry Eagleton’s
discourse in authorial ideology (AuI) and its relationship to general ideology
(GI) has implications for Buero’s contradictory relationship with Francoism:
Buero’s heroic protagonists belong to a future general ideology, whereas his own
case is less clear. Biographically, at least to some degree, Buero can be inserted
into the dominant ideology. However, his chosen ideological position conflicts
with the ruling ideology. Consistent with Eagleton’s theory would be the notion
that Buero in effect, produced ‘progressive texts using outmoded forms within
an obsolescent or partly obsolescent LMP (literary mode of production)’.15 This
is consistent with Buero’s claim that the most radical use of language did not
necessarily imply the most radical social or political perspective.16 For, as
Eagleton also points out, an author ‘may produce ideologically conservative
texts within an historically progressive LMP’. It is undeniable that, although his
aesthetic was quite, though not entirely, conservative and traditional, Buero
produced works critical of the society in which he lived. Moreover, Buero’s own
Republican credentials cannot be doubted.
chosen symbolism to say through art what cannot be said elsewhere, Buero stated: ‘No soy
contrario a un teatro militante, pero si “milita” ostensiblemente, creo que será de alcance más
limitado y circunstancial que aquel otro teatro que, junto a la racionalización de problemas,
no rehúya el enigma. [. . .] Pues sucede que no siempre lo más explícito y directo es lo más
revulsivo y formativo, cuando de arte se trata.’ Ricard Salvat, ‘Entrevista a Buero Vallejo’,
Estreno, 4 (no. 1, 1978), 15–18 (p. 18).
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POSIBILISMO 119
Buero’s drama, as a result of his personal experiences, was more ethical than
ideological. He criticized the methods of ideological domination by politicians
of all hues and the collusion and silence of the masses that are necessary to
make it work. He was critical of cruelty and cautious about the use of violence.
Buero stressed the possibility of the tortured becoming the torturer, and warned
against the charm of believing in easy answers in any struggle. The idea of one
side in a conflict possessing total rectitude is exposed as false in his elaboration
of characters inspired by the myth of Cain and Abel.
Buero’s dramatic style was also part of his posibilismo. It allowed him to deal
with forbidden themes such as suicide, torture and the Civil War, and enabled
him to criticize the Francoist ideology and the state apparatuses. Many of his
plays contain condemnations of the ruling elite and of their methods of incul-
cating their values and legitimating their rule. Yet, while the dramatist criticized
the Franco regime for its brutality and censorship, the problem of Spain is not
resolved on stage and he did not call for revolution. Brustein insists that social
drama, which portrays reality in order to criticize it, is essentially negative.17 In
contrast, Buero saw this criticism as a form of patriotism. He did not pretend to
have a solution; he merely implied that change was needed. Perhaps because his
plays focus so much on ethics and morality, they were perceived as less threat-
ening than the flagrantly political works of others. Moreover, by building on the
tradition of the sainete and on classical theatre, Buero managed not to alienate
the bourgeois public necessary for a successful commercial theatre career. In
addition, because Buero always emphasized the Aristotelian tradition he fol-
lowed, his work might have been perceived as less threatening by the censors
who would doubtless have been more concerned about a dramatist who stressed
more provocative Brechtian influences. Highlighting the classical, traditional
style of his works, while at the same time pointing to some minor innovations,
fitted in with the regime’s contradictory aim of a progressive trajectory towards
the recapture of a glorious past.
Tragedy was Buero’s chosen form of theatrical expression. He agreed with
Camus, who said that literature without hope was a contradiction in terms (O.C.
II: 514). For Buero, tragedy was man’s best hope of knowing himself. He rejected
the notion that tragedy is essentially fatalistic and interpreted it as a fight between
liberty and necessity, expressed as a battle between free will and social pressures
and expectations. In his view, liberty could, and often did, emerge victorious.18
The outcome is based on man’s free will: if he chooses to err, he suffers, but in
suffering he may discover an essential truth about himself or society. For Buero,
clearly drawing on Aristotle’s Poetics, all tragedy, even that which seems hope-
less and without solution or the possibility of reconciliation, contained within it
17 Robert Brustein, The Theatre of Revolt: Studies in Modern Drama from Ibsen to Genet
on, when ‘esa puerta final a la esperanza ha terminado por convertirse en un túnel un tanto
oscuro’. ‘Buero Vallejo’, in Teatro breve contemporáneo, pp. 5–9 (p. 6).
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the hopes and desires of man. Catharsis, which Buero defined as ‘una reacción
positiva, fortalecedora, esperanzada’, was important in the dramatist’s social and
political dramas, as it can awaken in man a desire to fight to achieve change (O.C.
II: 555).
19 Victor Dixon defined immersion-effect as: ‘When the spectator is made to share a
peculiar sensory perception (or lack of it), not with all the characters of a play but (normally)
with only one, with whom he therefore feels a stronger sense of empathy or identification.’ He
went on to say: ‘It is apparent that his dominant concern has always been to involve the
spectator, to induce his imaginative participation in the play, to persuade him towards
emotional identification with the main characters.’ ‘The “immersion-effect” in the Plays of
Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Estudios sobre Buero Vallejo, pp. 159–83 (pp. 160, 162).
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POSIBILISMO 121
audience but rather that from another time or place, which it was encouraged to
identify with. Hence, the possibility of catharsis still remained.20
Buero also experimented with language in his plays. However, his text-based
dramas did not usually employ overtly politicized language that would be inter-
preted as an attack on the regime. Buero’s attacks on the language of the regime
were subtler, the words themselves often being contradicted in action or spirit by
the person who uttered them, rather than directly attacked by an opponent with
a conflicting political argument. Yet, even his use of language, particularly med-
ical and painterly terminology, can also be viewed as part of his posibilismo,
a way of making indirect criticisms.21 This can be seen particularly in El sueño
de la razón and La doble historia del doctor Valmy.
García Lorenzo praised not only the dialogue but also the related paralinguis-
tic elements of Buero’s dramas:
The visual image exists and flourishes in the silence that censorship seeks to
create. It is a little outside the censor’s normally verbal realm, and, as long as
it avoids the obvious, seems to maintain an elusiveness vis-à-vis officialdom
while retaining its power to evoke, suggest and delight even as it testifies and
attacks.23
20 More obviously Brechtian are the well-dressed couple in La doble historia del doctor
Valmy, although as Dixon points out, even they were addressing their fellow inmates in a
psychiatric hospital. ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí”: El concierto de San Ovidio a través del
prisma de su epílogo’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: homenaje del hispanismo británico e
irlandés, ed. by Victor Dixon and David Johnston, Hispanic Studies TRAC, 9 (Liverpool:
Liverpool University Press, 1996), pp. 29–56 (p. 32).
21 Robert Louis Sheehan wrote about Buero’s use of medical terminology in his work in
an effort to diagnose and discuss Spain’s ills. ‘Buero Vallejo as “El médico de su obra” ’,
Estreno, 1 (no. 2, 1975), 18–22.
22 García Lorenzo, ‘Buero Vallejo’, p. 7.
23 Peter P. Ashworth, ‘Silence and Self-Portraits: The Artist as Young Girl, Old Man and
‘voir quelqu’un ne pas voir, c’est la meilleure façon de voir intensément ce qu’il
ne voit pas’.24 The dramatist at times included the spectator in the group of those
who do not see, as in La Fundación. Sometimes, as in the historical dramas, the
spectator knows the outcome, and thus sees what the character does not see.
Often the characters who suffer a physical handicap, such as blindness or deaf-
ness, or who are reputedly mad, are in fact those who see most clearly the prob-
lems of their society. Like artists and writers, Buero’s madmen and blind people
are outsiders with a non-traditional, non-conformist vision of the world and from
this comes their insight into it.
Similarly, it is those members of society who best conform and who are contented
whom Buero suggested might be lacking in insight, either unconsciously or vol-
untarily, in order to protect themselves and their comfortable positions in society.
TEIRESIAS You have your sight and yet you cannot see
where, nor with whom, you live, nor in
what horror.25
Unlike the physically handicapped characters, those who choose to shut their
eyes, ears and minds to reality are responsible for their own impairment and
therefore have the moral duty to cure themselves. So, when momentarily blinded
in En la ardiente oscuridad and El concierto de San Ovidio, or when made to
experience the deafness of the protagonist in El sueño de la razón, or when
immersed in the madness of Tomás in La Fundación or that of the well-dressed
couple in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, the spectator is forcefully reminded
of his choice of whether or not to be wilfully blind to the reality of his society.
Buero questioned the perceived madness of his characters. Their apparent
insanity or irrationality is shown to be healthier in some respects than the appar-
ent sanity of other characters. The madness of the father in El tragaluz is matched
by the determined self-delusion of the mother and Vicente. Clearly, in a sick soci-
ety, the truly mad are those who ignore or strive to maintain the malady. Julio in
Llegada de los dioses knows that in modern corrupt society ‘estar sano es haber
24 Barthes, Mythologies, p. 41. Seeing a person who does not see is the best way to see
Hall, The World’s Classics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 62, lines 413–15.
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POSIBILISMO 123
torturado y pintar’ (O.C. I: 1373). Those who insist on recognizing the ills of
society are easily dismissed as mad. Julio knows beforehand that his truthful
allegations will be dismissed and that he will be branded a madman for saying
what respectable society does not wish to hear: ‘Locuras mías, dirían todos. Y tú
no los desmentirías. Todos se pondrían, y tú el primero, gafas oscuras y algo-
dones en los oídos’ (O.C. I: 1395).
In Buero’s theatre, the characters diagnosed as insane by a sick society gen-
erally suffer from a quixotic madness, which betrays a humanity and lucidity
absent in the most respectable members of society. Buero defined such quijo-
tismo as: ‘locura que parece estéril frente a una sociedad que parece imposible
cambiar. Pero no es estéril. El quijotismo es una gran fuerza porque el quijotismo
es la ética, la insobornabilidad.’26 Goya demonstrates in his painting, which is
the product of his disturbed mind and his isolation, that it is society beyond the
walls of the Quinta del sordo that is seriously troubled and that Spain is living
out his sueño de la razón. Only when the pueblo chooses to awaken and act will
the monsters disappear. Perhaps the most obvious example is in La doble histo-
ria del doctor Valmy, where Doctor Valmy diagnoses the respectable well-
dressed couple as mad for their failure to acknowledge the truth of their reality.
The real madness in the society he described is wilful self-deception, a refusal
to abrir los ojos, which culminates in a denial of injustice and thus collusion with
the ruling power in the legitimization and naturalization of the ruling ideology.
histórico de Buero Vallejo’, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, no. 386 (1982), 340–64 (p. 362).
27 Willy O. Muñoz, ‘La búsqueda de la verdad en la doble historia del Doctor Valmy
His blind characters, such as Ignacio and David, struggle against their blind-
ness in an attempt to acquire a vision of truth and to achieve freedom. Julio’s
blindness in Llegada de los dioses allows him to see through the falsities of
respectable society, although he fails to see his own faults. He tells Verónica:
‘Veo mejor desde que he cegado’ (O.C. I: 1355). Yet, if on a symbolic level the
blind are visionaries who seek to overcome their limitations, then the sighted are
often blind to the truth that is easily hidden by mystification from those who are
too indifferent to seek it out. The main preoccupation of the heroes of Buero’s
dramas, like his own preoccupation in writing them, is a search for a censored
truth. Buero suggested that truth and the quest for truth are what will set man
free of his oppressors. The tragedy of man may be that he does not even realize
that he is not free, so convinced is he by an ideology that stresses no possible
alternatives. This acceptance of an unalterable fate, inculcated by the ruling ideol-
ogy, is articulated by Nazario in El concierto de San Ovidio, who complains:
‘Valindin nos ha atrapado. Pero si no lo hace él, lo habría hecho otro. Estamos
para eso’ (O.C. I: 1002).
In Buero’s theatre, apathy is linked to the idea of madness and self-delusion;
wilful amnesia, voluntary blindness and indifference are the greatest sins of the
pueblo. In a state where criticism of the ruling body is an offence punishable by
law, the result is a population which, too fearful or apathetic to initiate political
debate, engages in self-deception, thereby allowing the regime to justify and
legitimate its rule. Buero obviously considered those who choose to ignore the
truth to be guilty of collusion with the oppressive regime, or else, like the well-
dressed couple in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, truly mad.
The Polemic
An analysis of the posibilismo polemic is useful for the light it sheds on the
alternatives to Buero’s stance and the relative success of these options. The prot-
agonists of this polemic, which had its roots in differing attitudes towards
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POSIBILISMO 125
censorship, were Buero and Alfonso Sastre. Also involved were Alfonso Paso
and Fernando Arrabal. Thus, posibilismo, imposibilismo, pacto social and exile
were all raised as possible options for the author in a repressive state. García
Lorenzo has neatly summed up the consequences of the first debate and the
positions adopted by its protagonists: ‘El posibilismo se ha cumplido, con cier-
tas limitaciones, en Buero; Sastre hace años que no estrena y Paso, que habló
de hacer una revolución desde dentro, acabó por estar dentro sin hacer ninguna
revolución.’28
Rejecting the self-imposed exile of Arrabal, which he claimed was an inef-
fective response to censorship, Buero believed that the best option was to remain
in Spain and write what he could. The idea that his posibilismo involved work-
ing within the system he opposed was not acknowledged by Buero. Nonetheless,
his ideas about how to deal with the regime and censorship were consistent. In
1958, he wrote about the need to write a theatre that could be staged in Spain,
and he criticized those authors who wrote plays that were a provocation to the
censors.
Pero, usted lo sabe bien, las «limitaciones» mayores se las impone uno mismo.
¿Es un error? . . . Hay escritores que juegan, al parecer, la papeleta del
«imposibilismo», unas veces de buena fe y otras acaso para conseguir patente
de mártir en el extranjero. Mas yo no creo que se deba mantener esa actitud,
sino la posibilista, la de escribir para aquí, que es donde estamos y debemos
laborar. (O.C. II: 627)
española del siglo XX, ed. by Arturo Ramoneda (Madrid: Sociedad General Española de
Librería, 1988), pp. 645–9 (p. 645).
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29 Monleón said of Alfonso Paso, who had begun his career with Sastre in the radical Arte
Nuevo group, that he represented ‘la mayor victoria del moderno teatro español de la derecha’.
Treinta años, p. 130. Paso himself asserted that publication was easy, given the number of
theatres, studios and competitions, and implied that those who remained unpublished were
deserving of their fate, and usually not sufficiently skilled. He further claimed that talk of
difficult or dangerous themes was no more than an excuse for their failure, and suggested that
authors would be better off attempting to stage their works before committing themselves to
social or political commentary. ‘Autores inéditos’, Primer Acto, no. 6 (1958), 45–6 (p. 46).
30 Sastre, ‘Teatro imposible’, p. 2.
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claiming that it was abstract and anti-dialectical (O.C. II: 672–3). All writers are
writers en situación and therefore are never completely free. While this may be
true, surely Buero should have admitted that there are varying degrees of free-
dom and that the concept of writing en situación should not be used as an excuse
for collusion or pure escapism. Buero stressed that he was not recommending
‘acomodaciones’ as suggested by Sastre, but rather ‘un teatro difícil y resuelto a
expresarse con la mayor holgura, pero que no sólo debe escribirse, sino estre-
narse. Un teatro, pues, «en situación»; lo más arriesgado posible, pero no temer-
ario’ (O.C. II: 674). His aim therefore, was to make possible what might be
considered impossible theatre. Imposibilismo, for Buero, was the attitude that is
‘fuera de situación’ and which seeks to make ever more impossible an already
challenging or difficult work by the choice of provocative themes or dialogue. In
contrast, by adopting a posibilista stance, that is by saying less than one wants
to say but as much as one can get away with and hinting at more, one could
deceive the censor and communicate a political message.
In the following issue of Primer Acto, Alfonso Sastre wrote ‘A modo de
respuesta’, in which he clarified his position. While now stressing that Buero was
not among them, Sastre insisted that for some dramatists posibilismo was just an
acceptable name for conformity. Later, in Anatomía del realismo (1965), Sastre
went over the polemic again and reminded the reader that what is impossible now
might not be so in the future. He still regarded as nonsense the idea that some-
one might cultivate imposibilismo and revealed that he believed a determined
posibilismo might result in self-censorship, and was to be avoided.
What is evident is that Buero and Sastre, in their discussion of imposibilismo,
differed on the basic definition, which for the former was the author’s oppor-
tunism and for the latter the censor’s imposition. Sastre praised Buero’s Historia
de una escalera as an impossible drama, suggesting that an impossible work was
a censurable work from the regime’s perspective. Buero came across in his rebut-
tal as not a little sensitive to criticism, particularly in the way he considered
Sastre’s praise for Historia de una escalera an implicit condemnation of all that
followed it.31 On the subject of posibilismo they seemed to agree on the funda-
mentals, while disagreeing on its validity. Buero asserted that his posibilismo
was not a compromise; Sastre saw all posibilismo as compromise, but at this
point failed to acknowledge that he engaged in it himself.
The polemic, while it eventually disappeared from the pages of theatre jour-
nals, was not resolved. In an interview with Buero Vallejo in 1984, Gabriel de
los Reyes made a reference to an article published in Hispania the previous year
in which Alfonso Sastre again accused Buero of being a posibilista. Buero’s
response to de los Reyes was:
31 It should be noted that Sastre later retracted his praise for the play.
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Buero cited the example of Sastre’s En la red, set in Algeria, which when staged
in the Soviet Union, was called Madrid no duerme de noche: ‘Posibilismo es
situar una obra en el siglo XVII, sí, pero igualmente lo es situarla en Argel, o en
Francia, o sin localización concreta, en vez de ponerla en España.’33
Interestingly, Sastre, speaking about the same incident, employed the story to
prove that he was a posibilista all along:
The interviewer challenged Sastre on this, and suggested that Buero had accused
him of being a posibilista, not an imposibilista. In response, Sastre claimed that
in Buero’s declarations on imposibilismo, ‘me di por aludido’. Sastre went on to
reproach Buero’s response to his polemical tract in Primer Acto, and claimed that
Buero had misunderstood his clearly posibilista position. Sastre insisted that he
believed that censorship must be taken into consideration when writing, but in
order to avoid self-censorship rather than to engage in it. It is difficult to con-
clude from an analysis of the Primer Acto articles that Sastre considered himself
a posibilista. Nonetheless, in 1988 he wrote:
Este artículo Buero lo leyó con mucha hostilidad y me contestó con otro muy
largo, en el que mantenía lo contrario a lo que había dicho antes: que yo era
un posibilista también, que muchas de mis obras estaban escritas teniendo en
cuenta la censura. Lo cual era cierto, desde luego.35
32 Gabriel de los Reyes, ‘Comentarios de Buero Vallejo sobre su teatro’, Estreno, 10 (no. 1,
1984), 21–4 (p. 22). Interestingly, Sastre seems to concur with this in an interview dating from
1981: ‘No diría tanto que yo sigo marginado como que yo mismo he adoptado una posición
automarginante.’ Nancy Vogeley, ‘Alfonso Sastre on Alfonso Sastre: Interview’, Hispania, 64
(no. 3, 1981), 459–65 (p. 461).
33 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas’, p. 18.
34 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Alfonso Sastre: un largo viaje’, p. 13.
35 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Alfonso Sastre: un largo viaje’, p. 14.
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POSIBILISMO 129
Thus it would appear that Sastre thought that Buero was calling him an imposi-
bilista and, in Buero’s definition of the term, this meant an opportunist. In fact it
is doubtful that Buero was referring to Sastre, who was writing and attempting to
stage plays in Spain. Instead, he reiterated his belief that Sastre was, in fact, a posi-
bilista, despite the latter’s protestations to the contrary. Buero, in turn, believed
that Sastre considered him to be compromised because of his posibilismo, which
Sastre interpreted as a betrayal of social theatre. Sastre, however, went from a posi-
tion critical of posibilismo to one that embraced it. At times he was anti-posibilista:
‘Una obra no «actúa» ni deja de «actuar» positivamente sobre su medio por el
hecho de que se represente o deje de representarse hoy. La impaciencia –
demogógica o posibilista – es un (explicable) fallo poético y político.’36 However,
in an interview with Alberto Miralles in Yorick in the same year, Sastre lent some
weight to Buero’s argument by stating: ‘He escrito todo lo que he querido-
podido.’37 The two dramatists never reached an accord about a definition of
imposibilismo and thus continued their dispute based more on a misunderstanding
than a disagreement, for in reality they had more to unite than to divide them.
Buero consistently rejected the argument that everything written under cen-
sorship is necessarily compromised or bad literature, while recognizing that free-
dom from censorship was infinitely preferable. He believed that the writer must
work within the limitations imposed and overcome them without belittling his
art and that this was the essence of posibilismo. If a writer chooses not to write
under such circumstances, or until he has complete freedom, then he is handing
victory to the censors and depriving his audience of his message. On the other
hand, Sastre claimed that posibilismo did not seriously challenge censorship; it
was merely a way of avoiding it. Moreover, he recognized the need for structural
change that was not a feature of Buero’s posibilismo. Buero’s refusal to recog-
nize even the partial rectitude of Sastre’s stance is disturbing; so too is Sastre’s
inconsistency. Buero’s claim to be working on the front line of the opposition to
Franco was overstating his case somewhat, considering that he was working
from within the state-approved commercial system: ‘Yo siempre he dicho que mi
teatro era posibilista y que además tenía que serlo, pero lo que no aceptería es
que fuera más posibilista que otros.’38 Others might disagree. If he insisted that
Sastre’s work was posibilista, then surely he should have acknowledged that it
was less so than his own work.
Buero continued to defend posibilismo in later years when Arrabal resurrected
the polemic. In an article published in Estreno in 1975, John Dowling wrote
about an ‘incidente ridículo’ involving Arrabal, which had led to the dramatist’s
trial for injury to the Patria and blasphemy. Arrabal, misinterpreting the incident
that Dowling referred to, replied in an article, also published in Estreno. In it, he
defended his position as an author in exile and implied that those who remained
in Spain accepted censorship: ‘Somos tantos los que hemos preferido el exilio a
la mordaza.’39 He seemed to resent Dowling’s assertion that he had the support
of Buero for a proposed production in one of the commercial theatres of Madrid
and, consequently, Arrabal also attacked Buero, both for his posibilismo and his
lack of support.
Buero’s rejoinder, published in the same issue as Arrabal’s article, refuted the
latter’s claims about his failure to support ‘los autores exiliados y amordazados’,
citing examples of his endorsement of them in the press. Moreover, he reiterated
his earlier claim that Sastre was a posibilista, and asserted that Arrabal too had
been posibilista on occasion:
En los dos libros de obras suyas que se han editado en España antes del men-
cionado «incidente ridículo» de 1967 había, al parecer, pequeños cortes que él
aceptó, por lo menos durante el largo tiempo que pasó hasta que, después del
incidente, quiso repudiar tales libros; pero en uno de ellos se sustituía además
muy oportunamente, a efectos de censura – y Dowling lo recordaba en su
artículo –, el título Guernica por el anagrama «Ciugrena», y con este título vi
yo mismo representar la obra en un Colegio Mayor. (O.C. II: 805)
Buero defended the prizes that Arrabal had criticized, reminding him that many
supposedly silenced authors had benefited from such awards. He also countered
Arrabal’s comments about Buero’s position as Academician by pointing out that,
at the time of his trial, Arrabal was happy to receive the support of three mem-
bers of the Real Academia. Overall, Buero was unhappy with what he considered
to be an attempt on the part of Arrabal to belittle the work of authors who had
remained in Spain. He asserted that ‘los españoles que hayan elegido el exilio
son precisamente los que tienen menos derecho, desde esa barrera, a juzgarnos
y a condenarnos con tan grosera simplificación’, and defended ‘la primordial
importancia que el interior y lo que en él se realiza tienen como plataforma de
nuestra libertad teatral’ (O.C. II: 809, 813). Others too felt that Arrabal had no
right to criticize authors who had chosen to remain and work in Spain. Martín
Recuerda said of Arrabal: ‘Tenía que haber vivido y sufrido en España, todos
estos años que hemos vivido, para darse cuenta de lo que puede ser un realismo
actual.’40
Arrabal, in turn, replied to Buero’s essay, which he classed as ‘altamente
difamatorio’.41 His provocative article, titled ‘La alienación franquista’, was a
thinly veiled denunciation of Buero. It outlined the arguments used by
Francoists to defend the theatre under Franco, and then attributed these same
arguments to Buero. Nonetheless, his assertion that Buero did not comprehend
POSIBILISMO 131
the plight of the exile would seem to be true. Arrabal claimed that by choosing
exile he retained his dignity, implying that Buero and others did not. Buero’s
response, again published in Estreno, was to dismiss Arrabal’s allegations as
unfounded. He also noted that the arguments used to damn him were not applied
to others working within Spain. Repudiating Arrabal’s argument, he defended
his stance: ‘Nuestra oposición socio-teatral en España, lejos de estar «alienada»,
ha sido y es una lucha positiva y eficaz, contra viento y marea, en el interior del
país. Es decir: en el verdadero frente de la batalla’ (O.C. II: 819). While admit-
ting that at times he was ‘más cauto que valiente’, Buero denied that he had
failed to speak out.
The polemic came to an official end with Buero’s last article, although he
revisited it in La detonación. As in the case of the earlier polemic with Sastre,
neither dramatist demonstrated much respect for the stance of the other, while
both defended a similar attitude towards the ruling power. Certainly, Arrabal’s
exile was self-imposed, and he returned frequently to Spain. Nonetheless, in the
aftermath of the trial he was an officially banned author, and thus could not earn
a living from his work in Spain. As a response to the situation in Spain, it could
be argued that the choice of exile is the most honourable path. However, as
Buero noted, there was a doubt about the reasons for Arrabal’s choice of expatri-
ation. Buero and others attributed much of Arrabal’s rancour to his bitterness at
his lack of success in Spain. Arrabal’s words in 1966, on the staging of Los
hombres del triciclo in Madrid, go some way to confirming this: ‘Que me
pegaron un palo tremendo. Si hubiera tenido éxito, tal vez me habría quedado.’42
In the end, however, it is difficult to refute all of Arrabal’s allegations about
Buero’s position in Francoist society. Buero clearly was the acceptable face of
criticism, although, unfairly, Arrabal was reluctant to attribute any criticism at
all to the older dramatist.
42 Salvado Jiménez, ‘En París, con Fernando Arrabal, español traducido a 20 idiomas’,
aims and ideals. He criticized the hypocrisy, corruption, cowardice and collusion
of the spectators who formed that society. García Lorenzo noted:
POSIBILISMO 133
the pueblo, and not imposed by another group with another ideology claiming to
represent the common good.
Buero demonstrated how the wilful ignorance and inaction of the populace
served the regime’s ideologues well, providing no challenge to the official myth.
The kingdoms of Casi un cuento de hadas (1952) and Las Meninas are, like
Franco’s Spain, lands of pomp without glory, where the courts’ obsession with
protocol hides myriad injustices. The hypocrisy and greed of the New State are
alluded to in the historical dramas, in Madrugada and in Irene, o el tesoro. The
last features a family symbolic of a society held together by a loyalty based on
fear rather than respect, where it is easier to become a victim-maker than to make
an honest living. In El concierto de San Ovidio, Buero warned against a seem-
ingly liberal new order in society, dependent on the old, whose motivation is
once again shown to be personal greed and whose actions will do nothing to
improve social conditions. In all of his works Buero showed corruption among
the governors coupled with inaction among the governed to be the tragedy of
Spain. Progress, he suggested, could only follow from accountability.
Posibilismo also enabled Buero to criticize the collusion of the Roman
Catholic Church with the regime, in the upholding of a mutually beneficial ideol-
ogy. In 1953, Franco declared: ‘En la Historia de España es imposible dividir a
los dos poderes, eclesiástico y civil, porque ambos concurren siempre a cumplir
el destino asignado por la Providencia a nuestro pueblo.’44 Many of the charac-
ters in Buero Vallejo’s plays similarly find justifications and support for their
actions in the Church. The unchristian clergy in the works of Buero are often
pawns or willing collaborators of the rulers; as representatives of God and inter-
preters of His teaching, they are failures. Some, like Duaso in El sueño de la
razón, are merely human in their failings and are well intentioned, if perhaps
misguided, in their censorship; others are inhuman and callous. Some Church
representatives in the plays, like the Prioress of El concierto de San Ovidio, pre-
fer to wash their hands of involvement than to take the moral stand demanded by
the situation.45 Abuses of power by the Santo Oficio are referred to in El sueño
de la razón and in Las Meninas. Indeed the censors of the Franco regime who
examined the latter play did not like the dramatist’s portrayal of the Dominican
friar in the trial scene.46 Earlier, in the one-act play Las palabras en la arena,
Buero adapted a biblical story to illustrate a corrupt and hypocritical
Church–state alliance that displays some striking parallels with Franco’s Spain.
Buero criticized the use of coercion, threats and repression in defence of a
particular ideology in plays such as En la ardiente oscuridad, El concierto de San
44 Quoted from Franco’s ‘Mensaje a las Cortes españoles’, 26 October 1953, in Vázquez
tesis del oscurantismo religioso frente al progreso español.’ Report by the censor A. Avelino
Esteban y Romero, AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60.
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Ovidio and La doble historia del doctor Valmy. What is clear is that Buero, like
Camus, rejected the nihilistic notion that if God does not exist, everything is per-
mitted. Ultimately, he believed that: ‘No se debe matar, cierto. Y menos aún, tor-
turar. Este es el límite de toda ideología’ (O.C. II: 486). The director of the Centro
de enseñanza sets in motion a plan to convert Ignacio to acceptance of the regime.
The first stage is to use persuasion to win him over. Once his spirit is broken he
can easily be converted to their way of thinking: ‘Los muchachos de este tipo
están hambrientos de cariño y alegría y no suelen rechazarlos cuando se saben
romper sus murallas interiores’ (O.C. I: 85). Yet, the system, which had seemed
implacable when everyone happily colluded, begins to crumble when challenged.
The strength of the Establishment and the old social order are recovered at the
end of the play, but the threat to that order had to be eradicated by violent means.
The only way for such a system to survive, it would seem, is if the myth of a
regime that cares for its subjects is backed up by the threat or use of violence.
Furthermore, Buero candidly criticized the censorship of art in his painterly dra-
mas. Las Meninas, more than any other play of the Franco period, puts censor-
ship on trial and accuses the art censors of having base motives for their actions.
Those who attempt to censor art and what it represents are those who least under-
stand it. Undoubtedly drawing on his own experiences, the censors he portrayed
in his works were just as capricious as their non-fictional counterparts. The report
written by Sr Morales on Arrabal’s El cementerio de los automóviles reads like
those of Buero’s fictional censor, Don Homobono:
Other characters from the plays suffer the type of injustice meted out to the
Civil War vanquished and the opponents of the Francoist hegemony. In El tra-
galuz, Buero referred to the fact that the father was forced to leave his job in a
ministry after the Civil War. Similarly, in Aventura en lo gris, Silvano has been
compelled to leave his position as Professor of History in the State University
because of his criticism of Goldmann’s regime. In Un soñador para un pueblo,
both Ensenada and Esquilache suffer exile as a result of their politics.48 Velázquez
faces the threat of exile for his taboo-shattering painting of a nude Venus in Las
Meninas, while Goya is forbidden to enter the court of Fernando VII who ban-
ished him in a fit of pique. The latter, unlike Velázquez, is persecuted for his
47 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.155 Exp. 127-66 (O.C. I: 1544, 1545).
48 It must be acknowledged however, that their exiles are very different: Ensenada’s exile
is a punishment imposed on one who has fallen out of favour; Esquilache’s exile is an
abdication of power for the common good.
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POSIBILISMO 135
politics and later chooses self-imposed exile in the face of threats of further
violence from the king’s representatives.
Buero’s plays are more concerned with conflict resolution and accommoda-
tion than victory. The heroes of his works are posibilistas. Given his personal
experiences, Buero was sympathetic to the man who, despite his best intentions,
breaks under torture. Correspondingly, there is more sympathy for the failed revo-
lutionary in Buero’s La Fundación than, for example, in Sastre’s En la red.
Rebels like David, Ignacio and Pedro, who are not posibilistas, are destined to
personal failure; the posibilista reformers, such as Velázquez and Valentin Haüy,
will, it is implied, achieve more in the long term. Buero’s rebels and dreamers,
like Camus’s homme révolté, create and stress values in an unethical society.
They refuse to collaborate with the activos in a repressive system. Society has
failed them. The lack of cohesion and popular support for oppositional ideology
is reflected in the dramas; Buero’s rebels stand alone. Little notice is taken of
their pleas at the outset. The spectator identifies with them from the security of
his own position, which is a position rejected by them. Buero did not show them
triumphant, but instead indicated the effects of their seemingly futile actions on
others. Thus, he demonstrated the long-term view and admitted the difficulty and
slow pace of the struggle against injustice. It is clear that this was not integration
propaganda, which would show the utter futility of rebellion, even in the long
term, nor is it agitation propaganda, which would attempt to show a successful
rebellion, but instead a more universal view. Buero’s rebel protagonists are, in
general, tragic heroes who cannot save themselves, but who may, through their
actions, inspire action in others. These heroes or antiheroes come to recognize
the truth of reality and self-knowledge before they die. The hope implicit in the
tragedy is that others may learn from their actions without having to repeat their
mistakes. The tragic rebel gains nobility in defeat, for his spirit survives to
inspire others.
The use of art as a political weapon to open the eyes of the spectator is com-
mon to many of the works of Buero. It constitutes his justification for his own
role as dramatist in a repressive society. Tellingly, the Establishment painter
Velázquez exemplifies for the posibilista Buero the role of the artist in society:
‘Ante un mundo enajenado de supersticiones, errores, milagrerías e injusticias,
su vida y su pintura nos revelan que él mantiene los ojos abiertos’ (O.C.
II: 705–6). In fact, Buero compared the painter’s Weltanschauung to that of
Cervantes, another of his abiding influences. However, Velázquez, like Buero
himself, worked within an established system. In an interview published in 1955,
Buero spoke about Velázquez, giving a description that could also be applied to
the dramatist: ‘La frialdad aparente no es otra cosa que el resultado de un
inmenso ardor que sabe someterse a la ley.’49 The fictionalized painter, like the
dramatist, is portrayed as the acceptable face of criticism, who will inspire
49 Luis Mayo, ‘Entrevista con Antonio Buero Vallejo, el más discutido de nuestros
dramaturgos actuales’, El Noticiero Universal, 28 April 1955, pp. 7–8 (p. 7).
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50 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 307. Buero also stated, in an
interview published in Arriba, 23 December 1960, ‘La pintura es otra forma de intuición del
mundo.’ AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.715 Exp. 296-60.
51 Quoted in Harvey J. Kaye, ‘Why Do Ruling Classes Fear History?’, Index on Censorship,
POSIBILISMO 137
non-dramatic writings of Buero. He also made clear in Las Meninas that the true
spectator for this art, the audience at whom the message is directed, must be the
pueblo, not the ruling elite. Art, at times, is more real than a hypocritical and fal-
sified reality. This is what Tomás eventually realizes in La Fundación, where the
Turner landscape, the most obviously false element in the reality represented
upon stage, represents a possible future reality. It is a landscape of hope, not illu-
sion. It is the imagined restored Spain; it is what Said was referring to when he
wrote that geographical identity, captured by the colonizers, is reclaimed by the
native population at first in its imagination.53 In Buero’s plays, the dream or
vision is the first step towards action.
Sin dar nombres, te voy a contar dos proposiciones deshonestas que me hicieron,
una explícita, la otra implícita. La primera consistía en prometerme todo el apoyo
del aparato del Estado para proyectar mi nombre y mi obra en el extranjero, a
condición de que desarrollase en mi teatro el tema religioso. La otra fue más sútil
y, sin embargo, no menos directa: pretendían comprar mi silencio.54
He turned down the offers. This certainly suggests that the regime viewed his
work as unfavourable, but they also thought that he was not as strident an enemy
as others.
If, as suggested by Szanto, Althusser and others, the theatre is an ideological
state apparatus, then surely Buero’s position within it must be questioned. Did
the message sent out by his personal actions supersede, or merely contradict, the
message in his plays?
ataques a Buero; lo acusaban de subir él mismo a ese ‘tren’ oficial para poder
estrenar. Pero Buero se había mantenido al margen del sistema.55
Carlos Muñiz’s attempt to explain Buero’s success supports the argument that
Buero represented the acceptable face of criticism during the Franco years:
In the same series of interviews, José Martín Recuerda, who denied claiming that
Buero was a right-wing dramatist, did assert that he was used by the right: ‘Tal
vez lo que diría fuera que «Buero le venía bien utilizarlo a las derechas, como
nombre glorioso».’57 Yet it would be overly simplistic to argue that Buero was
merely a pawn in the regime’s ideological games. It is clear from his posibilismo
that he had carefully considered his position and concluded that he could do
more good from within the system than as an outsider. However, it was a tricky
game to play, and it led to accusations of collusion with a regime that he utterly
opposed. Sastre, for example, viewed Buero’s posibilismo as little more than
self-censorship and collusion with the enemy. Arrabal too, wrote:
It is undeniable that Buero’s criticisms were subtler than those of many others
who set themselves up as anti-regime dramatists. Furthermore, his use of allu-
sion, euphemism and double meaning allowed the work to be read ‘straight’ by
those who did not wish to see the underlying argument. Within the plays, more-
over, Buero blamed the leadership for what he considered to be wrong with Spain
and the populace for their apathy and irresponsibility, while simultaneously
excusing his own contradictory position as an often officially acceptable writer.
POSIBILISMO 139
18–22, 31.
62 ‘La mujer, víctima del hombre en Música cercana’, Estreno, 16 (no. 1, 1990), 2.
63 Exceptions to this, with certain limitations, are Mary (La doble historia del doctor
Valmy), Verónica (Llegada de los dioses) and Cristina (Jueces en la noche, 1979).
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5
History, Myth and Demythification
1 Statement issued by the Czech dissident group, Charter 77, in 1988 and quoted in Kaye,
Anillos para una dama’, Modern Drama, 26 (no. 3, 1983), 310–19 (p. 311).
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Both myth and history offer another advantage to the dramatist who wishes to
use them to make a political point: the spectator is aware of the outcome, often
before the characters are. Therefore it is the process, rather than the consequence,
that is being re-examined. In essence, Buero wished to challenge his modern
audience to question the myths in their own reality, and, further, to see them-
selves as a part of an historical process, capable of activating change. Hence he
denied the notion that the future is preordained and not determinable by the
masses.
Obviously then, Buero’s use of myth and history was not casual. In fact, he
presented an interpretation that challenged the official version of events but only
to submit another possible version:
This raises questions about the motivation of Buero’s interpretation of myth and
history; it is worth remembering that Buero’s experience in the Civil War had
more to do with propaganda than with combat.4 For Pilar de la Puente, Buero’s
historical drama is ‘un teatro de ideas, un teatro dialéctico, donde a través de los
personajes se enfrentan ideas o puntos de partida ideológicos’.5 Halsey insists
that ‘no puede existir una dramatización representativa o neutral de la historia’,
as the writer must choose what to record and highlight.6 It is evident that Buero,
like the regime he opposed, employed history and myth to garner support for his
own views. Yet Buero argued that his art, and the views contained therein, were
not subordinate to the ideology of any particular group.
The choice of time period and setting in Buero’s historical dramas was
deliberate. These plays offer a modern perspective on repressive periods of his-
tory, similar in some respects to the Franco era. They offer a view of the past that
was hidden or denied by the dominant ideology: ‘Buero quiere llegar a una com-
prensión del pasado para penetrar hondamente en los problemas actuales.’7 He
also showed that, while politicians and kings may come and go, art remains,
often as a testament to the times. Clearly, while the regime sought to advance the
view that Spain’s future was Francoist, Buero, like Sastre, Martín Recuerda and
Rodríguez Méndez, all of whom wrote historical drama, encouraged his audi-
ence to acknowledge the possibility of social and historical change.
(p. 91).
6 Martha T. Halsey, ‘El intelectual y el pueblo: tres dramas históricos de Buero’,
Unsurprisingly, history too had been claimed by the Civil War victors who used
it selectively to promulgate the myth of a united, Catholic, España eterna both
in literature and film.
For the writers of the opposition, however, myth had another purpose. Ilie
observed that the writers who employ myth in order to expose the distortions and
falsifications of reality that form the official myth of the dominant ideology do
so because straightforward criticism is not possible. Thus, it seems that, for Ilie
at least, the use of myth is a form of posibilismo.10
Recourse to History
ÉL Durante siglos tuvimos que olvidar, para que el pasado no nos paral-
izase; ahora debemos recordar incesamente, para que el pasado no nos
envenene (O.C. I: 1165).
In the historical dramas Un soñador para un pueblo, El concierto de San Ovidio,
Las Meninas, El sueño de la razón and in the post-Franco period, La detonación,
Buero Vallejo chose characters and eras that were not only interesting from a
political perspective but which also had a profound and lasting effect on the evo-
lution of Spanish society. While not strictly historical and perhaps better termed
mythical dramas, the earlier plays Las palabras en la arena and La tejedora de
sueños also have much in common with the historical dramas. With the exception
of El concierto de San Ovidio, which is based in the time just before the French
Revolution and contains non-historical protagonists, all are based around times,
characters or events familiar to the average spectator.11 Szanto writes of historical
drama: ‘Such literary exploitations of the past are not accidental; history and its
artefacts are always most valuable to any daily present when they serve contem-
porary needs, when they give plausible answers to contemporary quandaries.’12
This is indeed what Buero attempted with his historical dramas, as Luciano
García Lorenzo also recognizes:
Buero, then, linked history to the present and the future and also to the necessity
of hope. Steiner calls literature ‘dramatized expectation, in so far as it is a cri-
tique of the actual in the light of the possible’, and clearly Buero’s ideas about
hopeful tragedy and his stress on the possibility of social reform fitted in with
this.14 Lyon convincingly argues that Buero’s historical dramas are valuable for
the dramatist’s ‘ability to synthesize apparently contradictory approaches: his-
torical documentation and creative imagination, fidelity to the past and relevance
to the present, individual and collective interpretations of history’.15
It is interesting to note that even in his most futuristic drama, El tragaluz, which
reconstructs the present from the future, in order to examine the past, it is hope
in our day that the dramatist focused on, rather than the supposed perfection of
11 The historical character of Valentín Haüy appears briefly in the middle of the play and
as a type of narrator at its end, but spectators would not be expected to recognize his name.
The name of the ‘villain’ Valindin is historical, but his characterization is entirely of Buero’s
invention.
12 Szanto, Theater and Propaganda, p. 8. Ruiz Ramón described Buero’s historical dramas
thwarted hope’ in human motivation: ‘Historical man, engaged in the stress and fragmentary
vision of economic and political conflict, knows that in the conjugation of the verb to be there
is a future perfect. That knowledge, which Ernst Bloch calls the Prinzip Hoffnung, is at the
core of his endeavour.’ Steiner, Language and Silence, pp. 414, 413.
15 John Lyon, ‘History and Opposition Drama in Franco’s Spain’, in Spanish Theatre:
a distant future. The characters of Él and Ella, researchers from the future, pres-
ent their experimental project to the spectators. It focuses on a family in the pres-
ent and its failure to come to terms with its past and it is suggested that, unless it
does, the family will never progress.16
It is not accidental that other dramatists whose style was much admired by
Buero have also written dramas that revisit and revise history to make a univer-
sal statement about man. Albert Camus based his Les Justes on the 1905 assas-
sination in Moscow of the Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovitch. Arthur Miller’s
The Crucible, set in the past but with obvious contemporary relevance, is similar
in some respects to Buero’s historical dramas. Indeed, Buero held that Miller
would have written that play without McCarthyism just as he claimed that he
himself would have written his historical plays without Francoism (O.C. II:
1198). Ricardo de la Fuente Ballesteros notes that, as in Buero’s plays, ‘la man-
era ibseniana se basa en el desvelamiento de un pasado que determina el presente
de los personajes’.17 The influence of Unamuno’s theory of intrahistoria too, can
be observed in Buero’s exploration of social history against the backdrop of
political and military official history, and in his concentration on the worth of the
individual.
In 1980 Buero wrote: ‘Escribir teatro histórico es reinventar la historia sin
destruirla’ (O.C. II: 826-7). His historical dramas, unlike history, are based on
possibility and are therefore more philosophical than factual.18 Responding to
16 The episode from the past occurred at the end of the Civil War, when the family was
waiting to board a train to flee to Madrid. Vicente, the eldest child, managed to get on the train
but took the family’s supplies with him, leaving the others stranded and starving; as a result,
Elvirita, his baby sister, died and his father lost his mind. Thirty years later, the family has
neither faced, nor recovered from, the events of the past. The mother insists on forgetting the
past, while the father’s disturbed behaviour concentrates on cutting figures from magazines,
asking ‘¿Quién es ese? and ‘saving’ them. Vicente, a successful publisher, in his determination
to succeed continues to create victims, the latest of whom is his employee and mistress,
Encarna, who is pregnant. His younger brother, Mario, a contemplativo, still lives with his
parents and rejects Vicente’s choices and lifestyle; he is in love with Encarna. The father fails
to recognize Vicente and confuses Encarna with his dead daughter. Mario judges Vicente,
forcing him to confront the past and accusing him of continuing to create victims, but later
regrets his action. When left alone with his father, Vicente admits his guilt for the first time
and begs for forgiveness; yet he does not wish to change his behaviour. The father, a disturbed
God-like figure, kills Vicente with the scissors, telling him, ‘tú no subirás al tren’ (O.C.
I: 1177). As a result, the father is locked away. Hope for the future is found in the relationship
between a more humble Mario and Encarna. Él and Ella return and answer the father’s
question, identifying the spectators as the people referred to, and suggesting that the
experiment only succeeded if they saw themselves from multiple perspectives. Speaking for
Buero, they identified the problem of twentieth-century Spanish society as an inability to
recognize themselves in others.
17 ‘Ibsen y Buero: Hedda Gabler y Las cartas boca abajo’, in Cuevas García, ed., El teatro
confining itself to such events as are probable or necessary. In order to be intelligible and win
assent, poetry is thus forced to aim at universality, since the necessary and the probable are
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criticisms of his historical dramas, Buero said: ‘No estoy haciendo historia sino
literatura, literatura teatral, de modo que habrá un porcentaje del personaje real
y otro porcentaje del escritor de la obra, que soy yo.’19 Nevertheless, he was
criticized for his fictionalization of historical characters, such as Velázquez and
Goya and for his appropriation of the myth and the words of Larra to defend his
own posibilismo. Buero always made it clear, however, that these were only pos-
sible interpretations of the characters; they were never intended as biographical
texts. Writing about El sueño de la razón, the dramatist commented: ‘Pienso, sin
embargo, que esta invención o intuición mía, si no consta que sucediese, bien
pudo suceder’ (O.C. II: 451). The historical dramas therefore are possible histo-
ries, usually focusing on the private face of a public figure.
Hence, in the interests of art, through which he seeks to highlight certain
hidden or denied realities, Buero revised official history. Moreover, Buero took
some licence with the chronology of events in order to serve his dramatic purpose
(O.C. II: 516–17). Some of the events depicted are historical possibility rather
than historical fact, and serve to allow Buero to contrast past and present.
The stress in the historical dramas is on the possibility of change. Buero made
clear that things once considered impossible were now possible, and implied that
what appears to be infeasible now may be realized in the future; nothing is pre-
ordained or naturally impossible, despite what the dominant ideology would
have one believe. His characters continually assert that one can learn from his-
tory. Even the rebel protagonists, such as Ignacio (En la ardiente oscuridad) and
David (El concierto de San Ovidio), who strive for the seemingly impossible,
inspire in others the understanding that what seems unrealizable now may one
day be accomplished.
Ignacio y las gentes como él se rebelan frente a algo que parece insuperable,
tienen todo el derecho de hacerlo, y aun la obligación; porque puede que lo que
entendemos por insuperable no lo sea, o al menos no lo sea del todo. Hay un
momento, una situación, una etapa en la que sí lo es, pero a lo mejor al día
siguiente eso cambia. [. . .] No hay que resignarse a la insuperabilidad.20
universals. History is under no such constraint; it does not usually have to convince us that the
events it describes are possible – what has happened must have been possible.’ Aristotle’s
Poetics, intro, notes and trans. by James Hutton and preface by Gordon M. Kirkwood (New
York: W. W. Norton, 1982), p. 14.
19 Amell, ‘Conversación’, pp. 124–5.
20 Enrique Pajón Mecloy, ‘La ardiente claridad de Antonio Buero Vallejo: entrevista’,
be obvious to the spectator from 1958 that the society in which he lives owes
something to men such as Esquilache who helped to form it.22 Velázquez yearns
for a day when it will be possible to paint and freely exhibit nudes and a day
when man keeps no other man slave; Goya dreams of flying machines of the
future; David dreams of the day when even a poor blind man may be able to read
and study and become a musician. For the Spanish spectator of the drama, this
is all now possible: the day once dreamed of has arrived. Why not then, Buero
implied, the other seemingly impossible ambitions, such as a just, censorship-
free, democratic society? Why not then, the landscape of La Fundación or the
future society of El tragaluz’s Él and Ella? The apathy and resignation encour-
aged by the regime are the greatest enemies of change. The spectator must real-
ize that he is part of the evolutionary process of history and is responsible for its
future. This stress on flux and change was in stark contrast to the regime’s pro-
fessed immutability and essential, eternal values. In Un soñador para un pueblo,
as in Las Meninas, Buero attacked this myth of immutability. Velázquez tells his
king that, ‘Para morir nace todo: hombres, instituciones’ and Esquilache, in his
conversation with Villasanta, declares: ‘Las naciones tienen que cambiar si no
quieren morir definitivamente. [. . .] Nosotros marchamos hacia adelante y sus
señorías no quieren moverse. Pero la Historia se mueve’ (O.C. I: 932, 790).
In the plays, history is used to highlight both continuity and the differences
between past and present. Buero recognized the dangers of nationalism and the
seductively easy answers it provided to a people willing to be led; hence nation-
alism, with its xenophobic emphasis on purity and its appeals to unity and blind
loyalty, is denounced again and again in the plays. He attempted to show that
those who protect this nationalism at all costs against an identifiable foe are often
motivated by self-interest rather than the common good. The Nationalists glori-
fied the Golden Age and created a link between it and Spain under Franco; Buero
drew parallels between the decadence of both eras. The Nationalists dismissed
the nineteenth century as an error; Buero reclaimed it, showing how it logically
precipitated the events of the twentieth century. The Nationalists stressed the
nobility of the pueblo; Buero did the same, while also exposing its ignoble
racism and its manipulation by the ruling elite. Roman Catholic ideology and
values influenced the Nationalists; Buero showed how both Church and govern-
ment betrayed their virtues. The Nationalists emphasized a return to a destiny
that had been betrayed by the Republicans and liberals; Buero revised Homer’s
Odyssey to analyse the return to origins myth, and demonstrated the cruelty of
the supposedly heroic leader who returns and does not save the Motherland, but
rather damns her to an unhappy dependence on his might. While none of the
above examples could be classified as direct attacks on Francoism, there are
some very obvious allusions made.
remained limited, but there is no practical reform of the nineteenth century, no reforming
attitude of mind, that cannot be traced back to one of the servants of Charles III.’ Spain
1808 –1939 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), p. 61.
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periods in which an older, reactionary view of life was colliding with some
newer, more attractive dispensation: by identifying with the proponents of the
new, the audience not only would feel it was experiencing the force of histor-
ical continuity, but it could flatter itself for being on the side of progress.23
These reflected many of the changes occurring in Spanish society when the plays
were written and are among his most political works.
Un soñador para un pueblo (1958) was the first of Buero’s historical dramas.
Based in Madrid in March 1766, during the reign of Carlos III, it tells the story
of the anti-reform riots and the overthrow of the Minister, the Marqués de
Esquilache. Buero described it as a ‘versión libre de un episodio histórico’ (O.C.
II: 423). Buero’s interpretation of events rejected the notion that the rising was
a spontaneous, popular one, which grew from the ground up and toppled a man
who wished to curb the traditional freedoms of the people. Buero instead staged
a rising orchestrated and manipulated from the top down by traditionalist nobles,
led by the Marqués de la Ensenada, whose positions of power were threatened
by the reforms. The myths and rumours spread about Esquilache and the reforms
are exposed as deliberate falsifications. Buero made the point that, while the
rioting had a political agenda, the huge popular support would scarcely have
been possible if the reformers had not been so heavy-handed in their dealings
with the public and particularly in their use of the Walloon Guard to put down
any resistance to change. This play is thus in keeping with Buero’s outlook: ‘the
most significant implication of the play is that real change requires both the dis-
mantling of established power structures and the genuine involvement of the
people’.24
Both Carlos III and Esquilache recognize that the traditionalist nobility are
behind the increasing resistance to reform. As David Johnston points out, both
Villasanta, who represents the conservative nobility, and Ensenada, a reformer in
a previous government who resents his lack of power, wear wigs that are
outdated and therefore symbolic of their commitment to the past and their reluc-
tance to embrace change.25 The old order displays scant regard for the Spanish
people, and Ensenada declares that ‘el español es desequilibrado’ and is there-
fore in need of absolute rule (O.C. I: 770). Buero examined the way in which a
case is made for the need for a paternalistic leader by demonstrating the natural
weakness of the Spaniard, and subverted it in his work, recuperating the pueblo
of Spanish Writing 1939 to the 1990s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 48.
25 Johnston, ‘Posibles paralelos’, p. 350. Moreover, Duaso in El sueño de la razón, despite
working as a censor under Fernando VII, demonstrates his allegiance to an earlier, more
liberal, period by wearing the cross of Carlos III.
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26 Lyon ‘History and Opposition Drama’, p. 99. It was a constant concern of the dramatist
is housed in his studio and has begun work on the painting that would be his
masterpiece, Las Meninas. Both his innovative artistic technique and his enlight-
ened world view are misunderstood by others and attacked by those whose artis-
tic and social status are threatened by them. The play examines the strength of
the artist in his isolation, his search for a viewer and, in Part II, the righteous-
ness of his valiant stand for his work and against his attackers. The play ends
in compromise, rather than defeat, for the artist, but his art and its influence
survive.
Notwithstanding the fact that it was deliberately termed a ‘fantasía’ to make
clear that it is not history, Buero was widely criticized for his creation of a rebel
Velázquez, which many saw as a distortion of the reality of the historical
Velázquez, a canonical painter, said to be mindful of his privileges.28 Buero
viewed him instead as a critic of society:
Velázquez, conocedor seguro del Quijote como lo eran todos entonces y lúcido
testigo, igual que Cervantes, de la decadencia del país, lo que acaso le llevó a
concebir la pintura de su Don Juan de Austria, aquel patético cincuentón de
«triste figura» rodeado de caballerescas piezas de arnés tiradas por el suelo,
como la del otro Don Quijote hundido en su fatal empeño de llegar a ser el
adalid cuyo nombre ostenta y que, resuelto a transmutar un rincón del Alcázar
en su particular Cueva de Montesinos, añora desde ella el desvaído ensueño,
la casi subconsciente ideación, de la confusa acción naval esbozada en el fondo
del cuadro. (O.C. II: 1291–2)
28 Gonzalo Fernández de la Mora wrote: ‘Y la reconstrucción que Buero nos brinda de don
of censorship, freedom of expression and the role of the artist in a society where
liberty is severely curtailed. The liberties taken with the portrait of the court and
characters therein were taken in order to demystify the distorted portrait of the
Golden Age presented by the Franco regime.
Defined as a ‘parábola en tres actos’, indicating that there is a message in the
play for the spectator, El concierto de San Ovidio (1962) is set in Paris in the sum-
mer and autumn of 1771. The protagonist is David, a poor but talented musician,
blinded as a young child and now residing in the Hospicio de los Quince Veintes
with other blind men who are expected to contribute to their keep by begging in
the streets of Paris. They are viewed by those who run the Hospicio as somehow
less than human; little is expected of them and they are shown no respect. Their
handicap renders them not just blind, but invisible. The society in which they live
is undergoing a transformation, as it moves from an old feudal system to a more
modern structure. Traditional society is already in decline while a new breed of
bourgeois capitalist, represented in the play by Valindin, is rising. A similar
dichotomy was evident in Spanish society in the 1960s as the technocrats pre-
pared to take over from the declining old guard of the Franco regime, while still
relying on their patronage. The place for the blind and the weak in the new social
order, however, is shown to be no better than in the old. The old order, represented
by the Prioress in charge of the Hospicio, expected them to beg for their keep; the
new order, represented by the opportunistic businessman Valindin, expects them
to perform in a grotesque parody of a musical group that he forms with the goal
of making his fortune at the Paris Fair. A clash of ideas takes place when David
sees the group as an opportunity for the blind men to prove themselves. He
attempts to teach the others to play well, rather than to play badly for entertain-
ment, and to believe in their own worth as people; he longs for recognition of their
humanity. Valindin will not countenance this challenge to his plan, and threatens
David, manipulating the latter’s feelings of protectiveness towards the youngest
and most vulnerable member of the group, Donato, to get his way. The clash is
heightened by the two men’s competition for the attentions of Valindin’s lover,
Adriana. She is the first to see the humanity of the blind men and to treat them
well; like them, she is exploited by Valindin. In an immersion scene of great ten-
sion, David murders Valindin. His victory over Valindin, and Donato’s betrayal of
him, lead to his own downfall and the return to former ignominy of Adriana and
the other blind men. David’s act of rebellion could thus be interpreted as a fail-
ure. The key to the play, however, is in the final monologue of Valentín Haüy, who
comments on the action of the play, thirty years after the concert took place.
Inspired by his revulsion at witnessing such exploitation, the ‘ultraje a la
humanidad’ at the Paris Fair, he established in post-revolution France a school to
teach blind children. His work offers hope that David’s dream might some day be
realized.
Although basing his play loosely around historical characters and setting it in
a carefully chosen historical period, Buero again broke with recorded history for
the purposes of his message in El concierto de San Ovidio. Thus the Hospicio de
los Quince Veintes is run by a religious order in the play, whereas in reality it
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was a secular institution.30 This alteration allowed Buero to comment on the role
of the Church in the face of societal change. The action takes place in the trou-
bled years leading up to the French Revolution when, as Valentín Haüy states,
‘Francia entera no era más que hambre y ferias’ (O.C. I: 1022).
The modern Valindins, opportunistic businessmen, had begun to exploit the
apertura.31 Valindin, like his Francoist counterparts, relied on the patronage and
manipulation of tradition and history in order to legitimate his ideology. As he
would in La detonación later, Buero here warned against superficial reform that
merely serves to replace one elite group with another, with no real benefits for
the pueblo. It must also be acknowledged that another struggle was taking place
at the time in Spain, and from this a Marxist analysis may also arise. The play
was staged during a period of heightened civil unrest. It was a time when stu-
dents and workers challenged the dominant ideology and began to propose a
united opposition. A state of emergency was declared on 4 April 1962. Buero’s
wife, Victoria Rodríguez, was among those arrested while taking part in a peace-
ful protest against the brutal treatment of miners by the forces of the state.32
The play is set in the time of the rise of capitalism, when the bourgeoisie began
to gain power at the expense of the aristocracy and has been taken to represent
a class struggle. Certain allusions were drawn about proletarian struggle against
the bourgeoisie.33 Abellán is one of the critics whose analysis of Buero’s theatre
leads him to conclude that the dramatist is Marxist in outlook:
Others too, such as Doménech and Iglesias Feijoo found references to the class
struggle in this play. Not all of the critics are in agreement, however. Jordan,
30 Derek Gagen, ‘The Germ of Tragedy: The Genesis and Structure of Buero Vallejo’s El
del mundo es de signo ascendente [. . .] y, por otro lado, en un contexto español más
específico, él es el “aperturista” cuya empresa todavía necesita el visto bueno de los que tienen
el privilegio de la autoridad.’ Antonio Buero Vallejo, El concierto de San Ovidio, ed. by David
Johnston, Colección Austral, no. 82, 9th edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1991), p. 17.
32 Gagen, ‘The Germ’, p. 43.
33 Gagen points out that the blind portrayed in the play are working-class blind. He also
notes that the play is described as a ‘parábola en tres actos’, and therefore, clearly has some
sort of message for our times. ‘The Germ’, pp. 46, 39.
34 José Luis Abellán, ‘Buero Vallejo: el teatro como modo de conocimiento’, in Antonio
Buero Vallejo: literatura y filosofía, co-ordinated by Ana María Leyra (Madrid: Editorial
Complutense, 1998), pp. 165–84 (p. 172).
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for example, while conceding that it is there within the play, does not place great
emphasis on the theme of class struggle.35 Even acknowledging Gagen’s point
that the blind musicians are working class, it must be admitted that the only one
engaged in the struggle is David. Jordan argues: ‘If Valindin can be seen as rep-
resenting the thrusting, upwardly mobile class antagonist, the blind men as a
group are far from symbolising the poor and oppressed engaged in collective
struggle against him.’36
Yet, it is important to note that the revolution fails and Buero Vallejo was more
sympathetic towards the reform of Haüy than the revolution of David. David’s
struggle, which begins as rebellion against the mistreatment of his fellow blind
musicians, betrays a less worthy underlying motive: jealousy. Overall then, the
play is more closely linked to Camus’s ideas on rebellion than on Marxist class-
conscious revolution. Perhaps there is a suggestion here from the dramatist that
a collective struggle, one that leads to rebellion rather than revolt, might have
succeeded. In essence, the play can be read as a treatise on ideology, stressing
power relationships and the methods used by some characters to dominate
others. These may be direct, repressive methods, or more indirect, ideological
methods, such as the educational system, or the manipulation of the desire for
security and material well-being. Jordan refers to the institutionalization of this
domination, through the establishment of an authority protected by legislation,
which then becomes socially acceptable and naturalized, and consequently,
resistence or opposition to this domination becomes unacceptable. Furthermore,
the play highlights other attacks on the dominant ideology in Francoist Spain,
evidenced in Buero’s representation of the family, the Church, the role of
women, police corruption and protectionism and patronage. There are thus clear
parallels with the ideological struggles in Francoist society.
El sueño de la razón (1969), a play about the aged and deaf Goya’s relation-
ship with the repressive regime of Fernando VII, has obvious resonances for the
time in which it was written. It is set in Madrid in December 1823, in the time
near the end of the artist’s life, and a turbulent period politically. Like Las
Meninas, this play is both historical and painterly, and Buero made much use of
Goya’s work, incorporating images from it into set and action, and incorporat-
ing titles of his etchings and Black Paintings into the often disturbing dialogue.
Buero wrote: ‘Sus Caprichos y Disparates, sus Pinturas Negras, son el reflejo
punzante, en su alma irónica y atormentada, de la monstruosa realidad que cul-
minó en la restauración absolutista de Fernando VII’ (O.C. II: 534). Once again
Buero examined the relationship between an outspoken and unconventional artist
and a repressive regime; here though, the king is less benign and the artist less
conciliatory. Immersion was used to make the audience experience the deafness,
35 In fact he cites Gagen’s observation that David’s cry of ‘¡Unidos hermanos!’ is an echo
of the PCE slogan, ‘¡Uníos hermanos proletarios!’ Barry Jordan, ‘Patriarchy, Sexuality and
Oedipal Conflict in Buero Vallejo’s El concierto de San Ovidio’, Modern Drama, 23 (no. 3,
1985), 431–50 (pp. 448, 431). See also Dixon, ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí” ’, p. 39.
36 Jordan, ‘Patriarchy’, p. 432.
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confusion and frustration of Goya. The artist, isolated in the Quinta del Sordo
and by his deafness, is under siege by Fernando VII, who seeks to punish him
for perceived slights and for the artist’s disobedience. The king manipulates
Goya’s friend, the priest Duaso, in order to attack the artist. Goya’s family is also
critical of his lifestyle and his work. Solace for the artist is found in the friend-
ship of the doctor Arrieta and in the company of Leocadia, his housekeeper and
mistress, drawn from the pueblo, who suffers his passionate temper out of affec-
tion for him. Goya’s nightmare vision of a Spain gone mad is depicted in the
Black Paintings that adorn the walls and disturb his visitors. Life imitates art in
a scene that begins with the artist in the pose from El sueño de la razón on stage
and recreates the nightmare, which is then echoed by the arrival of the
Voluntarios Realistas and their attack on the artist and rape of Leocadia. The end
of the play sees Goya choosing exile in France over further victimization in
Spain.
Buero made the point that the two-part play, also described as a ‘fantasía’, ‘es
un drama, no un estudio histórico’ (O.C. II: 451). The Spain portrayed in El
sueño de la razón is ‘un país al borde del sepulcro . . . cuya razón sueña’ (O.C.
I: 1334). The Head of State, Fernando VII, is attacked in the play. Buero exposed
the myth of el Deseado as damaging to the nation when, in the dream sequence,
Gata proclaims ‘¡Viva el rey neto y muera la nación!’ (O.C. I: 1326). The paral-
lels to be drawn between Goya’s Spain and Buero’s Spain were highlighted by
Buero in an article written in 1975:
Tal lección sigue siendo, por desgracia, válida en este tiempo. [. . .] Las sal-
vajadas, por ejemplo, que algunos grupos de ultraderecha de mi país vienen
cometiendo en los últimos años se parecen lamentablemente a las que, en la
época de Goya, cometieron los Voluntarios Realistas. (O.C. II: 467–8)
Just as Buero hoped that his own theatre would do, Goya’s Black Paintings, and
both the artistry and critique of society they contain, survived the baneful period
of the década ominosa.
Buero referred to history even in many of the non-historical dramas. This
is evident in his use of a history teacher as protagonist in Aventura en lo gris,
the first of Buero’s Surelian dramas.37 Silvano, the protagonist, is a man
whose understanding of the past allows him to anticipate the errors of the
future; hence, he seeks to employ history as a lesson about man, his present
37 This is a two-act play with a dream sequence between the two acts. It tells the story of
a group of war refugees, holed up in an abandoned house with no food, awaiting a train that
will take them from Surelia and the approaching enemy troops. The play explores the
behaviour of this diverse group as they discover the truth about their own motivations and
those of others. The group includes a discredited historian, Silvano, who lost his university
position for his challenges to the regime of the dictator, Goldmann, and Goldmann himself,
who, despite the propaganda message relayed about his patriotic defence of the nation, has
disguised himself and, calling himself Alejandro, is attempting to flee unnoticed with his
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and his future possibilities. Silvano’s crime, in the eyes of the dictator,
Goldmann, was to use history as a demystifier of the regime to ‘desenmas-
carar la hipocresía del Gobierno, que ya la preparaba, y a denunciar las
verdaderas causas de esta guerra’ (O.C. I: 426). He continues to debunk the
myth of Goldmann, whom he exposes as an abuser and a coward. Silvano con-
tradicts Carlos’s negative allegations about the enemy, insisting on a common
humanity betrayed by political leaders and manipulated by propagandistic
interpretations of history.
Another drama in which history is employed in an unconventional manner is
El tragaluz. In it Buero created an extraordinary perspective for the spectator,
who views his own time and place as history.38 It is a clever combination of
immersion and alienation techniques employed to make the spectators identify
with the future and yet see themselves as they now are. Not only do they witness
their present as history, but they are also shown how history has led them to that
present. This is achieved by the use of reference to events of the Civil War and
its immediate aftermath, demonstrating how these incidents shaped the present.
Thus, the spectator is shown the influence of the past upon the present, and is
also made aware of a possible future, which is very different to his present; he is
invited to speculate on how such a future might be achieved, having been shown
that historical change is possible and that learning from the past is not only con-
ceivable, but desirable. Kronik observes that the play, which ‘addresses the over-
all problem of man in historical context, [. . .] contains both history and the myth
of history; and to the extent that it becomes an agent of change, it is in itself a
force of history’.39
In other non-historical dramas, such as Historia de una escalera, a play
dealing with the lives of a group of neighbours in a run-down building and span-
ning thirty years from pre- to post-Civil War, and particularly in post-Franco
plays such as Música cercana (1989) and Las trampas del azar (1992), Buero,
like the social Realists of the 1950s, examined generational differences as a
means of exploring changing and unchanging attitudes towards recent history,
and in particular, the Civil War. Furthermore, in his adaptations of Hamlet and
Mother Courage and her Children for the Spanish stage, Buero again deliber-
ately chose historical drama to comment on the abuse of power.
mistress, Ana. In the shared dream sequence, people are revealed as they truly are. The
characters awaken to discover that Isabel, the young mother whose child was the result of her
rape by an enemy soldier, has been murdered. Silvano discovers that Goldmann killed her; he
in turn is killed by Carlos, the young soldier who loved her, though he could not accept her
child. When the others leave for the border in a final attempt to escape, Silvano and Ana
remain behind with Isabel’s baby, hoping that the child will be accepted and saved by the
approaching troops. The play ends with the salvation of the child, but there is no justice for
Silvano and Ana, who are facing the soldiers’ guns as the curtain drops.
38 History and future are used in a similar manner in Caimán.
39 ‘Buero Vallejo’s El tragaluz and Man’s Existence in History’, Hispanic Review, 41
When the individual accepts responsibility for, and remains in contact with, the
product he creates and its effects on the users, he has taken one step toward
becoming aware of the function of these materials in the history of his time.
Not a revolutionary step, to be sure, but the first of many necessary steps
toward total social change. Such awareness may lead to the beginnings of his
control over the future.41
In his attacks on apathy and his emphasis on positive, if difficult, change, Buero
linked the idea of responsibility and accountability to that of historical progress.
His plays stress the significance of the human individual, the need to assume
individual responsibility, the possibility, through individual determination and
commitment – though not without collective action – of fulfilling a universal
urge to overcome Man’s limitations, both socio-political and ontological.42
The regime’s ideology, on the other hand, attacked the notion of personal
influence on the flux of history, stressing instead the inevitability of Spain’s
destiny, and thus the need to conform and be led. This official myth, reflected by
the authority figures in the plays, propagates the idea that the rulers have the best
interests of the nation at heart. Thus, it follows that challenges to their personal
power are represented as a threat to the nation. By denying man the freedom to
be master of his own destiny and by convincing him that he neither wants nor
needs the burden of responsibility, the myth-makers engender the mass apathy
necessary for them to perpetuate their self-serving politics.
Buero’s historical and mythical figures are reduced to human level. Not only
are mistakes of the past repeated, but so too are some of the mythological influ-
ences in his work. The Cain and Abel inspired activos and contemplativos in
many of his plays continue to make the same mistakes until they learn from each
other and accept both responsibility and accountability. Characters, themes and
Foundations are repeated in the works of Buero in an attempt to highlight the
repetition of errors of the past.43 As Harvey J. Kaye wrote: ‘History and its
progressive political possibilities are not resolved.’44 Buero feared that the
young, usually the embodiment of hope for the future, might, through impa-
tience, repeat the errors of the past rather than learn from them. This is a theme
he developed further in the plays of the post-Franco period. Buero’s dramas
remind the spectator that the present in which he lives is the result of choices
made and actions taken or not taken in the past and, as such, is only one of many
possible presents.
As Halsey argues, one of the aims of Buero’s historical dramas was to
encourage the audience to identify with the victims of certain historical actions
to understand more deeply the plight of the victims of contemporary Spain.45
The essential sameness between torturer and tortured underscores the common
humanity of all characters. Buero stressed that the tortured can escape becom-
ing torturers by making choices based on history and hence avoiding the
repetition of historical errors. Characters, choices and conflicts of the present
are shown to be echoes of similar elements in the past, or the result of a failure
to recognize and avoid historical errors. In plays such as La tejedora de sueños,
El tragaluz, Historia de una escalera and Aventura en lo gris, Buero highlighted
the social consequences of war and the endless repetition of the same mistakes,
and asked why people fail to learn from past errors in order to avoid them in the
future.
Through his spokesperson, Silvano, in Aventura en lo gris, Buero expressed
his frustration and disillusionment at the waste that is war; an outraged Carlos
talks of the brutality of the invaders who raped so many Surelian women, but
Silvano reminds him that: ‘Ellos decían lo mismo, el siglo pasado, cuando les
invadimos nosotros’ (O.C. I: 424). Goya’s doctor, Arrieta, makes a similar point
to Duaso in El sueño de la razón: ‘Hoy nos dicen masones a los vencidos;
mañana se lo dirán a las gentes como usted’ (O.C. I: 1321). This also reminds
the spectator of the tit-for-tat accusations of brutality and justifications by both
sides in the more recent Spanish conflict. In El tragaluz, one of the researchers
from the future defines the tragedy of twentieth-century society: ‘El mundo
estaba lleno de injusticia, guerras y miedo. Los activos olvidaban la contem-
plación; quienes contemplaban no sabían actuar’ (O.C. I: 1178).
In his theatre of the Franco period, Buero damned what would later be termed
the pacto de olvido, a theme he returned to in his post-Franco theatre. This deter-
mination to forget is linked to apathy, a shirking of responsibility, and the likely
repetition of past errors. In El tragaluz, the mother’s selective memory of events
cope with it and instead created the more soothing myth. As long as he remained in
this delusional foundation, there was truly no hope for escape; only by recognizing the
foundation as a prison could he hope to escape it. Thus Buero argued that those in society who
fail to recognize the limitations that surround them will never overcome them, nor even
attempt to; as long as they view their oppressors as their benefactors, they can never escape
their control.
44 Kaye, ‘Why Do Ruling Classes Fear History?’, p. 86.
45 Halsey, ‘El intelectual’, p. 47.
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at the train station excuses Vicente’s part in the death of his sister: ‘Bueno: se
nos llevó a Vicentito, porque él logró meterse por una ventanilla y luego ya no
pudo bajar’ (O.C. I: 1139). Later, when Mario and Vicente discuss the train, the
former, in an effort to apportion blame and the latter, to reiterate the myth, the
mother insists: ‘Hay que olvidar aquello’ (O.C. I: 1174). Mario recognizes that
his mother revises history to protect herself from a terrible truth, just as he has
protected himself from a society dominated by people like his brother.
Commenting on the character of Mario, Kronik notes:
Buero suggested that the family’s stagnation in the basement flat and their lack
of progress was linked in some way to this wilful amnesia and determined lack
of accountability.
Similarly, in Llegada de los dioses, Felipe rewrites his personal history,
eliminating all mention of war and torture in which he played an active role and
reconstructing himself as a respectable businessman. After Julio has tried to
destroy the myth for Nuria, Felipe seeks to restore it: ‘Olvida sus palabras, nena.
¡Te juro que son falsas! [. . .] Nada malo te sucederá; ni tus padres ni yo lo
permitiríamos’ (O.C. I: 1365). Other characters, in plays such as Hoy es fiesta,
Irene, o el tesoro, El terror inmóvil, Las cartas boca abajo and La Fundación,
determine to forget certain pivotal past events and as a result of their denial suf-
fer guilt and frustration in the present. Buero insisted on the need to remember
and learn.
to the novelists of early social realism of the 1950s, however, Buero did not look
back to a paradise lost, although he held out hope for a possible future Utopia.48
Unlike many novels and plays of disillusion and disenchantment, Buero’s plays,
while certainly highlighting the gap between the official myth and the social real-
ity, also hinted at a different future, which for the protagonists might be only a
dream or illusion.
Not having been educated by the regime and indoctrinated into the Francoist
ideology and mythology, Buero generally did not take as a starting point the
accepted mythology of the regime. Yet, the ideology of return to origins, exem-
plified in the myth of Ulysses cited by Labanyi in Myth and History, is one sub-
verted by Buero Vallejo in La tejedora de sueños.49 The hero’s return and the
consequent slaying of the rivals are parodied in Buero’s play and the myth of
the hero-saviour is exposed as false. Thus, Buero demonstrated the creation of
the myth of Ulysses, and invited the spectator to reject it as Penélope does, and
from there, to reject other myths as false. In his version, the myth of Ulysses,
like the myth of Spanish nationalism, is revealed as an ideologically motivated
version of history.50
Ragué Arias described the employment of Greek mythology in the right-wing
theatre of the 1940s and 1950s, ‘para grandes espectáculos que estaban al servi-
cio de la ideología oficial.’51 Buero was acting in a very deliberate manner when
he chose to subvert the story of Odysseus’ return to Ithaca in La tejedora de
48 Labanyi cites the use of the book–antithesis –synthesis model of Paradise Lost–The
Fall–Utopia in literature of the Franco period. For the Francoists the Second Republic
represented the Fall, while for the Republicans and opponents of Franco, it was Paradise
Lost.
49 The importance of the Odyssey myth in the culture of Francoism is evidenced by
the many versions that appear in the literature of the period and after. These include works
by Gonzalo Torrente Ballester (El retorno de Ulises), Antonio Gala (¿Por qué corres
Ulises?), Carmen Resino (Ulises no vuelve) and Salvador S. Monzó (Ulises o el retorno
equivocado). José C. Paulino wrote of these plays and others: ‘Ideológicamente sirve tan
bien para realizar una crítica a la ideología del régimen franquista y su simbología, como
para rechazar los valores de violencia militar y represión de la sociedad de posguerra o para
proponer una imagen desencantada de los héroes de esa misma sociedad en su ocaso más
ridículo y vulgar que emotivo.’ ‘Ulises en el teatro español contemporáneo. Una revisión
panorámica’, Anales de la literatura española contemporánea, 19 (no. 3, 1994), 327– 42
(pp. 338–9).
50 This analysis thus disagrees with Härtinger, who contends that La tejedora de sueños is
not a political drama. He based this assertion on a conversation with Buero in which the
dramatist commented that concrete parallels between his Ulysses and Franco were not his
conscious plan. However, Härtinger did not seem to consider Buero’s other comments: ‘Esa
politización de la obra [. . .] no la rechazo; entiendo que es una de las cosas que puede suscitar
la obra. Y como yo llevaba dentro a un antifranquista inevitable, pues también – consciente o
inconscientemente – todo eso puede haber estado operando en mí; no lo niego.’ Härtinger,
Oppositionstheater, pp. 64, 65. Buero wrote elsewhere about the demystifying role of La
tejedora de sueños (O.C. II: 434).
51 María José Ragué Arias, Lo que fue Troya: los mitos griegos en el Teatro español actual,
sueños (1950) to tell a vastly different version of events than the officially
sanctioned one.52 There are some noteworthy deviations from the original, how-
ever, apart from the obvious reinterpretation of the relationship between
Penélope and Ulises.53 Penélope herself is brought out from the shadows of her
husband’s legacy and shown to have been a victim, not only of a society run by
and for warmongering men, but also of history, as the recorded version of events
was the official myth and not the truth. Buero reclaimed her as a mythical, but
human, character in her own right, not merely a prop in the myth of Ulises. Here
he created a new myth of Penélope in the place of the demystified one. Nor was
Buero the first to criticize the returning hero: in Book XXIV of the original it
becomes clear that Odysseus too had his critics. The view of Odysseus held by
Eupeithes, father of Antinous, the first of the suitors to be killed, was echoed in
Buero’s portrait of the returning hero:
What a mass of evil things this man’s devices have brought upon us Achaeans!
Many of us, all men of courage, he took away with him in his ships; he lost the
ships and he lost the men; and now that he has come back again he has killed
the noblest of all the Cephallenians.54
52 Hazel Cazorla classifies the play as remystification, rather than demystification. ‘El
retorno de Ulises: dos enfoques contemporáneos del mito en el teatro de Buero Vallejo y Antonio
Gala’, Hispanófila, 29 (no. 87, 1986), 43–51 (p. 45). Buero claimed that it is both (O.C. II: 434).
53 Unlike in the original, Buero’s Euriclea is blind and almost deaf and, like other
physically impaired characters in the works of Buero, she perceives what others do not. The
character Dione, on the other hand, is the dramatist’s invention and provides insight into the
character of Penélope. Odysseus is described in the original by gods and mortals as ‘subtle
witted’, ‘shrewd’ and ‘staunch’; Penelope says of him, ‘he was never a tyrant to any man’. In
Buero’s version he is exposed as a cowardly oppressor. Odysseus is also more generous in the
original. He tells Eurycleia: ‘Utter no cry of exultation. Vaunting over men slain is a
monstrous thing.’ Homer, The Odyssey, trans. by Walter Shewring, The World’s Classics
Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980), pp. 51, 274.
54 Homer, The Odyssey, p. 295.
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The effects of war on society are seen in the destruction of Ítaca and Penélope’s
plight. In his portrait of Telémaco, Buero criticized the effects of war on succes-
sive generations, a theme he was to take up again in Llegada de los dioses. The
society depicted at the end of the play, like Francoist society, is one in which ‘the
appearance of truth is more important than truth itself’.57 Ricard Salvat I Ferré
notes:
Esta obra fue la que más mella hizo, a nuestro entender, en el alto aparato
oficial del franquismo. Estrenada, como las anteriores, en un teatro nacional,
tenía todo el valor de un desafío y de un valeroso reto. Quien quiso entender
la reflexión sobre la reciente guerra civil y sus terribles consecuencias, pudo
entenderlo. El atreverse a «leer» la fiel Penélope como una arriesgada y
valiente Clitemnestra, cambiaba todos los esquemas de la aparentemente
tranquila y satisfecha conciencia cultural del franquismo.58
Franco Durán observes: ‘Su marido ha regresado para vengarse, pero no arriesga
su vida, mata a unos enemigos indefensos.’59 There is no attempt at reconciliation
55 Manuel Alvar, ‘Presencia del mito: La tejedora de sueños’, in Estudios sobre Buero
incidencia social’, in Antonio Buero Vallejo. Premio ‘Miguel de Cervantes’ 1986, pp. 75–99
(p. 84).
59 ‘Interpretación del mito clásico en La tejedora de sueños’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo:
and the ideology of the returned leader is imposed. For Fernando de Diego, ‘La
muerte del pretendiente representa también la derrota de una ideología, de una
visión del mundo.’60 Penélope’s words in praise of Anfino and against Ulises are
clearly criticisms of their respective ideologies and the contemporary Spanish
versions of the same.
Lamartina-Lens reads Penélope and Helen in Buero’s play as representations
of good and evil. The former is abandoned in her prime for the sake of the glory
of her husband:
Penelope’s rivalry with Helen for men’s attention and her wish to be fought
over by men is one of Buero’s greatest flaws in the development of Penelope’s
character in the play. This cattiness is truly unbecoming to such a tragic figure
while it reinforces a patriarchal negative image of woman.61
qué corres Ulises?, and Ulises no vuelve’, Estreno, 12 (no. 2, 1986), 31–4 (p. 32).
62 Cazorla, ‘El retorno’, p. 44.
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Ulises determines that what displeases him does not exist and will not be
recorded.
Buero used biblical mythology to subvert the Nationalist–Catholic mythology
of his day; not only did he show that the clergy are more interested in power and
avarice than the positive values commonly associated with religious figures, but
he highlighted the corruption of their methodology and reasoning. They are seen
to interpret the scriptures to suit their own ends. Their lack of compassion is
exposed and reminds the spectator of a similar lack of concern for the victims
shown by the Roman Catholic Church in the aftermath of the Civil War. Biblical
mythology is dealt with most obviously in Las palabras en la arena (1948). Arie
Vicente, in an article about the esperpéntico and the tragic in Las palabras en la
arena, notes the parallels between the society portrayed in the play and the
dramatist’s society:
Podol too, argues that Buero’s Las palabras en la arena questions ‘the
compatibility of the demand for vengeance, an integral component of the rigid
honour code, with the Christian virtue of forgiveness, epitomized by Christ and
his teachings’.64 Asaf’s tirade against forgiveness parodies the dominant ideo-
logy of Francoism: ‘Pero perdonando no puede haber familia, ni mujer segura,
ni hijos obedientes, ni Estado, ¡ni nada!’ (O.C. I: 64).
The dramatist also made use of other myths in his attempt to contest the
myths propagated by the regime. Ricardo Doménech has written about the
‘trasfondo mítico’ in the works of Buero Vallejo, incorporating the myths of
Oedipus, Don Quijote and Cain and Abel.65 Influences of Greek mythology can
be seen in Llegada de los dioses, Historia de una escalera, Aventura en lo gris,
Diálogo secreto, Música cercana, Las trampas del azar and El concierto de
San Ovidio. Father figures are punished for their determination to hide and
obscure past transgressions. Their castigators are the next generation, who
have suffered for their sins. This demystification of a paternalistic figure has
repercussions beyond the father figures of the plays, however. As Jean Cross
Newman highlights, many of the plays contain unethical father figures, whose
palabras en la arena, de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Estreno, 13 (no. 2, 1987), 28–31 (p. 29).
64 Peter L. Podol, ‘The Theme of Honor in Two Plays of Buero Vallejo: Las palabras en
la arena and La tejedora de sueños’, Hispanófila, 23 (no. 68, 1980), 39–46 (p. 41).
65 Ricardo Doménech, El teatro de Buero Vallejo: una meditación española, 2nd edn
66 Jean Cross Newman, ‘El fracaso de la figura paterna en el teatro de Antonio Buero
70 John P. Gabriele and Laura L. Kenreich, ‘De Dulcinea del Toboso a Melania de
tragaluz, not to the two brothers, but rather to Vicente and his young sister, Elvira, whom she
describes as the Abel of the play, as she was the victim of Vicente’s actions. She then classes
Mario, who is usually seen as the Abel figure, as the Old Testament God, who sits in
judgement upon his brother. This leaves the father, usually viewed as the God-like figure, as
another Cain figure whose killing of Vicente and whose mental instability are judged to be a
result of his own failure to forgive Vicente and to recognize elements of himself in his son.
While there might be some degree of plausibility in this interpretation, it seems to miss the
connection in Buero’s work between the Cain and Abel figures and the activos and
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He generalized, arguing that ‘es ideología cualquier utilización del lenguaje que
exprese una visión deformada del mundo y de las cosas cuando esa deformación
está, implícita o explícitamente, al servicio de los intereses de la clase domin-
ante’, and went on to reason, citing Voloshinov, that ideology is about signs and
‘siendo la palabra el signo por excelencia, huelga concluir que es igualmente el
fenómeno ideológico por excelencia’.75
Thus it follows that, in order to challenge the ideology of the dominant group
in society, one must question the language employed by it to normalize and legit-
imize a particular perspective. In plays such as En la ardiente oscuridad, Las
Meninas, La detonación and Llegada de los dioses, characters expose this mythi-
fication by revealing the reality hidden or falsified by motivated language.
Indeed, Ignacio’s aim in En la ardiente oscuridad, like that of writers Juan
Goytisolo and Luis Martín-Santos, is destructive. He announces: ‘Yo os voy a
traer guerra y no paz’ (O.C. I: 90).76 Yet, unlike some of his Spanish and
European peers, Buero did not engage to any great extent in drawing attention to
artifice as a means of blurring or exposing the gap between reality and myth; he
did not expose the falsifications and distortions of his own language as a means
of drawing attention to language as falsifier. Nonetheless, it is clear that, on occa-
sion, he undermined the power of a character’s motivated words by showing how
they were betrayed by reality.
En la ardiente oscuridad tells the story of Ignacio, a reluctant new student at the
misleadingly titled Centro de enseñanza, a school for the blind.77 Certain forms of
contemplativos. There is no reason to suggest that Elvira might not also be an innocent Abel
figure. However, Mario too retains elements of this mythological character, particularly when
he recognizes himself in his brother and questions his right to judge him, an act not very
typical of an Old Testament God. However, in keeping with Sollish Sikka’s own argument, it
is precisely Vicente’s inability to see elements of his brother, that is contemplativo elements,
within himself, that leads to his downfall; he has no faith in his own ability to change for the
better, although Mario, belatedly, recognizes this possibility.
74 José Hierro Pescador, ‘Ideología, lenguaje y clases sociales’, Sistema, no. 23 (1978),
embraced the myth that blindness is normal and indeed they live very normal lives within the
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language are imposed and particular words are taboo in the carefully constructed
and restrictive society of the Centro de enseñanza. Despite the obvious falsity of
their position, the directors and pupils of the centre, rather than admit that the
students are visually handicapped, prefer to consider people with sight as visually
gifted. The word ‘ciego’, commonly considered to be purely descriptive rather than
derogatory, is rejected; the approved term in the Centro de enseñanza is ‘invidente’
and the corresponding term for normal or sighted people is ‘vidente’. Both Ignacio
and his father comment on the lack of logic in this employment of language, for
outside the centre, a ‘vidente’ is a person with second sight. Even the name of the
centre gives no indication of its purpose and promulgates a false sense of normal-
ity within.78 The myth of normality, created by the motivated use of language, is
further emphasized by the students’ appearance and their reaction to Ignacio, who
insists on using a cane. Carlos justifies their peculiar employment of language,
telling Ignacio: ‘Mis palabras pueden servir para que nuestros compañeros
consigan una vida relativamente feliz. Las tuyas no lograrán más que destruir’
(O.C. I: 103).79 It is easy to see why the Centro de enseñanza was so readily
identified as a symbol of the country at large with its taboos and wilful blindness
to the truth and general unwillingness to challenge the obvious lie.80
In Las Meninas, a play based on the life and work of Velázquez, the character
Pedro, like Velázquez, sees the shallowness of the myth propped up by language
confines of the Centro. Ignacio refuses to accept this false proposition, insisting that the
students must face the reality of their situation and the limitation that is their blindness. His
frustration at his non-vision and his desire for an understanding of something he has never
known, show the tragedy of human existence; his acceptance of limitations coupled with his
desire to overcome them represent human hope. A battle of wills ensues between Ignacio and
Carlos, the leader of the students and the spokeperson for the directors. This is further
complicated by the fact that Ignacio not only wins over many of the students, but also Carlos’s
girlfriend, Juana. It looks like Ignacio’s realistic, yet hopeful, view will win out, but a jealous
Carlos kills him and the ‘normality’ of the Centro is restored; the other students embrace the
myth once again, dismissing Ignacio’s ideas, which they had earlier accepted. Carlos,
however, having eliminated Ignacio, is now consumed by the latter’s vision. He too rejects the
myth of the Centro and longs for a sight that remains a mystery to him; he will take up the
mantle of Ignacio and challenge the falsity of their existence, insisting on the need to accept
their limitations, while yearning to overcome them and to understand the mystery that is sight.
78 A similar case is La Fundación. In addition, the Sección Política of the police in La
doble historia del doctor Valmy is a misleading description of the torturers who form its ranks.
79 Unlike Unamuno’s San Manuel Bueno, however, Carlos, initially at least, seems to
and implied that the blind community of the Centro de enseñanza represents Spanish society
as a whole: ‘En décadas anteriores, la inclusión en el Libro Hablado de ciertas obras era
censurada en España por la propia Organización de Ciegos, así como se prohibían otras para
la totalidad del país – para otros «ciegos» a quienes se pretendía mantener con los ojos
cerrados–. La Organización era, fatalmente, un microcosmos que reproducía las
peculiaridades y carencias del macrocosmos social en que se hallaba inserta’ (O.C. II: 454–5).
Of course, the philosophical concerns evident in the play, while not considered in depth in this
book, should not be overlooked.
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paying for the past sins of his father, a wartime torturer who made his home in Spain after the
end of WWII and who lives contentedly there, in complete denial of his past life. Julio is
hoping to find a cure for his blindness by forcing his father to confront his past; others are less
sure that his father is to blame for his blindness. In confused hallucinations, Julio sees the
masks that Felipe and his friends employ to hide reality and he judges them; he also envisages
his father’s victim. Julio wants to punish his father, but, it is suggested, perhaps more for his
success than for his past. When Julio’s half-sister, Nuria, the fruit of Felipe’s unacknowledged
relationship with Matilde, dies following the explosion of a wartime bomb, it seems that
Felipe is paying for his past. Nonetheless, when Felipe himself dies from a heart attack, Julio
relapses into blindness and realizes that he tortured his father.
82 Antonio Buero Vallejo, La tejedora de sueños; Llegada de los dioses, ed. by Luis
Iglesias Feijoo, no. 45, 9th edn (Madrid: Cátedra, 1990), p. 65.
83 The Inquisition prohibited the painting and exhibition of lascivious or lewd images, a
classification that included all nudes. Artists who defied their rules on obscenity in art were
subject to fines, banishment and excommunication.
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the monstrous mythical vision of Goya. In the play, life imitates art when the
artist’s nightmare is realized by the king’s forces. For Buero, art was a form of
mythification that has as its aim the revelation of truth, and it is contrasted with
mythification whose objective is distortion and deception. Indeed, Fernando
VII’s manipulation of language, similar to that of the Francoists, is exposed as a
tool of falsification, used to damn and ostracize the opposition; it also serves as
a threat, intended to instil fear into those branded Freemasons, liberals and
afrancesados. The king, who believes that he is ignored by Goya, claims: ‘A mí
me ha retratado poco y a mis esposas, nada,’ failing to realize that he and those
who surround him are, in fact, the protagonists of the monstrous Black Paintings
(O.C. I: 1268).
In other plays too, Buero demonstrated how myths are created to disguise or
falsify reality. Casi un cuento de hadas, based on Perrault’s Riquet à la houppe
(Ricky of the Tuft), is a case in point. After Riquet has killed Armando and finally
is promised to Leticia, the king demands that the unsavoury incident be sup-
pressed, lest it should affect the image of the country: ‘¡Damas y gentilhombres!
Silencio absoluto sobre todo lo ocurrido’ (O.C. I: 301). Propaganda is used to
great effect in Un soñador para un pueblo to convince the people that their
lifestyle and dress code are sacred and to further convince them that the reforms
ushered in by Esquilache represent a threat to their dignity. The work of the
jingoistic and conservative nobles is made easier by the fact that the man they
wish to present as the enemy of the people is a foreigner. As such, they maintain
that he cannot have their best interests at heart; they, on the other hand, wish to
protect the common good and the traditions of their nation against a foreign
threat. Similarly, Paulus and Daniel of La doble historia del doctor Valmy claim
to be protecting the populace from an ill-defined threat posed by agitadores such
as Aníbal Marty. They too, argue that their work is not only justified, but neces-
sary. By creating and maintaining a threat that the ordinary people believe, they
can justify any action taken against them.
Buero blatently challenged the myth put forward by the Francoists and repeated
by Tomás in La Fundación: ‘Es hermoso vivir aquí. Siempre habíamos soñado
con un mundo como el que al fin tenemos’ (O.C. I: 1431). This myth of content-
ment and plenty is alluded to in plays such as Mito, Las Meninas and En la ardi-
ente oscuridad. Problems that clearly controvert the fable propagated by the
regime, that theirs is the best of all possible worlds, are denied; those who high-
light the gap between the myth and the reality are discredited or punished. In Mito,
Buero’s ‘versión del mito quijotesco que no oculta ni niega su fuente’, the myth
of ‘el auge y la riqueza de la patria’ is revealed as false by Simón’s statement that:
‘Tengo hijos y mujer, y apenas gano para darles vestidos y comida’ (O.C. I: 1193,
1198; O.C. II: 443). Those who live in the court of Felipe IV in Las Meninas are,
like the blind students of the En la ardiente oscuridad, cosseted and blind to the
reality outside the walls. They live an illusion and are protected from the truth by
those who seek to exploit the situation. When Velázquez confronts the Marquis
about the striking sweepers, he is instructed that the discontent he talks of must
not be acknowledged: ‘Aprended, don Diego, que tal descontento no puede existir
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en Palacio; luego no existe’ (O.C. I: 868). At the end of the play, despite
Velázquez’s rebellion, the myth of a contented and self-sufficient land continues.
Ruiz de Azcona comments to Doña Marcela: ‘Hay quien se queja, doña
Marcela . . . Pero nuestra bendita tierra es feliz, creedme . . . Como nosotros en
Palacio’ (O.C. I: 935). The comparison is an apt one, for the notion of contented
palace dwellers is also false. Doña Marcela is a scorned and bitter woman, Nieto
and the court painters are consumed by jealousy, María Teresa is shielded from a
reality she desires, nobody is truly free, and the king, by his own admission, is the
most miserable man on earth.
What is clear from the documents held in the Archive at Alcalá de Henares is
that his employment of a historical setting did on occasion help Buero to evade
censorship. A moral report on Buero’s Madre Coraje y sus hijos (Mother
Courage and her Children) demonstrates this. Padre Avelino Esteban y Romero
clearly believed that the historical distance employed would preclude parallels
being drawn between the Thirty Years War and recent events in Spanish history
(Appendix XII). Similarly, Srta Sunyer, who read El sueño de la razón, com-
mented on the author’s devious intentions, but believed the work to be so centred
on the character of Goya as to make it specific to that era and thus safely dis-
tanced from contemporary Spain.86 Another document in this file details the two
possible interpretations of El sueño de la razón, the first a purely historical read-
ing and the second an allegorical reading of the play, linking it to the modern day
and the Franco regime. The author of the document was careful to point out to
his fellow censors that the prohibition of the play might in fact confer upon it the
second, damning interpretation; on the other hand, by authorizing it, the
Francoists would be showing that they were not identified with the regime
depicted in the play (Appendix XIII). Clearly, then, the recourse to history
worked as a means of eluding censorship; nonetheless, it is also evident that the
censors were aware of potential allusions to their political leaders, but chose to
disregard rather than to highlight them.
The use of mythology also served to make Buero’s dramas more universal,
a fact that surely aided their passage through the offices of the censors, while still
allowing for a specifically Spanish interpretation. For example, as Arie Vicente
recognized, Las palabras en la arena:
Sometimes the censors were not so willing to turn a blind eye. Documents
cited earlier show that Buero’s use of a biblical episode in Las palabras en la
arena was found unsuitable for staging during Holy Week, 1958. A censorship
file on La Fundación is also interesting for its conclusions about Buero’s use
of myth. In his report on the play, Padre Jesús Cea defines fable as ‘una fic-
ción artificiosa, para enseñar algo útil o moral, o también para encubrir o
disimular una verdad’; he then cites the following as an example of a fable
within the play:
Como corolario: una manifiesta simpatía por todos los delincuentes, encarce-
lados o desterrados, como si de inocentes se tratase.
88 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.495 Exp. 145-73. See chapter 3 for details.
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6
Ideology in Buero Vallejo’s Theatre
1 It is thus difficult to agree with John Lyon, who wrote: ‘No sólo se ha negado a poner su
teatro al servicio de actitudes comprometidas, sino que, en general, ha preferido apartarse del
terreno social y político para concentrarse en los temas trágicos y morales.’ ‘Buero Vallejo y
el tema de la violencia’, in El teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo: homenaje, pp. 127–39 (p. 127).
While Buero is clearly concerned with moral issues and the idea of tragedy, these are not
separated from social and political action in his works. Nonetheless, his other finding, that
Buero Vallejo’s work contains: ‘un cierto escepticismo ante todas las ideologías, al menos
como justificación de actos de violencia y crueldad’, must be acknowledged (p. 128).
2 Abellán, ‘Buero Vallejo: el teatro como modo de conocimiento’, pp. 171, 172.
3 Lukács claimed: ‘el objeto del marxismo es precisamente el hombre en su totalidad’.
‘Lukács y la literatura’, in Castellet, ed., Literatura, ideología, pp. 62–81 (p. 78).
4 Using the very argument that Buero undermines in La doble historia del doctor Valmy,
an article in Fuerza Nueva defends the police and interprets the play as an attack by a
politically motivated dramatist: ‘Todo proviene de la profesión del enfermo: policía social, y
que ejerciendo tan noble profesión – sin la cual no sería posible la vida en ningún país del
mundo por ser los mantenedores del orden público – [. . .] Y de ahí viene el arranque para
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Nonetheless, he did believe in the power of catharsis, as is evident from his por-
trayal of Haüy in El concierto de San Ovidio, and indeed his own inspiration for
writing that drama, as well as from an article he wrote about Ibsen and Ehrlich.7
Rejecting Tendenzpoesie, it is nevertheless evident that the degree of impartial-
ity to which Buero aspired was probably impossible. As Eagleton puts it: ‘The
literary text is not the “expression” of ideology, nor is ideology the “expression”
of social class. The text, rather, is a certain production of ideology.’8 Theatre may
reveal truths about the values and beliefs of the time, even without treating them
as themes. This may be achieved by what it does not say, as well as what it does
say and by what appears to the author to be so self-evident as not to need articu-
lation. Hence, Buero’s dramas reveal not only the dominant ideology that he crit-
icized in his work but also, by this very criticism, his own values.
Buero’s ideological leanings were evident, even as a student, from his involve-
ment in the FUE. Later Buero was a Communist, although he subsequently aban-
doned the militant PCE:
hacer el más feroz ataque a la Policía de no sabemos qué país, pero que dado que el autor no
la sitúa en ninguno determinado, nos corresponde, sin duda, buena parte de la acusación;
mucho más si la acción se sitúa en nuestra época, el autor es español, estrena en un teatro de
Madrid y tiene los antecedentes políticos que tiene Buero Vallejo.’ Fuerza Nueva, 6 March
1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 49: Artículos Prensa.
5 Vicente Mosquete, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, sonrisas’, p. 8.
6 Galán and Lara, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: ¿un tigre domesticado?’, p. 32. His interviewers
that “todo partió de allí”.’ Gagen, ‘The Germ’ (p. 49). Ehrlich was inspired to dedicate himself
to the eradication of syphilis after seeing a production of Ibsen’s Ghosts. ‘Ibsen y Ehrlich’
(O.C. II: 595–7).
8 Eagleton, Criticism and Ideology, p. 64.
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o metas con valores instrumentales, es decir, con intereses de una determinada clase, partido o
ideología política.’ Halsey, ‘El intelectual’, p. 46. ‘This better Spain, the investigators suggest,
has been reached through changes, not in political systems, but in ethical attitudes. For Buero
recognizes that the basic problem is not political, but human.’ Martha T. Halsey, ‘El tragaluz:
A Tragedy of Contemporary Spain’, The Romanic Review, 63 (no. 4, 1972), 284–92 (p. 291).
14 De Paco, ‘Buero Vallejo y el teatro’, p. 65.
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Asel, like Buero, expresses the same collective guilt for the wrongdoings com-
mitted by those he supports, and recognizes the ease with which victim becomes
victim-maker. He also perceives the function of fear as a tool used to uphold a
specific ideology, yet can pardon those who, like him, were weak in the face of
threats, but who then redeemed themselves by accepting both their responsibil-
ity and their limitations.
Fundamentally, Buero believed in the possibility and the necessity of change.
He stressed the need to be open to a revision of one’s beliefs and not to defend
dogmatically a specific ideology: ‘Si el teatro ideológicamente más afirmativo
no deja abierta la puerta al posible replanteamiento sobre nuevas bases de las pre-
guntas que pretende contestar, no se inserta activamente en un progreso efectivo’
(O.C. II: 690–1). As he never tired of pointing out, everyone bears some respon-
sibility for the continuation of a repressive system, be it through self-delusion,
apathy or active support for the ruling ideology. Commenting on some of the
more ideological works of Buero, Payeras Grau wrote: ‘En el mundo moderno
la inocencia es imposible y todo el que no lucha contra la infamia se convierte
en cómplice puesto que no es posible ignorarla.’15 Hence, a plea for solidarity is
Vallejo (a propósito de dos dramas de intención política’, in Anthropos, Monograph no. 10,
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58–63 (p. 63). O’Connor too notes that in El tragaluz: ‘Mario insinúa la carga ideológica de
la “pregunta tremenda” humanística cuando dice de un transeúnte: “Me siento él”. Al rechazar
la discusión de que el hombre está total y eternamente solo, Mario percibe una solidaridad
mística con todo el que haya vivido.’ Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘Confrontación y supervivencia
en El tragaluz’, in Anthropos, Monograph no. 10, xii–xiii (p. xiii).
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allows for hope for escape. In La doble historia del doctor Valmy Buero por-
trayed the delusion of an entire society. The well-dressed couple insists that the
torture described in the first case study could not happen in Surelia. Unlike Mary,
who opened her eyes to the truth and faced the consequences at the end of the
play, their refusal to accept reality does not change. However, it has conse-
quences for them also. At the end of the play Buero, through Dr Valmy, diag-
noses their denial of reality as evidence of insanity. He then went further and
revealed that they are in an asylum, and that the spectators have been immersed
in the asylum with them, suggesting that they too might be suffering from a
similar madness.
If the falsification of reality is exposed, as it is in La Fundación by Asel and
in La doble historia del doctor Valmy by Mary and Lucila, then the upholders of
the unjust dominant ideology move to check the threat posed by this exposure,
usually by employing coercion or abuse. Thus, in La doble historia del doctor
Valmy, Mary’s rejection of the deception and attempts to reveal the truth to
Daniel lead to her own castigation. When Daniel tries to reject the falsification
of reality that he has previously accepted and defended, the reaction of the rul-
ing ideology, represented by Paulus, is at first to attempt to convince him of the
truth of the myth, by justifying their work. Later, when this has failed, Paulus
threatens him with violence. Daniel, though now aware of the inhumanity of his
actions, is too afraid of the consequences to leave and is unlikely to get permis-
sion to do so from Paulus, so instead will continue to feed the myth that their
work is a necessary evil.16
Fear and the threat of violence are highlighted in many of the plays. Despite
his ostensible philanthropy, Valindin in El concierto de San Ovidio relies on them
to get his way. It suits his purpose to speak of high-minded values, yet these are
exposed as falsified and motivated. Base motivation behind noble philanthropy
is also exposed in En la ardiente oscuridad. As Halsey notes:
By maintaining the illusion that all is well, this order denies its citizens respon-
sibility for their own destiny. Furthermore, as we see with the murder of the
rebel student Ignacio, it never hesitates to resort to violence when its authority
is challenged.17
Carlos does not bear full responsibility for his action in killing Ignacio, but is
rather a pawn of the Establishment, of which he will become a part should
he prove himself an obedient and loyal student. In Act III, Don Pablo hints at
posible retroceso. Estoy entrampado. Si yo le dijera que no puedo abandonar esto, usted me
diría que es natural, porque sería abandonar el confort, los dos autos, etcétera. Y no es así.
Todo eso lo dejaría sin remordimientos. Si no lo dejo es porque tengo miedo. Pueden hacer
conmigo lo mismo que hacen, que hacemos con usted.’ Mario Benedetti, Pedro y el Capitán,
4th edn (Madrid: Alianza, 1996), p. 85.
17 Martha T. Halsey, ‘Reality, Illusion and Alienation: Buero Vallejo’s La Fundación’,
violent action in conversation with Carlos, but does not directly order it. The
obvious solution is to expel Ignacio from the centre, but the director is reluc-
tant to do so, as it would tarnish the image of the school. He tells his favoured
pupil of the threat to the stability of the centre that Ignacio represents and
classes him ‘el enemigo más desconcertante que ha tenido nuestra obra hasta
ahora’ before going on to utter the suggestive phrase: ‘Carlos, piense usted en
algún remedio. Confío mucho en su talento’ (O.C. I: 118).18 The latter, inter-
preting these words to suit his own motives, as well as those of the centre, kills
Ignacio, thus eliminating the threat to the regime and allowing the official myth
to be reinstated.
Similarly, in Las palabras en la arena, the community leaders do not hesitate
to resort to violence to maintain their position of dominance. Buero, through the
rabbi Jesus, demonstrated their hypocrisy and their dishonorable motives. Again,
it is suggested that such positive values as those they claim to uphold should not
have to be defended by violence or threats of violence. Yet, the case of the adul-
teress is not the first to be dealt with in this manner, as is clear from Gadi’s state-
ment to Eliú: ‘Otras veces se ha lapidado con menos pruebas’ (O.C. I: 58). Jesus
is condemned as ‘un falso profeta’ and the leaders, who consider him a threat to
their dominance, determine to kill him (O.C. I: 61). They conspire to organize a
spontaneous stoning that will rid them of the threat posed by Jesus and the val-
ues he preaches, while leaving them free of blame and spuriously fulfilling the
Law of Moses.
Much later, in El sueño de la razón, Buero was still concerned with this theme.
A fear of retribution inspires the fervour of Fernando VII in the elimination of
opposition to his rule. Arrieta reveals that: ‘No hay memoría de que el rey haya
perdonado una ofensa’ (O.C. I: 1320). The sycophantic Calomarde also repre-
sents the despotism of the hegemony; at this point in history he is not yet a
Minister, though he features as one in the later play La detonación. His hatred
of Goya and desire for revenge is the result of an insult to his vanity, and thus,
as Buero made clear, the violence that arises from them is unjustifiable cruelty.
Threats too are successfully used to inspire fear and incite hatred. Leocadia
informs Goya and Arrieta of two anti-liberal decrees rumoured to have been
penned by Calomarde and approved by Fernando VII: the first of these promises
an amnesty to those who attacked and robbed liberals; the second threatens the
death penalty for all Freemasons and liberals except those who give themselves
up and turn informer. Goya also receives threats in his home on various occa-
sions. Then, in the final scenes of the play, the king’s representatives enter the
artist’s home by force, beat and bind him, and rape Leocadia before pillaging his
‘Estas palabras de don Pablo están cargadas de trágica ironía, pero también de ambigüedad
respecto a la intención del director al pronunciarlas.’ Colección Austral, no. 124, 12th edn
(Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1991), p. 119. Of course, it could also be that Don Pablo’s words are
naïve rather than sinister; after all, there is no sign later that he supposes Ignacio has been
murdered.
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property. Buero was clear about the relationship between the violent action
depicted in his play and that in modern Spain: ‘Escribí, pues, de amarguras,
temores y esperanzas también muy actuales’ (O.C. II: 468).
The same oppressive modes of securing victory over the opposition are seen
in Las Meninas. The authority figures refuse to countenance any criticism and
insist on the maintenance of a myth of contentment in a land of plenty. Pedro
tells Velázquez, who is cosseted by his position as court painter, that the entire
country is starving but that the only response from the authorities is violence.
The Spain portrayed in Las Meninas can be likened to Francoist Spain.
Discontent is viewed as unpatriotic and treasonous dissent. As the Marquis puts
it: ‘Los revoltosos nunca pueden tener razón frente a su rey. El descontento es
un humor pernicioso, una mala hierba que hay que arrancar sin piedad’ (O.C.
I: 883).
In Un soñador para un pueblo, Bernardo’s attack on other members of the
pueblo and his plunging of Madrid into a symbolic darkness contains echoes of
the Civil War. It is senseless, unjustified violence, inspired by xenophobic mis-
trust of the reformers, which has been manipulated by certain forces in whose
interests it is to maintain the pueblo in ignorance. This idea is repeated in Mito,
which features state violence in the name of the common good. The strike action
is a reminder of similar action in Spain and, as Carlos Álvarez points out, the
methods of the regime echo those of the Nazis in 1933.19 During the curfew the
police burn the presidential palace and then blame the strikers. Once their
enemies are discredited, the apparently liberal regime can then justify harsh
punishment for them.
The military members of the Establishment come in for particular criticism in
the works of Buero Vallejo for their part in curtailing the liberties of others for the
sake of maintaining the personally beneficial status quo. Asaf’s fulminations
against the rabbi’s reasonable opposition to their brutal laws in Las palabras en
la arena is reminiscent of similar tirades against those who dared to criticize the
supreme power of Franco and his minions. John Lyon cogently argues: ‘Asaf
encarna la ética militarista del orden, la disciplina y la obediencia que confunde
la intransigencia con la fuerza y el perdón con la debilidad.’20 The curfew imposed
by the regime in Mito is enforced by a brutal police force and the liberty sup-
posedly enjoyed by all is false, although many resolve not to recognize this.
Repressive state apparatuses are also employed in Las Meninas, El sueño de la
razón, Un soñador para un pueblo and La Fundación to tame opposition to the
ruling ideology and to protect the elite they serve. There is also a suggestion of
19 Antonio Buero Vallejo, La doble historia del Doctor Valmy; Mito, intro. by Carlos
Álvarez, Colección Austral, no. 280, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1992), p. 42.
20 Lyon, ‘Buero Vallejo y el tema de la violencia’, p. 128. He then relates this to Spain: ‘La
Yo diría que hay que atenerse a la lección de la historia. Lo ideal sería que
todo pudiese resolverse paulatinamente de modo pacífico, pero la historia nos
enseña que se producen sobrecargas, y que estas sobrecargas estallan de una
manera o de otra. Entonces se pueden entender las violencias; no disculpar-
las, pero sí, repito, entenderlas. Yo entiendo que, incluso desde el punto de
vista revolucionario, la violencia es la presión que las masas hacen para que
se cambien instituciones y estructuras, pero una presión que nunca debiera
traducirse en asesinatos o en torturas. [. . .] Si la violencia se ejerce desde una
presión social justificada, tiene razón, aunque nunca debe ser cruel ni dar paso
a desmanes.21
Like Camus, who distinguished between rebellion and revolt, Buero distin-
guished between violence and cruelty, rejecting the latter as unjustifiable. This
philosophy is reflected throughout his theatre and in the dramatist’s own attitude
towards protest. Violence, torture and murder are usually the methods employed
by the tyrannical figures in his plays, although occasionally, as in El concierto
de San Ovidio, the rebel protagonist uses violence to overthrow an oppressor in
an act he justifies for the sake of the greater good, but later laments. The danger
in this argument is that it can be and is used by both sides in a conflict to justify
violent action. The difference in Buero, as in Camus, is that the rebel suffers per-
sonally for his violent actions: ‘Y cuando caigamos en la práctica sistematizada
de la crueldad, por suponerla ineludible en algún caso, nuestro deber será el de
«pagarlo» con nuestro remordimiento y nuestra enmienda en lo que nos reste de
vida’ (O.C. II: 1281). In the end, David’s death does not improve the lot of
the blind beggars, nor that of Adriana, so the justification of his act is ques-
tionable. Valentín Haüy is inspired to act, as Gagen points out, not by David’s
violence, but by his humiliation.22
He thus rejected the Kantian notion that: ‘Todo mal medio engendra un mal fin’
(O.C. II: 484). Acknowledging that, theoretically at least, this pure moral
approach is irreproachable, he nonetheless insisted that it was naïve and that
good ends have on occasion been achieved by violent means. Availing himself
of Larra’s words in La detonación, he explained his views on violence:
‘Asesinatos por asesinatos, ya que los ha de haber, estoy por los del pueblo’ (O.C.
I: 1563). As Buero pointed out, Larra’s words would not be acceptable to all: ‘Un
moralista puro la rechazaría indignado’ (O.C. II: 485). The use of violence by the
pueblo in Un soñador para un pueblo was not justifed by the dramatist, however,
as it is motivated, cruel violence, manipulated by those defending the ruling ide-
ology. In contrast, the anger and violence of the pueblo in La detonación or that
of Pedro, symbol of the pueblo, in Las Meninas, is viewed as righteous and per-
haps even necessary for social change. In fact, Buero suggested that, at times,
one has a moral duty to fight:23
Yet, as always, Buero stressed the need to assume responsibility for the barbar-
ities committed by those who commit violent acts, be they Republican or
Nationalist: ‘Y hoy por hoy, sólo una conclusión parece imponérseme: la de que,
en el fondo, todos somos, en mayor o menor grado, coautores de todos los
23 Llovet also recognized this as the message of La doble historia del doctor Valmy: ‘No
está seguro de que los luchadores vayan a triunfar así como así, pero sí está seguro de que esa
lucha es un imperativo ético.’ Enrique Llovet, ‘La doble historia del doctor Valmy’, Sábado
Gráfico, 22 February 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta no. 51:
Críticas.
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So, while allowing certain justifications of violence, Buero rejected others, high-
lighting again his contradictions. Certainly his attitude towards violence was not
always clear-cut.
The disturbing ambiguity of Buero’s stance was further evident in his portrayal
of the characters Carlos III and Esquilache in Un soñador para un pueblo. They
represent the type of enlightened paternalism mentioned by Jordan in his com-
mentary on Haüy in El concierto de San Ovidio.26 Buero seemed not to blame
them, yet these well-intentioned reformers clearly bear some responsibility for the
resurgence and domination of the conservative ideology represented by Ensenada
and Villasanta.27 It is the king’s distance from the populace that allows them to
consider him a puppet of Esquilache and also allows the conservative nobles to
24 Buero returned to this theme in the post-Franco play Misión al pueblo desierto. Plácido,
Buero’s spokesperson for much of the play, rejects Damián’s tactics for defeating the
Nationalists and condemns the crimes of his own side, arguing ‘si los revolucionarios no
saben ser más humanos que los opresores, la Revolución fracasará’. The only justifiable
violence can come from the masses and in order to achieve social change: ‘Pero son las masas
las que han de imponer el cambio cuando les llegue su hora y estén preparadas, legalizando a
la fuerza nuevas instituciones y sistemas, no mediante crímenes. Sólo a eso le llamo yo
verdadera violencia revolucionaria.’ Antonio Buero Vallejo, Misión al pueblo desierto, ed. by
Virtudes Serrano and Mariano de Paco, Colección Austral, no. 488 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe,
1999), pp. 49, 79. Further references to this play are given after quotations in the text.
25 Antonio Buero Vallejo, La Fundación, ed. by Francisco Javier Díez de Revenga,
as far as to accuse him of supporting tyranny in this play. ‘La vena de magisterio neoclásico
que late en el fondo de Buero [. . .] muestra su fuerza entusiasta en las alabanzas del
despotismo ilustrado. Después de haber llorado sobre los miserables, Buero canta al tirano.’
‘Buero Vallejo y la condición humana’, Nuestro Tiempo, 19 (no. 107, 1963), 581–93 (p. 591).
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manipulate public opinion against his favourite. Like Ensenada and Esquilache,
Carlos III is paternalistic in his attitude towards the pueblo, although with
Esquilache he hopes to provide the reform needed to educate and enlighten them:
‘Los españoles son como niños . . . Se quejan cuando se les lava la basura’, but
complains that they seem to prefer tyranny: ‘Quizá preferirían un tirano; pero
nosotros hemos venido a reformar, no a tiranizar’ (O.C. I: 799). The authorities
also resort to violence in order to force acceptance of unpopular legislation. In his
misjudgement of the volatile mood of the populace, Esquilache takes measures
that only serve to aggravate an already tense situation and to hasten his own down-
fall. The plan to censor the dress of Spaniards, while ostensibly done for the greater
good, is badly handled and, in best censorial fashion, is allowed no challenge. The
aggressive tactics employed spark retaliation from some elements of the pueblo,
and this mistrust is then manipulated in the campaign against Esquilache. After the
riots, when the pueblo demonstrates its capacity for violent, self-destructive action,
the Walloon Guards attempt to quell the fighting with brutal measures. However,
the play does at least demonstrate that such violent measures, even when employed
in support of the common good, do not always achieve their intended aim.
Despite the ambivalence of his attitude towards violence, Buero had a resolute
opinion on torture. In his plays Buero never justified torture, but looked at how
the torturer justifies his own actions in the name of positive ideological values
and the common good: ‘Sin descargar al individuo de la aquiescencia culpable a
estas injusticias, la obra de este autor comprometido plantea la antitesis didác-
tica de una sociedad aceptable, para discubrir las contradicciones de una
sociedad inaceptable.’28 Some, like Paulus in La doble historia del doctor Valmy,
seem to relish their work and are inspired by hate, while others, such as Daniel,
are motivated by fear. For Buero:
28 Plataforma, February 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta
del doctor Valmy. Daniel, like the censors and torturers in Franco’s Spain, prefers
not to reveal his occupation to those not directly involved. He is a spokesperson
for the regime and seems to believe the propaganda that allows him to feel that
the brutality he is engaged in is not only desirable, but necessary: ‘Mi oficio es
un duro oficio, doctor . . . Pero sin nosotros el país se hundiría’ (O.C. I: 1051).
The brutal torture of Marty does not yield any positive results for the torturers.
Furthermore, their monstrous behaviour has repercussions, and Daniel is not the
only one whose sickness of mind becomes physically manifest.
In the Surelian dramas, Aventura en lo gris and La doble historia del doctor
Valmy, and in La Fundación, the ideologies of the victims and of their opponents
are never defined:
En teoría, el espectador no debiera saber si los ‘suyos’ son los policías o los
detenidos políticos a quienes torturan, para que así, por encima de las razones
de cada cual, el drama se alzara como una denuncia indiscriminada contra la
práctica institucional de la tortura. Y – esto es fundamental en el pensamiento
de Buero – contra quienes la consienten o fingen ignorarla simplemente porque
está al servicio de sus intereses.30
Thus, Buero again stressed what both Asel and Silvano note in the plays,
which is that those who find themselves in a position of victimhood now may
have been or may yet be victim-makers. Similarly, those who are or have been
torturers may yet be victims, as Daniel Barnes learns. In La doble historia del
doctor Valmy, as in Llegada de los dioses, Buero depicted the normal life of a
torturer. The dramatist wanted the reader to believe that both Daniel and Felipe
are ordinary people who have done wrong. As Veronica recognizes, it is not sim-
ply that these characters are evil or inherently wicked: ‘Lo espantoso de tu padre
es que es simpático’ (O.C. I: 1358). The thrust of Buero’s argument is that all
men have a common humanity, which certain characters have chosen to betray.
He was concerned to show that everybody has the capacity to become like Daniel
or Felipe: ‘La lucha contra la tortura es por ello, en el plano ético, una lucha con-
tra nosotros mismos; la vigilancia de nuestros más turbios movimientos del
ánimo’ (O.C. II: 1282). Buero not only condemned the choice they made, but
also the torturers’ attempts at justification and their weakness in failing to accept
responsibility for their actions.31 In this sense, Vicente in El tragaluz is such a
victim-maker, and Buero denounced him more for his continued abuse of others
and attempts at legitimation of his actions than for that first selfish act.
Obviously, as the character Asel in La Fundación demonstrates, everyone has
their limitations and weaknesses, but one must accept or strive to overcome
them. Asel too was a victim-maker; like Tomás, he broke under torture and his
confession led to the detention and death of others.32
The victim-maker may be a victim who cannot accept his limitations or who
cannot countenance defeat. The essential difference between Asel and Tomás on
the one hand, and Vicente, Felipe and Daniel on the other, is that the former even-
tually admit accountability for their failings. They attempt to accept and then sur-
pass their limitations and continue to strive for an ideal, while the latter
compromise their ideals out of fear or self-interest, and collude with and justify a
negative ideology. Asel tells the cured Tomás: ‘Tomás, nadie puede ser fuerte si
no sabe antes lo débil que es’ (O.C. I: 1478). For Buero, the posibilista who rec-
ognized that he could not defeat the regime with his dramatic works, accepting
personal compromise or even personal failure, was not the end of hope; not to
dream is to resign oneself to apathy and accept the status quo, yet a dreamer who
does not recognize his limitations is doomed to fail. Julio’s final recognition, in
Llegada de los dioses, that he is not in a position to judge his father, is thus a sign
of hope: ‘No soy mejor que tú: yo también te he torturado hasta la muerte’ (O.C.
I: 1407). Like Mario in El tragaluz and Gabi in Las trampas del azar, Julio, in his
eagerness and impatience to judge and condemn his father, is in danger of repeat-
ing his failings and becoming a victim-maker. In Irene, o el tesoro too, the fam-
ily members and Méndez take the easy way out, making a victim of Dimas in
order to escape their own victimhood. Adriana in El concierto de San Ovidio is
in danger of doing the same. At first she allows herself to be used to seduce David
and the others to conform, but later she refuses. David too becomes a victim-
maker, killing his exploiter and love rival, Valindin. Silverio in Hoy es fiesta is a
victim-maker, who later saves Doña Balbina from becoming a victim of others. It
would appear that those who become victim-makers are often those who have no
dream of a better future. As Lyon says: ‘Cuando David se enfrenta con Valindin
en la oscuridad, ha renunciado a sus sueños y ha adoptado la visión del mundo de
su adversario, un mundo de verdugos y víctimas en el que uno tiene que comer o
dejarse comer.’33 Similarly, Carlos in En la ardiente oscuridad is in danger of
becoming the Centro’s next victim after he assumes the dream of Ignacio.
31 Just as Benedetti’s Capitán stresses, the conversion from ordinary man to torturer is a
gradual process, but a difficult one to reverse: ‘Más bien un pequeño cambio tras otro pequeño
cambio. Ninguna convicción profunda. Más bien una pequeña tentación tras otra pequeña
tentación. Económicas o ideológicas, poco importa.’ Benedetti, Pedro y el Capitán, p. 64.
32 Buero recounted a similar event from his own experience to O’Connor. Antonio Buero
La última lección que el dramaturgo intenta dar tímidamente desde las perple-
jidades de La Fundación no es la de que no haya que hacer revoluciones, sino
de que las revoluciones que se hayan de hacer tienen que asumir una muy fría
consideración de los excesos en que pueden incurrir, pues esos excesos sí
pueden destruir la obra revolucionaria a la larga, aunque nos parezca que, a la
corta, la consolidan. (O.C. II: 484)
Hence, the difference between Buero’s rebels and reformers is a posibilista atti-
tude and a cognizance of the limits of violence. While the reformers may become
successful rebels, the rebels are in danger of becoming victim-makers. Of course,
this may be read as an attempted vindication of the dramatist’s own posibilista
stance. In addition, Buero stressed that the opposition to a repressive regime
must be serious and sincere. If it is merely youths rebelling against their parents,
he argued, it will do very little good:
La risa y la sátira son duras, pero saludables . . . Algunos han sabido mirar de
ese modo. Pocos, porque es una mirada difícil . . . Es la mirada del desengaño.
Pero, de repente, todos los jovencitos bien alimentados se han puesto a mirar
así. (O.C. I: 1356)
The characters that protest at the injustice suffered at the hands of a repressive
regime and rebel in the name of liberty might suffer further injustice for their
action, but may also serve as an inspiration to others. The rebel protagonist is
often an activo-contemplativo, a person who not only has a vision of a better
34 Albert Camus, L’Homme Révolté (Paris: Gallimard, 1951), p. 32. Rebellion, which
seems negative as it creates nothing, is profoundly positive as it reveals that which is worth
defending in man.
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society, but is also prepared to take risks to attain it. When faced with the choice
between silence and protest, the rebel chooses protest and hopes that others will
follow suit; there can be no going back, and the rebel must assert his rights and
dignity even if the consequence is death. The rebel affirms that his cause is
greater than himself and therefore acts for the common good. Yet the tyrant also
claims to work for the common good, the difference being that the rebel is pre-
pared to sacrifice himself, believing his action to be for the betterment of soci-
ety, and demonstrating a total commitment to his cause. Les Justes exemplified
Camus’s beliefs about revolt, that to be justified it must involve self-sacrifice
rather than the sacrifice of others. In that play, the nihilist Stepan is seen, in his
words and actions, to be dangerously close to those he seeks to overthrow.
Buero’s rebel, David, on the other hand, is similar to Camus’s Kaliayev in cer-
tain respects, as his killing of the tyrant figure leads to his own death. Unlike
Kaliayev, however, David is not happy to die, but like him David is a dreamer
with a cause he judges to be more worthy than his own survival. Yet Kaliayev
did not kill the children or breach the limits of acceptable violence. Thus,
David’s moral dilemma and his tragedy are perhaps greater than Kaliayev’s: ‘¡He
matado, Adriana! ¡Yo quería ser músico! Y no era más que un asesino’ (O.C. I:
1017). He is a tragic figure because he went beyond the limits he had set for him-
self, and his motivation was not entirely pure. Indeed, Buero did not justify
David’s violence and instead showed how his rebellion failed.
Ignacio in En la ardiente oscuridad, like David, rails against the prevailing
conditions and demands the seemingly impossible. He wins over one of his most
powerful enemies, Carlos, and it is the latter who will lead a future rebellion, or
perhaps engage in a slower, but effective reform. Yet Ignacio foresees the day
when the others also will rebel, in the metaphysical sense, against their very
blindness but also against the falsity of the regime: ‘La guerra que me consume
os consumirá’ (O.C. I: 90). When Juana questions why he will not conform to
their happiness, Ignacio’s reply is that of a rebel whose cause is greater than the
self: ‘¡Ver! Aunque sé que es imposible, ¡ver! Aunque en este deseo se consuma
estérilmente mi vida entera, ¡quiero ver! No puedo conformarme. No debemos
conformarnos’ (O.C. I: 90). His all-consuming desire for vision is symbolic of a
desire for truth, however frustrating the process and painful the outcome. The
other students, however, like the blind musicians of El concierto de San Ovidio,
are wilfully blind to the truth. Despite his physical disadvantage, Ignacio is spir-
itually enlightened and therefore neither contented nor deluded. The message of
his rebellion is that the others also must reach the point of disillusionment and
rebellion for progress to be made. He is truly horrified by the deception he per-
ceives and which he has rejected for himself and for the sake of them all. In this
he is like David in El Concierto de San Ovidio, who is angered by the apathy of
the other blind musicians and their acceptance of their slavery: ‘¡Estáis muertos
y no lo sabéis! ¡Cobardes!’ (O.C. I: 950). Ignacio’s insurrection is inspired by
the indignity common to all and not just himself: ‘Me duele como una mutilación
propia vuestra ceguera; ¡me duele, a mí, por todos vosotros!’ (O.C. I: 113). Like
Asel in La Fundación, Ignacio recognizes that if he could escape the prison of
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35 Similar characters who challenge the status quo and the official myth include Silvano of
Doménech, Colección Austral, no. 315, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1993), p. 17. Steiner
writes: ‘The utopias which are built into revolutions necessarily have an ideal, indistinct
contour. It is of the essence of a revolutionary situation that the now must pre-empt the
tomorrow, that the imagination, when in the grip of the future tense, should concentrate on the
short range. Dreams must be disciplined to cover the ground of the possible.’ Language and
Silence, p. 413.
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seems to have been in vain. There was another reaction to the humiliating spec-
tacle, however: Valentín Haüy’s protest at the time is dismissed by Valindin and
by the onstage audience, but he returns at the end of Act III. Time has pro-
gressed since the end of the dramatic action and much has happened since
David’s rebellion and death. The French Revolution has taken place and a new
social order is in place. Haüy is revealed as a reformer, inspired by the suffer-
ing of others, to act for the betterment of society: ‘Ante el insulto inferido a
aquellos desdichados, comprendí que mi vida tenía un sentido,’ and he dedicates
his life to achieving what David only dreamed of: the education of the blind.
His success confirms what Buero wished the audience to realize: ‘el hombre
más oscuro puede mover montañas si lo quiere’ (O.C. I: 1022). In fact, he went
further and suggested that the slow process of reform initiated by Haüy is more
successful in the long term than the destructive rebellion of David, which
resulted in more suffering. Buero presented two reactions to the same event and
came down clearly on the side of reform. Valentín Haüy is the posibilista
reformer who does not attempt to destroy society, but rather to introduce spe-
cific reforms. One does not always need the patronage of the powerful to
achieve societal change, but obviously one must be prepared to accept gradual
change rather than revolution. In the play, as Gagen mentions, Buero raised
questions about social and personal responsibility through Haüy, who asks who
will assume responsibility for the death of David.37 Jordan too, notes Buero’s
emphasis on reform: ‘La resistencia que mejor funciona, que consigue algo y
que crea las condiciones para el cambio, se presenta como no violenta y hasta
cierta punto como “feminizada”, ejemplificada en parte en Adriana, pero más
directamente en Haüy.’38
on his brutal politics as well as his embroidery, in a play where art and politics are inextricably
linked (O.C. I: 1269).
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40 Pedro, the inspiration for Velázquez’s rebellion, is a rebel himself who, while serving as
a soldier, was incensed by his captain’s treatment of his company and killed him in a duel. His
action, unlike that of the artist, culminates in his death, but the message of his rebellion
survives him.
41 Mariano de Paco, ‘Planos de significación en el teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in
Leyra, co-ord., Antonio Buero Vallejo: literatura, pp. 185–94 (p. 191).
42 It must be noted, however, that Tulio changes his mind at the point when he is led away
Buero himself clearly identified with the plight of his intellectuals and artists.
It is undeniable that, despite his successful career, he too suffered rejection, from
both the right and the left. Beltrán, the sacrificed author in El tragaluz, is
described by Mario in terms that also fit Buero. Mario sees Beltrán as his alter-
ego and his better. Beltrán is, in the eyes of Mario, what Buero aspires to be: the
conscience of his country. He is not the only one of Buero’s intellectuals to suf-
fer, however. Larra too in La detonación is viewed in similar terms as the con-
science of his era, and he too endures interference from the censors and the
ridicule and incomprehension of many of his contemporaries and of society in
general. Mariano de Paco writes: ‘El escritor es, entre otras cosas, conciencia –
o subconciencia – de la sociedad. De ahí que el conflicto sea inevitable y, a
menudo, perjudicial para el escritor.’43 The historical plays in particular focus on
‘a key conflict between forces of change and immobility around an artist or intel-
lectual whose importance lies not so much in being the prime mover of events
as in being an unusually perceptive observer of them’.44
In the works of Buero, this role is also extended to certain artists. María
Teresa sees Velázquez as the conscience of the palace, the one who by his paint-
ing will force others to examine their motives and face their responsibilities.
Felipe IV considers him a judge. Goya too judges the country’s leaders in his
Black Paintings. Like other rebels and heroes in the works of Buero, and indeed
the dramatist himself, Velázquez recognizes his own limitations; he knows that
he is not always brave.45 He also recognizes the limitations of others. Velázquez
rejects María Teresa’s suggestion that man is ‘tan despreciable’, saying that he
is imperfect (O.C. I: 873). Velázquez, like the other intellectuals in Buero’s the-
atre, does not expect miracles, but does expect people to acknowledge and
assume their culpability and their duty to themselves and to society. The role of
the artist is thus to defend the truth in the face of a comfortable myth and to be
the conscience of a society that has been lulled into a false, guilt-free compla-
cency by the official version of events. Hence, Buero’s Velázquez, even when
faced with punishment, chooses to tell the king the unpleasant truth about
Spain:
The intellectual must defend the truth, despite the difficulty of doing so.
Velázquez tells María Teresa: ‘La verdad es una carga terrible: cuesta quedarse
solo. Y en la Corte, nadie, ¿lo oís?, nadie pregunta que le digan la verdad’ (O.C.
I: 873). Velázquez uses his art to expose the official myth and to portray the truth
of his country’s difficulties. By painting the reality of life in the palace in Las
Meninas, the artist strips away the myth to reveal ‘una de las verdades del
Palacio’, a painting Pedro refers to as ‘un cuadro sereno: pero con toda la tris-
teza de España dentro’ (O.C. I: 889, 892–3). Pedro, as well as realizing the sig-
nificance of the painting, also recognizes the function of such work. His words
are applicable to the work of any protesting or committed artist in any repressive
society: ‘Vuestra pintura muestra que aun en Palacio se puede abrir los ojos, si
se quiere’ (O.C. I: 894). Las Meninas is a painting in which Velázquez has used
all his knowledge, both of art and of Spanish society.
Goya’s Black Paintings also reveal truths that cannot be spoken. The paintings
are satirical rather than mad in their depiction of the country’s powerful rulers as
beasts and monsters.46 Goya paints what he sees around him, yet his paintings
reveal hope, albeit slim, amidst the destruction. Goya says: ‘Amé la razón, y
pinto brujas’; nonetheless, the monsters of Goya’s Black Paintings are not a mani-
festation of madness, but rather they are a reflection of Spain’s monsters, born
of a collective loss of reason (O.C. I: 1317).
It cannot be denied that Buero’s use of the Establishment painter Velázquez as
a rebel hero in Las Meninas was controversial. It could perhaps be seen as an
attempt to rationalize his own position within the state-sponsored commercial
theatre. It could be argued also that the recuperation of a well-intentioned and
misrepresented Esquilache in Un soñador para un pueblo is a similar case.
Echoing sentiments expressed in the latter, Juana, the artist’s wife in Las
Meninas, recognizes that for Velázquez, ‘todos somos niños’ (O.C. I: 859).
Velázquez is thus not unlike the patriarchical intellectuals of other works, who
see it as their role to lead the pueblo to action or to a better future.
Buero seemed to view himself in the same light. As Dixon points out, ‘en El
Concierto de San Ovidio es indudable que Buero compadece a y padece con
David, pero a quien se parece es a Valentín Haüy’.47 The fate of the rebel like
David is to die for his cause. The role of the artist or intellectual is to take up the
protest and lead on, but in a more pacific manner. Buero’s praise for figures of
the Enlightenment in Un soñador para un pueblo also raises another interesting
ideological issue. It is one which Eagleton has commented on:
46 ‘El rey es un monstruo, y sus consejeros unos chacales a quienes azuza, no sólo para que
maten, sino para que roben. ¡Amparados, eso sí, por la ley y por las bendiciones de nuestros
prelados! . . . Los pinto con sus fachas de brujos de cabrones en sus aquelarres, que ellos
llaman fiestas del reino’ (O.C. I: 1292).
47 Dixon, ‘ “Pero todo partió de allí” ’, p. 42.
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Buero clearly saw his own role as that of a traditional, rather than organic, intel-
lectual. He highlighted what was wrong in society and hoped to inspire action in
others, but he was not a rebel. In fact, like the traditional intellectuals, he formed
a necessary part of the system he sought to reform.
Legitimation of Ideology
Es verdad que escasean las vías para la formación y
la expresión de las diversas opciones que, dentro de la
legalidad constitucional, son posibles en ciertos aspectos
de la vida política nacional – política religiosa, cultura,
exterior, político-administrativa . . . – Pero quizás esto
provenga, más que de fallas legales, del escaso espíritu
asociativo español.51
pp. 32–3. José L. Aranguren, also interviewed by Paniker, referred to what he called ‘la trampa
conservadora’: ‘que la gente no está, en España, preparada para la democracia, y así, los que
poseemos la cultura, tenemos que absorber todos los papeles. La gente no está preparada para
la democracia y nosotros nos encargamos, secretamente, de que nunca lleguen a estar
preparados. Y las cosas se prolongan indefinidamente’ (p. 11).
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52 In El tragaluz Vicente asked, ‘¿Quién puede terminar con las canalladas en un mundo
canalla?’ (O.C. I: 1177). Felipe in Llegada de los dioses also chooses to blame society for his
own cruel actions.
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to truth, is not attainable without suffering; yet even then, happiness is merely
possible, not guaranteed. Carlos, on the other hand, like Unamuno’s San
Manuel Bueno, prefers to offer the students a false guarantee of happiness. Yet
Carlos later rejects Doña Pepita’s offers of special friendship and her eyewit-
ness account, and becomes as cruel about her as Ignacio was. His rejection of
her leads her to call him a madman, which may be the first step in a process to
discredit Carlos who, by his adoption of Ignacio’s rebellion, in turn will threaten
the status quo.
Another feature of legitimation of a dominant ideology, and one that is par-
ticularly relevant to Francoist Spain, is the use of the ideological apparatus of the
Church. Like the Nationalists, the Church and community leaders of Las pal-
abras en la arena claim to have God on their side. Matatías declares: ‘¡Hay que
matar a ese agitador que se atreve a profanar las gradas del Templo con sus plan-
tas impuras!’ (O.C. I: 59). He finds justifications for his murderous proposal in
the scriptures, much as the Francoists found justification for their actions in the
teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. The arguing factions of Scribe and
Sadducee are reconciled, superficially at least, for the sake of appearances and
for their common aim, just as the different factions in the Nationalist camp united
to maintain their advantage over others. In the play, the holy men’s lust for
revenge is pitted against the rabbi’s teaching of forgiveness. In common with the
churchmen, Asaf uses scripture to support his argument, claiming that the Law
of Moses, like the law of Franco, is immutable. By asserting that Jesus is a dan-
ger to society, Asaf reserves for himself the position of defender of the home and
the common good.
The Church is exposed as a more insidious operator in El sueño de la razón.
Duaso is a censor for the regime of Fernando VII, and Goya laments his actions
‘al servicio de tan mala causa’ (O.C. I: 1300). Duaso rejects the abuse of the
powerful position and reputation of the Church to justify anti-liberal violence and
brutality, and is outraged when the accoutrements and good name of the Church
are appropriated by the hoodlums who visit Goya’s home and threaten him. Yet
he justifies his stance as a censor by claiming that it is charitable work:
‘Endulcemos dolores y callemos ante otras torpezas, puesto que no podemos
hacer más’ (O.C. I: 1321). He argues that: ‘El hombre siempre será pecador, y en
nuestra mano sólo esté evitarle algunas ocasiones de pecado . . . Soy censor de
publicaciones por eso’ (O.C. I: 1321). This attitude, which is rejected by Buero,
demonstrates a lack of faith in man and an unwillingness to grant him the oppor-
tunity to be master of his own destiny.
In Las Meninas, another religious figure, Nieto, the hypocritical and devious
cousin of Velázquez and a fresh initiate into the Santo Oficio, uses the power
his newly acquired status affords him to damage and censor the artist. His prud-
ery and piety are shown to be a mask for petty jealousies. His reaction to the
nude Venus, which he persuades Doña Juana to show him, is one of sanctimo-
nious horror. The Church is not portrayed in a good light in El concierto de San
Ovidio either. While it is undeniable that the beggars are clothed, fed and lodged
in the Hospicio, the priority of the order running the Establishment seems not
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to be the people it was founded to help, but rather the wealth of the order and
the maintenance of the ruling ideology that supports it. The Church is very
much a part of the old Establishment and is shown to be resistant to change;
anything new or unusual is disapproved of, hence Valindin’s venture is deemed
‘demasiado raro para ser sano’ and the man himself suspiciously ‘partidario de
las nuevas ideas’ (O.C. I: 941, 942).
The ideological state apparatuses, as well as having a legitimating function,
also operate as tools of coercion, inculcation and propaganda in a cohesive
attempt to naturalize the dominant ideology. The workings of ideological appar-
atuses can be seen in the decisions taken and the message propagated after the
murder of Ignacio in En la ardiente oscuridad. Doña Pepita is the first to
re-establish the myth when she claims that ‘se ha matado’, something she knows
to be untrue (O.C. I: 120). Ultimately, Don Pablo opts for the accidental death
explanation as it is in keeping with the myth of the centre as a place full of happy,
well-adjusted students: ‘La hipótesis del suicidio era muy desagradable. No
hubiera compaginado bien con la moral de nuestro centro’ (O.C. I: 121). Ignacio
is not mourned; he was a problem that has been resolved.
Buero also subverted the Francoist ideology’s emphasis on Church and fam-
ily to demonstrate how it can be uncharitable and negative when falsified. The
crime of adultery in Las palabras en la arena, as in Francoist Spain, was the
crime of a woman.53 The ideological apparatus of the family as a protector of
order and peace is analysed in this play as a justification for revenge and an
excuse for murder. In Las Meninas, Velázquez’s wife, Juana, is portrayed in quite
negative terms, yet she might also represent the typical product of a proper edu-
cation in Spain under Franco.54 She believes that no honourable woman would
ever sit for such a portrait and that was why she refused her husband’s request
to be his model for a nude Venus. The painting of the Venus further encourages
53 ‘Adultery was a crime for which a woman could be sent to prison, while concubinage
(male adultery), though a criminal offence, was treated more leniently.’ Rosa Montero, ‘The
Silent Revolution: The Social and Cultural Advances of Women in Democratic Spain’, in
Spanish Cultural Studies: An Introduction, ed. by Helen Graham and Jo Labanyi (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 381–5 (p. 382). In their book, La memoria insumisa:
sobre la dictadura de Franco, Nicolás Sartorius and Javier Alfaya commented on the
misogynistic nature of the Franco regime: ‘una misoginia, por supuesto, que tenía hondas
raíces en la vida de un país cuyo código moral fue durante mucho tiempo de un esencial
machismo’. Nicolás Sartorius and Javier Alfaya, La memoria insumisa: sobre la dictadura de
Franco, 3rd edn (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 2000), p. 332.
54 Pilar Primo de Rivera; daughter of Miguel Primo de Rivera and sister of José Antonio,
controlled the Sección Femenina of the Falange and, under the Franco regime, was influential
on women’s issues. Her words on the education of women reflected the attitude of the regime:
‘Queremos conseguir que todas las mujeres tengan una formación religiosa a fondo,
apartándolas de ciertas cosas que no son necesarias y que, en cambio, las impide percibir toda
la grandeza de la liturgia ordenada por la Iglesia.’ From Discurso pronunciado en el III
Congreso Nacional de la Sección Femenina de Falange Española Tradicionalista y de las
J.O.N.S., in Cuatro discursos de Pilar Primo de Rivera (Madrid: Editorial Nacional, 1939),
pp. 17–27 (p. 22).
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her to believe rumours of his infidelity.55 John Lyon makes a similar point that
in La tejedora de sueños: ‘El mito de la fiel esposa que se defiende heroicamente
del acoso de los pretendientes, mientras sueña con el regreso de su legítimo
marido, encaja perfectamente dentro de la ortodoxia católica acerca de la mujer
y el matrimonio.’56 The position of the family in the Francoist ideology is sub-
verted in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, where the family unit is destroyed
by the value system defended by the ruling elite. An alternative family is pre-
sented in the workplace, with the dysfunctional father–son relationship of Paulus
and Daniel. Later, Buero returned to the family theme when, in Jueces en la
noche, he criticized the Church’s influence and its insistence on the unity of the
family as necessary for the preservation of social stability.
Censorship is another form of ideological control mentioned by Buero in his
plays. In both Las Meninas and El sueño de la razón there is reference to the role
of the Santo Oficio in art censorship. In the seventeenth century, the Inquisition
prohibited the painting and exhibition of nudes because they were considered las-
civious; the punishment for defiant artists was excommunication, exile (usually
for one year) and a fine of five hundred ducats. In 1633, Vicente Carducho pub-
lished his book Diálogos de la pintura, su defensa, origen, escencia, definición,
modos y diferencias, in which he condemned naturalistic painters such as
Caravaggio and Velázquez. In it, he explained the moral purpose of art and
deemed certain subjects improper for church and court art.57 In 1649, with the
publication of his Arte de la pintura, Francisco Pacheco, father-in-law of
Velázquez and art consultant to the Inquisition, laid down the rules for Spanish
painters. He advised the use of female models solely for the painting of the face
and hands, and the use of secondary sources for all other parts. His conservative
attitude towards art is echoed in his daughter’s words when she tells her husband
Velázquez: ‘Nunca debiste pensar en tales pinturas’ (O.C. I: 910). In Las Meninas,
Velázquez is subjected to an Inquisition-style examination and charged with,
among other things, lasciviousness in his portrait of Venus. It is suggested to
Velázquez that he should destroy his Venus before the trial so as to avoid conflict
with the rules, but he refuses these suggestions of self-censorship made by both
his wife and the king, choosing instead to risk all in defence of the truth.
The expert opinion of Nardi, another court painter, is used in an attempt to
discredit Velázquez in the eyes of the king; he interprets Velázquez’s portraits as
55 Buero pointed out in an interview with Octavio Roncero in Arriba in 1960 that the
Venus in the play is not, as it is commonly assumed, the Venus del espejo (the Rokeby Venus),
‘No basé mi obra en La Venus del espejo’, in the Las Meninas file, AGA/IDD 52.22, Topogr.
83-51 Ca. 71.715 No. Exp. 296-60. The dramatic action is set in 1656, and the Venus del
espejo was not completed until 1657. Therefore it is one of the other two Venuses the artist is
supposed to have painted, one of which is said to have been in his home when he died.
56 ‘Buero Vallejo y el tema de la violencia’, p. 129.
57 Carducho is mentioned by both Velázquez and Nardi in the play. Nardi refers to him as
‘mi venerado amigo y maestro’, and thus presumably would favour Carducho’s traditional
methods and criticisms of Velázquez, while Velázquez dismisses a critic by claiming that he
sounds like Carducho (O.C. I: 866, 869).
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that his treatment had been brutal. By not imprisoning him, they made him vul-
nerable to attacks from his enemies, who were incited by the government’s care-
ful manipulation of his words. Censorship then prevented him from defending
himself. In La Fundación Buero highlighted another effect of a repressive ideo-
logy in Tulio’s reference to a brain drain of those who are ideologically opposed
to the regime, a clear echo of the aftermath of the Civil War in Spain. A similar
desire to leave Spain in order to progress and get on in life is expressed by Juanito
in Las cartas boca abajo, suggesting that the consequences of the imposition of
the Francoist ideology on intellectual life in Spain were not shortlived.
Persuasion, seduction and propaganda are other ideological tools exposed in
the plays of Buero. Duaso in El sueño de la razón, Juana in En la ardiente
oscuridad, Paulus and the other policemen in La doble historia del doctor Valmy
all employ coercion in the first instance to try to persuade others to conform
to the established system. They try to persuade others that the system is both
representative and good and that there is no real alternative. There is further
evidence of coercion in Vicente’s attempts to get Mario to board the train in El
tragaluz, Felipe and Nurias’ attempts to convince Julio of the pleasantness of
life in Llegada de los dioses and Valindin’s use of Adriana to win over the blind
musicians in El concierto de San Ovidio.
The consequences of propaganda and the legitimating role of the ideological
state apparatuses are shown to be effective by the character Carlos in Aventura
en lo gris. According to Carlos: ‘Goldmann habría salvado a Surelia si le
hubiesen dejado las manos libres. Y es el único, ¡el único!, que ha sabido morir
en su puesto, en lugar de huir . . ., como el resto de los ministros’ (O.C. I: 428).
He has been taught that the enemy: ‘odian nuestra cultura superior’ (O.C. I: 427).
In a manner typical of nationalistic ideology, the enemy has been branded as an
inferior race of barbarous thieves who had no right to the land Surelia wished to
annex. Silvano alone rejects the mythmakers and ideologues of all sides. He
speculates on how the death of Goldmann will be reported, as it is very much
dependent on the political allegiances of whoever writes the report: ‘Mañana se
escribirá: «Un héroe llamado Albín mató al tirano de Surelia» O quizá: «Un
asesino mató a Goldmann, el héroe surelés»’ (O.C. I: 473). Silvano then, like
Buero, observed history repeating itself and knows that it is always written by
the victors.
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7
Theatre and the Transition to Democracy
In the years immediately prior to Franco’s death, civil unrest in Spain had
grown, and those demanding reform were supported by a large proportion of
the population, including some members of the previously uncommitted bour-
geoisie and also some Catholic clergy. When he died, many felt that it was time
for a break with the past and a commitment to democracy. Nonetheless, despite
expectations to the contrary, the transition from dictatorship to democracy was
orchestrated from the right rather than imposed by the left. Although the tran-
sition to a more democratic form of government seemed to have been relatively
smooth, it displeased many of the hard-liners of the old regime and caused
some to suspect that the reactionaries might not remain silent. Buero Vallejo
voiced his concerns in Jueces en la noche (1979) and again in 1983, when he
wrote: ‘las fuerzas reaccionarias siguen poniendo abundantes obstáculos al
proceso en marcha y amenazándolo con sus repetidos intentos de involución’
(O.C. II: 524).
There had been a gradual easing of censorship in the last few years of the
Franco regime. However, there were occasional crackdowns and an increase in
the number of silencios administrativos. Yet as Carr and Fusi point out:
The change was irreversible. Spain rediscovered the female nude in films,
plays and magazines. The press continued to report in detail strikes and
terrorist actions and to comment at length and in depth on the political
situation. The views of the opposition leaders appeared with relative frequency
in the daily press and in the weeklies.2
Even some of those who had long supported Franco began to call for change;
many of the more aperturista members of his governments were active in the
process of transition.
The theatre became a site for ideological battle once again. Records in the
Archivo General de la Administración show that the government in 1976
continued to monitor the theatre world closely. For example, a report con-
tained in the files notes the presence of certain political figures at the per-
formance in Madrid of a play by the exiled dramatist Alberti: ‘Se observaba
especialmente la presencia de Marcelino Camacho, dirigente de las Comisiones
Obreras; de Simón Sánchez Montero, miembro del comité central del Partido
Comunista Español, y de Enrique Tierno Galván, presidente del Partido
Socialista Popular.’3 Nor did the transition government remove censorship
immediately. In June 1976, the government ordered the closure of the play La
maja desnuda de Cáceres, which was being performed at the Café Teatro
Stefanía, because of ‘transgresiones cometidas sobre el libreto’ and ‘por la
posible alteración de orden público a que pudieran dar lugar’.4 Four actors
were arrested and were imprisoned before being released without charge three
days later.
The sexual revolution in the Spanish theatre, which was linked to ideological
change in society, had begun before the death of Franco. Peter Schaffer’s Equus
was staged in 1975, as was Gala’s ¿Por qué corres, Ulises?, which also contained
some nudity.5 The so-called destape, described by Gala as ‘una catarsis física, no
una catarsis mental’, caused an at times excessive reaction, but then some of the
events were also extreme.6 For O’Connor: ‘Erotic theater clearly was the culmin-
ation of the materialistic, secular trends subtly initiated thirty years ago as well
as a logical response to almost four decades of sexual repression.’7 Abellán was
to contend that the destape was fundamentally a psychological reaction to the
new, euphoric mood post-Franco and not, as others have claimed, the result of
the removal of the tools of coercion, such as censorship.8 In fact, there were prob-
ably elements of both. Certainly, it could not have emerged had censorship
remained in place.
The pillars of society reacted to this development in a predictable manner, as
a survey about pornography and nudity, published in October 1975, demon-
strates. Padre Venancio Marcos, Secretary of the Hermandad Sacerdotal Español,
3 AGA/IDD 104.04 Topogr. 82-68 Ca. 576 MIT/00.710: Notas sobre obras en general.
4 Notas sobre obras en general. Els Joglars’s work, La torna, is another example; it was
withdrawn from the stage and banned shortly after its première in 1977.
5 In February 1976, a report by AFP from Madrid stated: ‘Un Comité de moralidad pública
commented that ‘la barca española, el cine, el teatro y las revistas, están nave-
gando en una cloaca’. He went on to say:
Culpables de esta pornografía que nos está ahogando son: los productores de
cine, los guionistas y autores, que por un afan desmedido de ganar dinero
fabrican esas películas que son engendros de imaginaciones calenturientas y
enfebrecidas por el dinero. [. . .] Son culpables las Direcciones Generales de
Prensa, cinematografía y teatro, que han llegado a una apertura que no creo
sea la del doce de febrero, sino la apertura de los vestidos.
He blamed critics and the public also, and damned the rest of Europe with the
words: ‘Si en Europa se hacen esas cosas, aquí no queremos ni debemos imitar
a esas democracias europeas cuyas estructuras están llenas de suciedad y
porquería.’ Betraying a paternalistic attitude common among defenders of the
ruling ideology, he concluded that nudity in art has a place, but that this place is
not in the cinema or the theatre:
Se me dirá que el cine y el teatro son arte. Y el arte del desnudo es para los
museos a donde van las personas amantes de verdad del arte. Pero no son para
el cine, el teatro y la prensa, a donde acuden los amantes de la porquería y la
suciedad cuando se trata de espectáculos pornográficos.
Another priest, Padre José María Díez Alegría, revealed a similar attitude. Although
he was more reasonable and less critical of nudity in the cinema and theatre, he did
note a difference between this and other art. The danger, as he saw it, was that in
the cinema and the theatre, the spectator is presented with nudity in motion.9
Government vigilance and right-wing disapprobation were not the only
problems faced by the theatre. Both left- and right-wing extremists attacked not
only political figures but also artists and theatres, judged by them to be enemies of
a certain cause or ideology. In March 1976, the performance of Manuel Martínez
Mediero’s Las hermanas de Búfalo Bill was interrupted by smoke bombs thrown
by reactionaries. An article condemning the play, published in El Alcázar, seems
to have incited further violence and threats against the actors.10 In April, the direc-
tor of Papillon received a death threat from the Escuadron Justiciero de la Alianza
Anticomunista de España.11 Buero Vallejo was among those people associated with
committed theatre or the new liberal theatre who received death threats:
Another censor thought that the government’s enemies might find in the play, ‘un
arma contra el Régimen’, and yet another saw in it ‘peligrosidad desde todos los
ángulos de visión’.
A majority of readers saw fit to prohibit the play, but the Secretary and the
Subdirector General de Actividades Teatrales voted in favour of its authorization.
This resulted in a total of seven votes in favour of authorization of the play and
seven against, and so the decision was referred to the Director General de
Cinematografía y Teatro. A report from the Subdirector General de Actividades
to the Director General, dated 4 December 1975, is interesting for what it reveals
about the censors’ deliberations and the reasons for their verdicts. The
Subdirector General advocated authorization of La doble historia del doctor
Valmy. He argued that the theme is treated in a general way and could not be
attributed to a particular country or even a particular political ideology
(Appendix XIV). The censorship board met on 12 December 1975. The follow-
ing day, the Director General returned a verdict of authorization with three cuts,
though the final decision was left until after a representative group of censors had
viewed the dress rehearsal (Appendix XV).18
La doble historia del doctor Valmy premiered in the Teatro Benavente, Madrid
on 29 January 1976 under the direction of Antonio González Vergel. It enjoyed
considerable success and ran for over six hundred performances. It also won the
El Espectador y la Crítica and the Trofeo de Radio España prizes and was author-
ized for publication by Espasa-Calpe in June 1976. However, in addition to the
earlier mentioned death threats and possible environmental censorship, there was
additional negative reaction. On 9 February the Director General de Seguridad
issued a report on Buero Vallejo in which the dramatist was condemned for his
‘campaña teatral contra la policía’. The author of this report was convinced that
the play was written about the Spanish police and cited Buero’s personal and
political history as evidence both of his bad character and mischievous intent.
17 AGA/IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779 Exp. 147-67. All further references to
censors’ reports and correspondence about La doble historia del doctor Valmy are from
this file.
18 The play was reviewed in April 1979, and there was a unanimous decision to award it
A note was then sent to the Ministro de Información y Turismo informing him
of Buero’s latest ideological attack (Appendix XVI). Further negative reaction
included an unsigned review of La doble historia del doctor Valmy, published in
Fuerza Nueva in 1976, which contained the following recommendation:
The destape did not merely cause problems for the reactionaries, however. The
high hopes for a new theatre from the banned or silent dramatists were seen to
be misplaced when many of the would-be revolutionaries embraced nudity over
politics. The profit-driven directors exploited this trend, which for a while greatly
increased the numbers attending the theatre. However, the destape probably
added to the decline in numbers of traditional bourgeois theatre audiences, many
of whom were uncomfortable with the new direction in the theatre. A prolifer-
ation of translations offered what seemed to be the only respite from the destape,
and even some of these, as well as some Spanish classics, were adapted and
sexualized to suit the mood of the day. One such case was Ángel Facio’s
production of Lorca’s La casa de Bernarda Alba, which featured the actor Ismael
Merlo in the title role on a stage dominated by images and symbols of the female
genitalia. The traditional audience absented itself from such productions. Pérez-
Stansfield wrote of the typically bourgeois audience: ‘No quiso aceptar el
cambio, y en la temporada teatral de 1977–1978 se habló de una crisis del teatro,
no por falta de autores, sino por falta de material rentable: el público.’20
O’Connor noted: ‘What had begun as a plea for freedom had ironically become
obligatory. If nudity was prohibited prior to 1975, by 1977 an unspoken law
seemed to require the display, at least momentarily, of a female breast or two.’21
A comment made by Buero in 1996 could equally be applied to much of the
theatre of the transition period:
El teatro tiene que renovarse, por supuesto, pero a condición de seguir siendo
teatro; en muchos experimentos, se pasa de la raya, y lo que se produce ya no
es teatro. [. . .] Pirandello, por ejemplo, no era un renovador disparatado, sino
un renovador que se mantenía dentro de los cauces del teatro de texto, de
19 Fuerza Nueva, 6 March 1976. In AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.036 Carpeta
no. 49: Artículos Prensa. The author of the article goes on to write: ‘En cualquier caso, le
recomendamos acuda a una de las sesiones del teatro Benavente al vicepresidente de Asuntos
para el Interior y ministro de la Gobernación, señor Fraga Iribarne. Quizá tenga alguna
sugerencia que hacer.’
20 María Pilar Pérez-Stansfield, Direcciones de teatro español de posguerra (Madrid: José
Another feature of the theatre of the transition period was the rise of highly
politicized right-wing drama. In essence, what was on offer now was agitation
propaganda, demanding political action and blaming the democratic movement
for modern Spain’s ills. Previously, right-wing theatre had settled into a form of
integration propaganda; now, the theatres again became the arena for an ideo-
logical battle. Ironically, plays such as Antonio D. Olano’s Madrid, pecado mor-
tal (1977) and Enrique Barreiro’s Muñecas (1979) employed the tools of sexual
liberation to criticize democracy and freedom, including the perceived licen-
tiousness of the newer theatrical trends. The staging of plays such as Eloy
Herrera Santos’s Un cero a la izquierda (1978) and Olano’s Cara al sol . . . con
la chaqueta nueva (1978) were more comparable in many ways to political
assemblies than to normal theatrical performances. Marsillach wrote:
Zatlin Boring makes a similar point in her description of the staging of Herrera’s
Que Dios os lo demande (1979): ‘The atmosphere was that of a political rally,
not of a theatrical presentation.’24 Indeed, Herrera himself described Un cero a
la izquierda as:
Una obra que en el momento más agudo de la crisis no sólo teatral, se convirtió
en revulsivo, sacó a la gente de sus casas y consiguió una asistencia masiva de
público durante dos años. [. . .] el texto de la misma era portador y portavoz
de unos deseos contenidos en la mente del espectador.25
22 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 314. Antonio Gala’s attitude seems
to have been much the same as Buero’s. He stated: ‘La libertad de expresión es exigible, pero
no garantiza, ni muchísimo menos, la existencia de un teatro mejor.’ Zatlin Boring, ‘Encuesta
sobre el teatro madrileño’, p. 14.
23 Adolfo Marsillach, ‘Cinco años de teatro: 1975–1980’, Tiempo de Historia, 4 (no. 72,
1980), 215–29 (p. 220). For more on the reception of these and other plays of the transition,
see Manuel Pérez, El teatro de la transición política (1975–1982): Recepción, crítica y
edición (Kassel: Reichenberger, 1998).
24 ‘Agit-prop from the Right: The Theater of Eloy Herrera’, Estreno, 6 (no. 2, 1980), 18–21
(p. 20).
25 Zatlin Boring, ‘Encuesta sobre el teatro madrileño’, p. 16.
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Changes in Legislation
Sastre proposed the creation of a Teatro Unitario de la Revolución Socialista in
the early days of post-Francoism, but his proposal was not welcomed.27 It was
probably a little out of step with the reality of the times in any case. Nobody was
calling for left-wing political revolution any more. Later, in 1981, he would still
claim that ‘la democracia no es un hecho en España todavía y que por lo tanto
está muy justificado hacer un teatro radical’.28 Others proposed a more moder-
ate reform. Late in 1977, Rafael Pérez Sierra, then Director General de Teatro,
gathered a group of theatre professionals to create a structure for the new Teatros
Nacionales. The result was the drawing up of the statutes that created the Centro
Dramático Nacional. However, the document was not published in the BOE and
was thus not legally binding. The result, according to Marsillach in 1980, was
that: ‘el Centro Dramático Nacional sigue estando hoy atado de pies y manos a
la Administración y sujeto a cualquier viavén político interesado en mantenerlo
o en sepultarlo’.29
Changes in legislation affecting freedom of expression were few in the years
prior to Franco’s death, as the government sought to retain full control while
responding to the mood change in Spanish society, which demanded greater
autonomy. As Abellán wrote: ‘El empleo del “silencio” podía haber sido el único
asidero legal para poner en práctica una política de liberalización. En cambio,
sólo parece haber servido para intimidar.’30 While the Ley de Prensa e Imprenta
was not vigorously enforced during the transition period, neither was it immedi-
ately rescinded. José Luis Cebrián summarized the period: ‘el panorama de la
prensa española de la democracia resulta al final una mezcla de excesos y
temores no abandonados’.31 The Ley del Libro, introduced in 1975, did not
replace the 1966 Ley de Prensa e Imprenta, rather it merely amended article 2
of the latter. The article was not actually suppressed until the introduction of
26 Vicente Romero, ‘El teatro de la extrema derecha’, Estreno, 1 (no. 3, 1975), 11–12 (p. 12).
27 Cramsie, Teatro y censura, p. 98.
28 Vogeley, ‘Alfonso Sastre’, p. 461.
29 Marsillach, ‘Cinco años’, p. 223.
30 ‘Censura y autocensura’, p. 174.
31 ‘La Prensa en crisis’, Tiempo de Historia, 4 (no. 72, 1980), 173–9 (p. 177).
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the Ley Anti-libelo in April 1977. Yet, in a move that damaged confidence, severe
restrictions on what could be said about the Armed Forces and the Crown were
included in the Ley Anti-libelo.
Nor were there many practical changes in the early post-Franco years. The
application of the censorship legislation had not been vigorously enforced for
some time previously, but its continued existence was a threatening reminder of
the not so distant past. Of the years 1975–78, prior to the introduction of the
constitution, Buero claimed: ‘Era una régimen que todavía arrastraba puntos de
vista y posiciones mentales pocos propicios al atrevimiento, la experiencia, la
experimentación o la osadía.’32 In 1976, Andrés Reguera Guajardo, Ministro de
Información y Turismo under Adolfo Suárez, stated on the continued use of the
Ley de Prensa:
Entiendo que puede y debe ser modificada, o más bien desaparecer, para que
en el futuro los delitos de prensa se atengan al código. Pero entre tanto,
estamos aplicando una política que en lo que respecta a sanciones administra-
tivas, solo se ejercen cuando se ponen en pelígro cuestiones graves de interés
general. Lo mismo sucede con la censura. En especial con la de publicaciones
o espectáculos escritos. Se ha elevado el techo en cuanto a estos últimos, como
prueban las carteleras, pero en cuanto a las publicaciones, hemos buscado un
equilibrio entre la libertad de los editores y la sensibilidad de la mayoría, las
publicaciones eróticas se editan, pero no se exhiben en los quioscos dañando
la sensibilidad indiscriminada del ciudadano. En estos últimos meses hemos
hecho escaso uso de las facultades sancionadoras de la administración.33
Clearly, this right-led government was, despite its democratic pretensions, still
loath to devolve power to those outside its ranks. The retention of power by this
group was presented as being in the common interest and for the protection of
shared values. Some months later, LOGOS reported Minister Reguera’s
declaration: ‘No me considero Ministro “de” la información, sino “para” la infor-
mación.’ Yet the positive implications of this statement were undermined by
another statement made by the Minister and quoted by CIFRA on the same day:
In 1977 theatre censorship came under the control of the newly named
Ministro de Cultura. Nonetheless, the legislation affecting the theatre was not
actually repealed until 1978, with the publication of Real Decreto 262/1978 de
27 de enero (Mº. CULTURA), TEATRO, CIRCO Y VARIEDADES. Libertad de
representación de espectáculos.35 This legislation replaced the earlier censorship
laws but was not intended to result in an unregulated theatre.
The new legislation stated that the verdict on a play would be granted within
fifteen days of authorization being sought. However, the Dirección General
reserved the right to change the categorization of the play thereafter. Article 8 of
the law created the Comisión de Calificación de Teatro y Espectáculos, with the
Director General de Teatro y Espectáculos as President, the Subdirector General
de Actividades as Vice-president and the Jefe de la Sección de Ordenación de
Dirección General as Secretary. The law stipulated that there were to be no more
than twenty committee members, who were to be nominated by the Ministro de
Cultura.
Further regulatory legislation was published in the Orden de 7 de abril de
1978 (Mº. CULTURA), por la que se dictan normas sobre calificación de
espectáculos teatrales. Article 2.1 lists the new classifications of dramatic
works:
Yet, as the Real Decreto 262/1978 had specified, plays which, ‘por su temática
o contenido [. . .] puede herir de modo especial la sensibilidad del espectador
medio’ were to be classified «S» and would receive no support from the state,
financial or otherwise (Appendix XVII).37 Little seemed to have changed. The
government still effectively controlled the theatre, as many theatres and com-
panies depended upon it for finance.
Companies wishing to stage a play had to send in an application at least thirty
days before the proposed date of staging, stating the category of production for
which they were seeking authorization. In the case of an application for a single
performance, seven days’ notice was required. The documentation required was
detailed in article 4 of the new legislative order. Article 5 dealt with the Comisión
de Calificación de Teatro y Espectáculos (created by Real Decreto 262/1978)
representación de espectáculos, BOE, no. 53 (ref. 481, 3 March 1978), pp. 496–7.
36 Orden 7 abril 1978 (Mº Cultura), por la que se dictan normas sobre calificación de
espectáculos teatrales, BOE, no. 89 (ref. 9621, 14 April 1978), pp. 8611–13.
37 Real Decreto 262/1978, Teatro, Circoy Variedades, pp. 496–7.
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and specified that members were to be appointed for three years, with the possi-
bility of an extension at the discretion of the Minister. The Comisión could be
called to session by the President or by a simple majority of members. Verdicts
were to be agreed by simple majority of members and the President had the
casting vote. Once finalized, notice of the categorization of the play in question
was sent to the company. Article 11.1 outlined the composition and role of the
Subcomisión de Valoración, which was comprised of a maximum of seven mem-
bers of the Comisión and which was ‘el órgano asesor en orden a la protección
y fomento de los espectáculos teatrales y artísticos de especial calidad’.38 Article
13.1 stipulated that, in accordance with earlier legislation, the classification
awarded to any given drama must be displayed on all advertising and
promotional material for the play as well as in a prominent position in the box
office. This process remained unchanged until 1985, although there were some
organizational reshuffles in the meantime.
Apart from this legislation specifically affecting censorship, constitutional
change, affecting all of the state apparatuses, was introduced late in 1978. The
constitution defines the Spanish State as a Parliamentary Monarchy and affirms
the government’s commitment to democracy. Liberties and rights, which were
ignored by the previous regime, are guaranteed by the constitution. Article 15
abolishes torture and the death penalty.39 Article 16.1 guarantees ‘la libertad
ideológica, religiosa y de culto de los individuos’.40 Article 20 deals with the sub-
ject of censorship and states:
Artículo 20:
1. Se reconocen y protegen los derechos:
a) A expresar y difundir libremente los pensamientos, ideas y opiniones
mediante la palabra, el escrito o cualquier otro medio de reproducción.
b) A la producción y creación literaria, artística, científica y técnica.
c) A la libertad de cátedra.
d) A comunicar o recibir libremente información veraz por cualquier
medio de difusión. La ley regulará el derecho a la clausula de conciencia y
al secreto profesional en el ejercicio de estas libertades.
2. El ejercicio de estos derechos no puede restringirse mediante ningún tipo
de censura previa.
3. La ley regulará la organización y el control parlamentario de los medios de
comunicación social dependientes del Estado o de cualquier ente público y
garantizará el acceso a dichos medios de los grupos sociales y políticos signi-
ficativos, respetando el pluralismo de la sociedad y de las diversas lenguas de
España.
This article, and indeed the entire constitution, made it clear that a return to
Francoism was not desired by the government, the king, or the vast majority of
the people.
Substantive reform of the theatre did take place in 1985 with the creation of the
Instituto Nacional de las Artes Escénicas y de la Música (INAEM), charged with
the control and development of theatre and music in Spain.42 It heralded a restruc-
turing of state aid to the theatre and the creation of arts and cultural bodies charged
with the development and support of the theatre and other cultural endeavours.
The Comisión de Calificación de Teatro y Espectáculos, which had read the plays
and operated under the Negociado de Calificación, was disbanded and a new clas-
sification process agreed between the Director General of the INAEM and the
Ministerio de Educación y Cultura. The INAEM has a role similar to the old
Dirección General de Música y Teatro, and upon its inception it took control of
the Teatros Nacionales, the Orquestra y Coros Nacionales de España and the Junta
Coordinadora de Actividades y Establecimientos Culturales. The INAEM con-
trols the state-funded national theatres, each of which has a specific artistic brief.
The Centro Dramático Nacional (CDN) stages modern classics and translations,
although it has been criticized for its failure to stage contemporary Spanish drama
with any regularity. The Centro Nacional de Teatro Clásico stages new and tradi-
tional versions of the Golden Age classics, and the Centro Nacional de Nuevas
Tendencias Escénicas (CNNTE) was established to ensure support for new
authors and innovative and experimental theatre. The final branch of the National
Theatre is the Teatro Lírico Nacional, which stages opera and zarzuela. The
budget for the running of the Instituto is much greater than the budget of its prede-
cessor, but the plans for the new structure are much more ambitious. The state
gives grant aid to theatre companies and groups, which abide by certain regula-
tions stipulated in the new legislation. While this has led to certain improvements,
such as an increase in the number of theatres, tours and festivals, it also has
brought with it disadvantages, such as an increasing dependence on the grant sys-
tem. Effectively, this means that little is achieved in the Spanish theatre world
without the support of the state, ironically a situation that Franco had also sought
to bring about. The INAEM would appear to have effected an improvement in the
quality of the theatrical offerings, at least in the national theatres, but complaints
persist about the arrangements for funding, and favouritism shown to certain
authors, as well as issues of training and professionalism.
Overall, the reform has been gradual but noticeable. In an interview published
in Estreno in 1991, Buero compared the theatre of the day favourably to the
theatre of the mid-1980s, in so far as economic aid was concerned. However, he
pointed out that the theatre had lost out overall in the entertainment stakes, with
other forms of entertainment winning over the mass audiences that the theatre is
seemingly unable to draw.43 This problem of attracting and retaining an audience
had to be contended with and, as Buero said: ‘De lo que se trata es de recuperar,
de reconstruir, al público, y esto no se consigue sólo con espectáculos excep-
cionales o con festivales.’44
Ideology did not end with the death of Franco. Claims by many dramatists that
it was more difficult to stage plays in 1980 than in the Franco years demon-
strated that old problems had not been resolved. According to Buero, the years
1978–81 saw an increase in grant aid and prizes, but nothing to compare with
the rest of Europe. Gala said that the stress was on foreign plays at the expense
of the development of Spanish theatre. Cabal claimed that the independent
groups suffered under the theatre policy of the time, and many folded under the
pressure and lack of funding. On the attitude of the socialist government, no
dramatist was flattering. Gala claimed that what was created in those years was,
‘un teatro prácticamente oficial’.45 Despite structural and legislative changes in
the post-Franco era, what has been defined as a theatre crisis remains largely
unsolved and many fear that the negative trend will be difficult to remedy. In
1991, Fernández Insuela carried out a survey in Estreno in which he asked the
views of the Generación Realista on the Spanish theatre from the mid-1980s to
1990. The dramatists interviewed were José María Rodríguez Méndez, José
Martín Recuerda, Lauro Olmo and Carlos Muñiz, and their responses to the
questions posed were overwhelmingly negative. Rodríguez Méndez lamented
the absence of Spanish drama and what he considered the poor quality of trans-
lations of foreign works. He was highly critical of the theatrical administration,
which he blamed for the ongoing problems: ‘A esas tales no les importa ni el
teatro, ni la cultura ni nada por el estilo. En parte son las más culpables de que
43 Peter L. Podol, ‘El estado actual del teatro en España: entrevista con Antonio Buero
el nivel cultural del país haya caído tan bajo, pues está en manos de funcionar-
ios sin seso.’46 More than one dramatist criticized the rampant amiguismo in the
administration, and Martín Recuerda criticized the failure of the universities to
provide drama courses. A survey in ALEC in 1990 produced similar results.
Buero Vallejo commented on the increased popularity of other forms of art and
entertainment, which attract not only prospective audiences but also prospective
dramatists away from the theatre. Some of the younger playwrights such as José
Luis Alonso de Santos and Fermín Cabal, who had theatrical successes in the
early 1980s, went on to carve out a niche for themselves in the world of cinema.
Cabal too was highly critical, not only of the administration’s failure to develop
the theatre, but also of its nepotism. However, he expressed the hope that a new
wave of theatre would emerge from the independent sector, which would be
author-dominated, as opposed to the director-driven productions of the previous
decade. There was a general feeling among those surveyed that the administra-
tion did not do enough to encourage younger or more experimental dramatists
and concentrated instead on what Cabal referred to as the ‘cadáveres exquisi-
tos’ of the classic theatre.47 Some of the respondents criticized the new form of
censorship prevailing in the post-Franco theatre. The dramatist Pilar Pombo
wrote:
She defined the relationship between ministry and dramatist as one of ‘amo’ and
‘súbdito’ and also complained about the lack of accountability in the organiza-
tions controlling the funding of theatre. The ‘underground’ dramatist Jerónimo
López Mozo condemned the state’s control of the free theatre. He made a point
similar to that of Pilar Pombo about the dependence of the commercial theatre
on state subventions that translated into self-censorship on the part of the author
wishing to have a play accepted for staging by a company. As in the Franco
period, the safe productions were staged at the expense of more experimental
or challenging work. In 1985, Martín Recuerda maintained: ‘Hay quizás más
censura ahora que en el franquismo, porque en el franquismo te decían no y ya
lo sabías, pero es que ahora hay una cantidad de cosas pequeñas por debajo que
depende de eso el que se nos estrene.’ However, Jaume Melendres countered
this by saying: ‘La censura es la censura, y el hecho de tener obras de treinta
49 ‘Mesa Redonda 2: escribir en España’, Cuadernos el Público, no. 9 (1985), 40–63 (p. 56).
50 De los Reyes, ‘Comentarios’, p. 23.
51 Fernando Martín Iniesta, ‘Teatro español en la democracia’, Cuadernos
de noviembre de 1998.
53 María José Ragué Arias, El teatro de fin de milenio en España: de 1975 hasta hoy
(Barcelona: Ariel, 1996), pp. 115, 117. She also wrote, on p. 114: ‘El control de las
subvenciones parece haber sustituido a las censuras franquistas.’
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Buero too was reluctant to consider the removal of Francoist censorship from
the legislature as a total victory for freedom of expression and the end
of Spain’s problems. It was a view that was not entirely welcomed by those
who wished to forget the past and concentrate on the future, but was proved
correct:
It was clear to those who wished to acknowledge it that the hegemonic and
ideological structures of Francoism did not disappear from Spanish society when
Franco died. Many of the people who had served under Franco and who had
supported his regime remained in privileged positions and showed no desire to
relinquish their power. Manuel Abellán criticized the fact that even after the
disappearance of censorship, ‘sobrevive el personal censorio; esos censores de
brocha gorda que pasan a los servicios de presidencia del gobierno’. He further
condemned the fact that: ‘En la radio y la televisión del Estado se han empeñado
De todos es sabido que porque faltaban otras plataformas más normales y más
lógicas de expresión política, las que ofrecían el teatro y la literatura, por ejem-
plo, eran especialmente óptimas en esos tiempos para expresar a través de ellas
las inquietudes políticas de orden general.56
However, now that the dramatists and novelists were free to speak clearly about
politics, so too were journalists, and it was generally accepted that the news
media were best placed to communicate information about social and political
issues. After the advent of democracy in Spain, the theatre no longer needed to
take on the role that it had adopted when the press was not free. Nonetheless, the
question then arises of how free the press was, and is, in democratic Spain, or
indeed in any modern democracy.
The control of the media, an insidious form of ideological control in a
democratic state, is a topic that features in Buero’s play Música cercana. Further
links between corrupt politicians and powerful business and banking corpor-
ations are mentioned in other Buero plays of the post-Franco era. The dramatist
warned that this concentration of power is complemented by a powerful cap-
acity for influencing public opinion and noted that democracy in Spain, as
elsewhere, saw the creation of a new and powerful elite and a new underclass.
This new elite was drawn from the world of banking and business and had close
symbiotic links with politicians. In Spain, the ruling party controlled much of the
media in the initial democratic period. Later, when the media expanded, it was
still controlled by small elite groups. Suárez had been the Director General of
Radio Televisión Española (RTVE) under Franco, and the opposition, recogniz-
ing the opportunity that this presented for media manipulation by the head of
government, demanded that a body be established to monitor it. This was done,
but the Consejo Rector was government-appointed and inevitably favoured the
rulers of the day. However, when the Socialists came to power in 1982, they
merely weighted the system in their own favour. Yet some degree of criticism
was always to be allowed, and even encouraged, for without it the myth of
objectivity would be betrayed. Buero highlighted in Música cercana, among
other things, the insidious power of the propagators of a new ideology for a new
ruling elite.
55 Alberto Cañagueral, ‘Entrevista con Manuel Abellán: “He bajado a los sótanos de la
censura y lo he fotocopiado todo” ’, Actual, 8 October 1982, pp. 78–83 (p. 83).
56 Fernando G. Delgado, ‘Cuando la obra y el testimonio van juntos. Antonio Buero
Some historical dramas, which had been prohibited during the Franco years, were
quite successful in the immediate aftermath of the dictator’s death, but they were
no guarantee of continued success for any author. In addition, drama dealing with
the Franco period as history enjoyed brief success, and Fernando Fernán Gómez’s
play Las bicicletas son para el verano, which won the Lope de Vega prize in 1977,
proved very popular when staged in 1982. This play dealt with the Civil War in
an overt manner, and its acceptance was a sign of how the times had changed.
Buero’s 1977 play La detonación, in which he dealt with censorship and transi-
tion politics, was also successful. Despite being set in the nineteenth century, the
parallels between the action in the play and 1970s Spain were obvious.
Other asignaturas pendientes included Alberti’s Noche de Guerra en el Museo
de Prado, written in 1956 and finally staged in Spain in 1978, and Muñiz’s
Tragicomedia del Serenísimo Príncipe Don Carlos, which was banned in 1972
and successfully revived in 1980. Martín Recuerda’s El engañao, banned in
1972, was staged in 1981, and his Las arrecogías del Beaterio Santa María
Egipciaca had successful runs in both 1977 and 1978. Further successes
included two plays by Rodríguez Méndez. Bodas que fueron famosas del
Pingajo y la Fandanga and Flor de otoño, which had been prohibited in 1965
and 1973, respectively, were produced in 1978 and 1982. Valle-Inclán’s Los
cuernos de don Friolera was revived to great critical acclaim in 1976 after a
lengthy prohibition. However Lauro Olmo’s earlier-banned La condecoración
was not well-received when produced in 1977. According to Farris Anderson,
writing in 1978, the staging of previously silenced works ‘has been successful
only in so far as it has established the political viability of plays previously
excluded from the stage. From an artistic, critical, or commercial standpoint,
these productions have generally not been successful.’60 As Berenguer put it:
Although he received the Premio Nacional de Teatro in 1986 and his earlier-
prohibited La sangre y la ceniza: Diálogos de Miguel Servet (1965) was a minor
success when staged in 1977, Alfonso Sastre did not enjoy lasting theatrical suc-
cess in the democratic era. The large theatre companies generally ignored him.
Sastre, who had been one of the most respected and outspoken revolutionary
dramatists of the Franco era, chose voluntary exile from his homeland in the demo-
cratic period, although he later returned to Spain. Moreover, he left the PCE and
política (1975–1982), Historia del teatro español del siglo XX, IV (Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva,
1998), p. 156.
Mono213_Ch07.qxd 3/8/05 9:20 AM Page 219
focused his interest on the radical politics of the Basque country. Arrabal too,
despite the fact that six of his dramas had their Spanish premières between 1975
and 1978, failed to live up to expectations. It is undeniable that he now enjoys a
certain celebrity, or notoriety, in Spanish theatre circles, but his work is rarely
staged in contemporary Spain, though his other writing has enjoyed considerable
success.62
In the immediate post-Franco era, politics became the nation’s favourite
spectator sport and other modes of entertainment seemed unimportant in
comparison. Yet there was another trend associated with the destape and the
revived interest in progressive politics, and this was a determination to leave
the past behind. Martín Iniesta denounced the ‘pacto de silencio’ that followed the
dictator’s death and criticized the collective resolve to forget the past.63 It was this
pacto de olvido that allowed members of the Francoist hegemony to lead the
democratization process and retain power and positions of privilege and
influence. It is this same denial of the recent past and of responsibility for past
crimes that Buero criticized in his post-Franco plays. Buero Vallejo’s Jueces en
la noche, which deals with Spain’s transition to democracy, proved unpopular
with some critics who did not wish to be reminded of the problems, rooted in the
recent past, which were still present in the newly democratized Spain. The
protagonist is an opportunistic Minister from the Franco era, who has reinvented
himself as a life-long democrat in order to satisfy his craving for power and main-
tain his position of privilege. Moreover, the play’s right-wing plot to discredit the
left and restore power to the former elite, anticipates the events of 23-F.
Once again, the Spanish people had resolved not to deal with the past and, as
Buero suggested in plays like Las trampas del azar, they are thus likely to repeat
its errors. Hence, as in earlier plays, in much of his post-Franco theatre the nega-
tive actions of characters are rooted in their unwillingness to face up to the past and
to accept responsibility for their earlier actions or inaction. It was a theme that
continued to cause problems for the dramatist in post-Franco Spain, and he was
condemned for dredging up a past that others were determined to put behind them:
Buero, poco a poco, nos ha ido obligando a tener que enfrentarnos con nuestra
historia pasada, reciente e incluso inmediata. Cada vez más ha ido usando el
elemento onírico como procedimiento narrativo. Ha ido potenciando y, por lo
general lo ha logrado, el carácter imaginativo de su narrativa escénica. De ahí,
quizás, que sus últimas obras, las que hablan de lo que suceden en días más
recientes, hayan vuelto a sufrir tantos ataques, unos ataques que uno a veces
no entiende y, claro está, no puede aceptar, porque nos recuerdan actitudes de
épocas pasadas.64
62 Arrabal was finally awarded the Premio Nacional de Teatro in 2001, and the production
in 2002 of Carta de amor (como un suplicio chino), by the Centro Dramático Nacional, may
be the start of a new trend.
63 Martín Iniesta, ‘Teatro español en la democracia’, pp. 96–8.
64 Salvat, ‘El lenguaje escénico’, p. 39.
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Officially, censorship was gone, and there was no longer a single focus for
protest as there had been under Franco. Consequently the theatre of protest was
not considered to be as relevant as it had been during the Franco years.
Nonetheless, a dramatist criticized for being a moderado during the Franco
period and who continued to make similar criticisms of Spanish society in the
democratic era instead of rejoicing in her liberalism, was not always popular. It
is interesting to note that even Buero’s last play, Misión al pueblo desierto
(1999), also deals with the Civil War and the largely forgotten Junta de
Protección del Tesoro Artístico.
The type of drama that Buero Vallejo continued to write and his enduring
stress on the need to recognize and challenge the ideological and hegemonic
structures of Spanish society put him at odds with the most recent generations of
Spanish dramatists. At the Congreso Internacional Autor Teatral y Siglo XX in
1998, the younger dramatists stressed that theirs was a drama written in freedom,
and they highlighted their lack of ideology. Antonio Onetti even claimed that,
when he began his career, he felt that he had arrived too late. Thus, while others
heralded the end of ideology with the end of Francoism and, in their under-
standable desire to progress, chose to ignore their unresolved past, Buero
continued to demand accountability and remembering. He also demonstrated the
emergence of a new, progressive ideology that, despite its association with the
new, progressive Spain, was reminiscent in many respects of the previous
regime’s ideology. He further implied that it was associated with, and of benefit
to, many of the same people. Echoing Buero Vallejo, Cabal draws similar
conclusions:
8
The Post-Franco Theatre of Buero Vallejo
It could be argued that once the transition to democracy had begun, Buero Vallejo
and other writers of the opposition had no focus for their committed literature.
The notion that the committed writers were somehow out of date, however, rests
on the belief that post-Franco Spain was an open, liberated, ideology-free society.
Buero disagreed and continued to use his theatre to deliver a critique of society.
While it is undeniable that, after the end of Francoism, the central focus for his
denunciations was no longer there, Buero did not redefine his role in the light of
the transition but rather continued to view his function as that of the traditional
intellectual in society, highlighting the new forms of censorship, propaganda and
inequality to be found there. At the centre of his post-Franco theatre remained
the twin preoccupations of accountability and remembering. He was also con-
cerned to account for his own past actions, that is, to vindicate his oft-criticized
posibilismo at a time when some were saying that his work was no longer rele-
vant. This is nowhere more evident than in his extremely motivated portrait of
Larra as heroic posibilista in La detonación.
In his post-Franco theatre, Buero argued for an abandonment of the pacto de
olvido and for the need to confront the past. He returned to the themes of myth
and history; the history referred to is recent Spanish history, and a new myth-
ology falsifies a new reality. The pacto de olvido forms an important part of this
latest mystification. Buero was quite obviously disillusioned with modern
Spain, and these plays are notably more pessimistic than earlier ones. An oppor-
tunity for answerability and remembering has been deliberately ignored in the
name of progress. This new Spain, based on the contradictory ruptura pactada,
is portrayed as a myth that distorts the reality of continuismo. The notion that
modern Spanish society is wholly democratic, given its origins and its denial
of the past, is exposed as yet another mystification. Yet Buero himself was again
contradictory. One of the more troublesome facts about Buero’s post-Franco
theatre is that, while condemning the latest, more insidious forms of mystifi-
cation that disguise new ideologies in society, he engaged in his own form of
1 Mariano José de Larra, Artículos, ed. by Enrique Rubio, 9th edn (Madrid: Cátedra,
1990), p. 203.
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and free will, as well as dealing again with impatience, which was a theme in La
detonación also. The character Patricia, who is similar to Verónica from Llegada
de los dioses, ‘lleva implícita en sí la crítica a cuantos han caído – a diferencia
de ella – en un mal posibilismo a través de dejaciones acomodaticias y prove-
chosas’.2 O’Connor points out that, unusually for a Buero play, the misfortune in
Las trampas del azar is the result of fate or coincidence, and not of man’s
actions.3 She fails to acknowledge, however, that later the characters make
choices that are based on free will rather than fate. Buero did not excuse charac-
ters their actions because they were rooted in an initial unforeseen misfortune but
rather criticized them, much as he did Vicente in El tragaluz, for their failure to
take responsibility for later actions and for the willingness with which they blame
fate for their own shortcomings. He experimented with the notion of karma,
which sees the moral effect of, and final accountability for, past actions in the
next life, if not in this one.
Yet this outcome also signals that there is little hope for a defeat of the pacto de
olvido: accountability has moved from this life to the next. Buero did not respect
those whose haste to progress lead them to a betrayal of their better selves and
of what he perceived as their duty to society. In some ways he was less naïve than
those writers who thought they could inspire revolution with their words, yet he
too revealed a certain naïveté in his hope that his audience would recognize
themselves in his work and chose accountability over the pacto de olvido.
Although his post-Franco plays were generally well-received by the public,
many of the established critics were less than enthusiastic. Doménech goes so
far as to write that ‘la prensa española lo silenciará sistemáticamente’.5 Iglesias
Estreno, 21 (no. 2, 1995), 5–6. This is also the case, albeit less obviously, in other works such
as El concierto de San Ovidio where David’s blindness is the result of an unfortunate accident.
4 O’Connor, ‘La sincronicidad’, p. 138. Similarly, Juan Luis Palacios assumes his guilt in
wrote: ‘Según Alberto Miralles, los partidos políticos temían provocar a la ultraderecha y por
eso impedían el desarrollo de un teatro agresivo a través del proceso que denomina “la
progresiva domesticación de la vanguardia teatral”.’ ‘Conciencia individual y colectiva en
Jueces en la noche’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo: homenaje, pp. 71–84 (p. 76).
Mono213_Ch08.qxd 3/8/05 9:23 AM Page 224
Feijoo, too, notes that Buero’s comments on the new Spain were unwelcome in
certain quarters:
Fernando Martín Iniesta, too, notes Buero’s determination to expose the mysti-
fication process in evidence during the period of transition: ‘Que nos echen la
basura a la boca es algo que a nadie nos gusta. Es lógica la reacción que ante
Jueces en la noche han tenido determinados sectores de la clase intelectual, que
nos circunda y, cuando puede, nos asfixia.’8 Jueces en la noche had a short run
of only two months. Buero said of it: ‘el argumento molestó’, and the company
withdrew it as soon as they had covered their costs.9 Earlier, when the play was
6 Luis Iglesias Feijoo, ‘Buero Vallejo: un teatro crítico’, in El teatro de Buero Vallejo:
cuarenta años, pp. 61–4 (p. 64). González Vergel then added: ‘Me parece un juicio elocuente
y certero, que alude, sin duda, a la “inoportunidad” de aquel estreno, en aquel momento
determinado de nuestra transición política.’
9 De los Reyes, ‘Comentarios’, p. 21. Phyllis Zatlin Boring commented: ‘Buero’s Jueces
en la noche in the Fall of 1979 unleashed a violent reaction, mostly political. [. . .] Buero was
attacked from Right and Left as an opportunist.’ ‘Theatre in Madrid: The Difficult Transition
to Democracy’, Theatre Journal, 32 (no. 4, 1980), 459–74 (p. 469).
Mono213_Ch08.qxd 3/8/05 9:23 AM Page 225
Pues se trata, ya lo habrá venteado el lector sagaz, del empeño en decir «no»
a esta obra, por razones obvias para quien la conozca, aunque el público diga
«sí». [. . .] Hay maneras bastante más graves de dañar la continuidad de un
éxito que la de ese articulillo, y también se están intentando. (O.C. II: 504)
Aquí dice que yo soy un animal que solo sabe comer y dormir y que, si no
soy feliz, tampoco soy desgraciado. (Mira a su señor.) Como si un criado
fuese menos que un perro. Y como si las penas fueran sólo cosa de gente fina.
(Larra se acerca al velador y se sienta, eludiendo la mirada del criado.)
(O.C. I: 1600)
Pedro reminds him that ‘los pobres vamos a la Guerra. Ustedes, no’ and says,
‘Sepa que ese artículo me ha hecho daño. Yo no soy un animal.’ (O.C. I: 1602).
Yet Pedro, despite his suffering, insists ‘hay que vivir’ (O.C. I: 1605). Indeed it
is Pedro, as a symbol of his conscience, that Larra relies on in his last moments.
After the final shot, Pedro’s final words to the audience ask if his accusations
might not have caused Larra to despair: ‘Yo vi que su cara se volvía blanca al
decirle que ellos no iban a la Guerra . . . A veces pienso si no lo maté yo’ (O.C.
I: 1617). Buero, through Larra, was perhaps apologising for his own distance
from and failure to empathize completely with the pueblo; unlike Larra,
however, Buero assumes some of the wisdom of the older Pedro, who knew ‘que
es menester un aguante inagotable’ (O.C. I: 1617).
La detonación is among the most significant of Buero’s plays, for it contains
a deliberate and skilful attempt by the author to vindicate his position as a writer
under Franco. In the drama he took the opportunity to reiterate his stance in the
posibilismo–imposibilismo debate, using the experiences and writings of Larra
to validate his choice. The play was successful and ran for over two hundred per-
formances but Buero’s appropriation and mythification of the nineteenth-century
writer was denounced by some critics. The dramatist himself acknowledged that:
‘Quizá nunca una obra mía ha recibido crítica más dividida: elogios enormes y
condenas absolutas, o casi’ (O.C. II: 489). In the play Buero also analysed the
difficulties of political transition and warned against the facile acceptance of a
pleasant-sounding myth that is nothing but cosmetic change, which continues to
falsify and distort reality. It is also a play that elaborates on the ideological links
between culture and the state.
The choice of author and setting for this play was certainly motivated by the
author’s intentions. The fact that he returned to history was also self-justifying,
lending weight to the dramatist’s argument that his choice of a historical setting
in earlier plays was for artistic reasons and not, as it had been suggested, merely
as a means of evading censorship. Buero revisited the nineteenth century to
comment on contemporary Spain and his own role in recent Spanish history:
Es una etapa que tiene bastante parecido con la actual. Fue también una etapa
de transición política desde el absolutismo de Fernando VII, que podría en
alguna medida compararse con la dictadura de Franco, a través de unos gob-
iernos tibiamente liberales que no daban la medida necesaria en aquella época
para lograr la modernización de España, que representaron fracasos políticos
más o menos parecidos a los de la época del franquismo y a los posteriores
en la transición, y en los que se mantuvo un absolutismo residual semejante
a ciertos residuos del franquismo que aún se observan.11
The parallels between the two periods of transition are obvious, and Buero
counselled against the repetition of mistakes made during the transition from the
authoritarian regime of Fernando VII to the more liberal Regency of María
Cristina, which in the play is portrayed as a betrayal of liberal aspirations. When
La detonación was written the censorship legislation was still in place, as were
the censors. In the play, as in the reality, the changes in government do not result
in the hoped-for legislative reforms; indeed censorship continues, ‘para no per-
judicar las reformas’ (O.C. I: 1547). Even the more lenient Ministers merely
adapt it to suit their own needs. Promises are broken and dreams of liberaliza-
tion are shattered. The so-called liberals betray the same elitist attitude towards
the pueblo as their predecessors. Echoing the sentiments of Ensenada in Un
soñador para un pueblo and many integristas of the Franco regime, Mendizábal
claims: ‘La plebe es ignorante. Darle hoy el voto sería el caos’ (O.C. I: 1585).
The Ministers are notable for their similarity to each other, despite loudly pro-
claimed changes in policies and governments. In fact the same actor plays the
parts of Calomarde, Cea Bermúdez, Martínez de la Rosa, Mendizábal, Istúriz
and Calatrava.12 In addition, though Calomarde, Cea Bermúdez and Martínez de
la Rosa wear different masks, and claim to represent different ideologies, they
wear the same uniform. Hence they represent the continuismo that for a while
seemed inevitable after the death of Franco. The favouritism shown to members
of the ruling elite of Francoism by the supposed democrats of the transition
governments is paralleled in the drama by the actions of Mendizábal and Istúriz.
The modes of censorship employed by the various Ministers in their dealings
with opponents do not change with each government transition. Similarly, the
early post-Franco years saw little change in governments’ manner of dealing
with dissidents. While Buero did not attempt to excuse the terrorist activity of
Spain, he did attack the official terrorism of the military and the police, which
was seemingly condoned by the government. It is worth noting that government
terrorism or counter-terrorism continued to be an issue in Spain long after the
transition to democracy was supposedly completed.
The play contains criticisms of the reliance on the repressive state apparatuses
to protect change, and Buero called into question the commitment of some for-
mer Francoists leading the reform in 1970s Spain. The play advises that serious
consequences may arise from a failure to embrace ruptura and the limitations
necessarily implied by a policy of ruptura pactada. In the play, Larra criticizes
successive governments’ failure to address adequately the issue of the fueros of
the Basques, leading to Basque support for the Carlist pretender, which, in turn,
prolonged the conflict. A similar drama was being played out in the transition
period when the government was slow to deal with regional autonomy. Its reluc-
tance to move on the issue resulted in an escalation of terrorist activity, and the
government responded with heavy-handed measures in the Basque country.
The setting for much of the dramatic action, El Parnasillo, was also carefully
chosen. It was, according to Puente Samaniego, a product of the epoch: ‘Su origen
sólo puede explicarse por la falta de libertad para formación de grupos y asocia-
ciones libres en época de represión política. Precisamente reaparecieron las tertu-
lias durante el reinado de Fernando VII.’13 It had its parallels in Buero’s time also,
as the right to demonstrate and hold meetings was not granted until May 1976.
Moreover, the reaction of those in El Parnasillo to the death of Fernando VII reflects
12 Furthermore, the same actor plays the roles of Cambronero and General Cabrera, and
the debate that followed the death of Franco in 1975. One character proclaims: ‘Con
Fernando VII vivíamos mejor’, adapting a popular catch-cry of those nostalgic for
the days of Franco in the period after his death (O.C. I: 1591). La detonación, as
Jueces en la noche would later, warns against the continued presence of those
whose nostalgia for the previous regime could be harnessed by reactionaries.
The choice of the nineteenth-century setting was thus important for what
Buero wished to say about the transition. Yet the choice of protagonist was even
more significant. In La detonación, Buero drew questionable parallels between
himself and Larra in order to justify his own performance as a writer under
Franco. Larra was viewed by some committed writers to have been a valuable
and successful critic of Spanish society, a role that Buero certainly aspired to.
Juan Goytisolo claims that the example of Larra was relevant to the Francoist
period. Goytisolo, hailed as one of the arch-demystifiers by the most radical of
the literary opposition, considered Larra to be one also: ‘Durante su corta exis-
tencia Larra llevó a cabo una ingente obra de demistificación que, por desgracia,
no ha tenido seguidores de talla’.14 In La detonación, Buero set himself up as this
very ‘seguidor de talla’. By supporting his own stance with Larra’s famous
words, Buero claimed to have fulfilled a similar role in Francoist Spain. Yet
Buero took his argument further, and included in his dramatic portrait the claim
that Larra was a posibilista, less extreme, and more successful for it, than some
of his apparently more radical contemporaries. Moreover, Buero implied that he
went further than Larra did. Referring to Larra, David Johnston comments: ‘Sus
limitaciones personales le hacen desanimarse ante el callejón sin salida de la his-
toria patria, ante la imposibilidad de comunicar la verdad.’15 Buero, in contrast,
was patient and did not give up hope.
The lack of political progress in Spain led to a pessimism evident in Larra’s
later works and a disenchantment with politicians of all hues. Ilie writes: ‘During
these final months, Larra represented his reality as a bad dream, filled with
absurdity and madness. He stratified his perception of reality, superimposing
private desperation upon public conflict.’16 As in his other historical dramas, it is
this mix of public and private that Buero staged in his depiction of Larra’s final
nightmare. Buero stated: ‘La decisión del suicidio está determinada por toda la
historia española anterior y el desencanto que sufre este escritor por el «impasse»
que padece España, en todas sus instituciones, en aquel momento.’17 The point
implicit here is that Buero, unlike Larra, refused to relinquish all hope. It is
notable, however, that a similar disillusionment with post-Franco politics is
evident in the later works of Buero.
Buero used the play as an opportunity to justify the stance he took regarding
the previous regime and revisited the posibilismo controversy in order to
14 Juan Goytisolo, ‘La actualidad de Larra’, El furgón, pp. 7–20 (p. 15).
15 Johnston, ‘Posibles paralelos’, p. 359.
16 Paul Ilie, ‘Larra’s Nightmare’, Revista Hispánica Moderna, 38 (nos 1–2, 1974–75),
In fact, he accused Buero of doing what the dramatist had previously criticized
in others: employing fiction to further a particular cause, in this case the author’s
own. In the play, Larra is accused of being a moderado by Clemente Díaz.
Nonetheless, as Halsey notes, this is not the impression of Larra that Buero
wishes to convey, but rather the opposite: ‘It is Larra who, like Buero himself, is
the real revolutionary although branded a moderate by his enemies.’20 Buero
demonstrated in the play that it is the ostensibly moderate Larra who is the most
successful and influential critic of the regime, despite the more radical and
provocative words of some of his contemporaries. Interestingly though, Ilie’s
description of Larra can equally be applied to the posibilista Buero: ‘He opposed
censorship on ideological grounds and fought it on the day to day journalistic
18 Johnston, ‘Posibles paralelos’, p. 359. In the play, most of the characters wear masks,
and Larra is the one who unmasks them to reveal the truth. In his final despairing moments,
perhaps reflective of his guilt for his treatment of Pedro and the pueblo, he sees his own face
as a mask and fears that there will be nothing beneath it: ‘Quizá solo hay máscaras’ (O.C.
I: 1616).
19 Alberto Fernández Torres, ‘La detonación de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Ínsula, no. 372
(1977), 15.
20 Martha Halsey, ‘Larra, The Tragic Protagonist of La detonación’, Estreno, 4 (no. 1,
level; yet he lived with the censors to the point where he could carve out a career
and meet the required deadlines.’21
An important element of Buero’s vindication was thus his portrayal of the role
of the intellectual in this play:
Buero’s Larra is another version of the dramatist himself, battling against the
censors and bearing witness to times of great change. He suggested that the com-
mitted artist or writer must continue to question and challenge the powers that be,
despite their seeming liberalism and commitment to reform. Buero again
distinguished between posibilismo and self-censorship or collusion. Carnerero in
the play is presented as a writer eager to collude, whose opportunism and pendu-
lum loyalties ensure his survival and prosperity under many different masters.
Mesonero writes in the costumbrista style that was popular at that time and
guaranteed not to offend the regime or the censors, and in the play he advises
Larra to adopt a similar style: ‘Haga reír, pero no enfade’ (O.C. I: 1517). A clear
distinction is drawn between these two positions and that of Larra. A safe literary
style is also advocated by Larra’s father who advises his son not to seek out the
truth. He counsels him to be a coward in order to protect himself and warns: ‘Un
descuido, una palabra imprudente y te desterrarán’ (O.C. I: 1510). Larra’s wife
Pepita also advocates a similar version of self-censorship. She asks Larra, ‘¿Por
qué no escribes como Mesonero? Estaríamos más tranquilos’ (O.C. I: 1539).
Despite this pressure to conform, Larra chooses to write satires and criticisms of
the regime, which might attract the unwelcome attention of the censor, but which
allow him to fulfil the role of social commentator that he has chosen for himself.
As O’Connor comments: ‘Aunque La detonación hace hincapié en los graves
problemas que traen los regímenes represivos, Larra prueba que con talento y
“cálculo”, se pueden superar algunos obstáculos a la libertad de expresión.’23 Thus
Buero asserted that Larra, a posibilista in his own cast, was no coward.
Not contented merely to appropriate the words and actions of Larra to defend
his stance, Buero went on to employ other historical figures to exemplify the
well-intentioned, but equivocal attitudes of Sastre and Arrabal, the other protag-
onists of the polemic.24 In his portrait of Espronceda, Buero criticized the
regime, but of those who remain silent when unable to speak clearly and of those who provoke
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returned exiles who presumed to tell those who had remained in Spain how to
write or indeed how to interpret the politics of the day. The stance adopted by
Espronceda in his dealings with the politicians and censors is more provocative
than that of Larra, and when the censors prohibit the publication of certain
articles, Espronceda decides to publish a blank copy of El Siglo as a damning
indictment of censorship. Larra warns him against the move which, he predicts,
will bring the author further punishment, but his advice is ignored. Larra is
proven correct, however, and his own more careful attitude is vindicated.
Nonetheless, Larra betrays a certain admiration of the other writer’s tenacious
action, although he would not have taken it himself, being more wary of the con-
sequences. He defends Espronceda in an essay entitled ‘El Siglo en blanco’. This
parallels Buero’s claims to have defended authors such as Sastre and Arrabal,
whose methods he questioned, but whose right to speak he supported. Yet it is
interesting to consider how far Larra’s posibilismo extends. This character, who
was chosen to defend Buero’s position, is prepared to use his father’s connec-
tions to further his own ends; Buero himself always denied having a protector.
While commercial success in the post-Franco theatre could be used as a
measure of the correctness of Buero’s position, it would be an oversimplification
of the debate.25 Buero’s employment of Larra and his contemporaries to vindi-
cate his own position almost a century later is problematic. There is a danger that
with this portrait, Buero created more a weighty vehicle for his own beliefs and
values than an authentic representation of Larra. He went further than he did with
his fictional Velázquez or Esquilache, whose possible motivations are explicable
and acceptable within the arena of historical fiction. Here Buero’s portrait of the
imposibilista Clemente Díaz was a reductio ad absurdum of the debate. His
conversion of Larra’s main critic from radical opponent of a repressive censorial
regime to enthusiastic censor in a later, but similarly repressive social order,
amounted to little more than point scoring. As Fernández Torres commented:
‘Eso equivale a tomarse todas las ventajas ante el público a la hora de exponer
la polémica.’26
Clemente Díaz’s self-righteous silence and claim: ‘Hay que hablar claro o
callarse,’ was not supported by Buero or by his fictional Larra (O.C. I: 1546).
Díaz attacks Larra for his veiled criticisms and for not being sufficiently radical,
confrontations that prove suicidal, Larra maintains that the responsible writer must practice
the art of the possible, resorting, if necessary, to literary conventions or masks – always
effective weapons in difficult times.’ Halsey, ‘Dramatic Patterns’, p. 22. It could also be
argued that Mesonero represents Paso.
25 Sastre’s La sangre y la ceniza and Buero’s La detonación were both premiered in 1977,
the former in the Igualada in January and the latter in the Teatro Bellas Artes in September:
‘Las fechas y los lugares dicen bastante por sí mismos. Los dos autores más claramente
antifranquistas de los años cincuenta volvieron a ilustrar sus distintas posiciones en este
momento. Cada uno, a su forma, víctima de las circunstancias. Siempre he creído que su
antagonismo pudo ser evitado. Lo que les separó – el éxito o el fracaso – les era, en el fondo,
bastante ajeno.’ Marsillach, ‘Cinco años’, p. 221.
26 Fernández Torres, ‘La detonación’, p. 15.
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accusations familiar to Buero. Buero depicted him, and by extension his other
critics, as self-censored revolutionaries in waiting, engaged in a radical fantasy
that does no real good. But Larra’s, and by extension Buero’s, protest is also
problematical. That he was opposed to the ruling ideology is unquestionable; the
degree and nature of this opposition, however, are not so easy to classify. The
ambiguity of Buero’s chosen stance is only amplified by the dramatist’s
insistence that his was the only way to deal judiciously with censorship. The
appropriation of the language of another writer to defend his own silences in
La detonación cannot be overlooked. Buero wrote in similar, but by no means
equal, circumstances. In his first play written after Franco, Buero used his voice
to distinguish between his own selective silence and the self-imposed and self-
defeating silence of Díaz and the final silence chosen by Larra.
Buero also took the opportunity to re-examine officially imposed silence in
the form of censorship. The symbolic figure of Don Homobono prevails, despite
the changes in administration, and he serves each new master with the same
enthusiasm. He first appeared in an article about censorship published in 1955
in which Buero wrote: ‘El severo señor analiza el argumento con increíble
sutileza y descubre que está lleno de veneno’ (O.C. II: 603). In La detonación he
is largely unchanged, still sycophantic and sly in his dealings with both writers
and masters, and still capable of uncovering veiled allusions to the rulers of the
day in the works submitted for his scrutiny. He claims to be working for the good
of Spain, as did the censors of Franco’s regime, and his passion for his work is
highlighted in the stage directions that note: ‘tacha con voluptuosidad’ (O.C. I:
1511). When he informs Larra of the prohibition of the sixth edition of El duende
satírico del día, he takes no blame, telling the author: ‘Yo siempre defiendo a los
escritores jóvenes’ (O.C. I: 1527). Similarly, once Calomarde is gone, Don
Homobono switches allegiances and also tells the writers in El Parnasillo of his
efforts on their behalf: ‘Yo . . . me he pasado la vida dulcificando las mutila-
ciones que ese hombre exigía en los escritos de ustedes.’ (O.C. I: 1544). Buero’s
opinion of the official censorship of the Franco regime was thus elucidated, and
he rejected the claim of some censors that they were attempting to soften the
blow and in some way protecting the writers from their own excesses. Buero also
revisited Church censorship in the play, and again the verdict is harsh. Padre
Froilán, who is little more than a reactionary fool, is portrayed as being nostal-
gic for absolutism. In the play, the new, liberalized Church is represented by
Padre Gallego, a returned exile and supporter of Martínez de la Rosa. When the
regime changes, Larra quickly realizes that censorship remains much the same.
Under Cea Bermúdez he discovers that ‘lo que no se puede decir, no se debe
decir’ and later under Martínez de la Rosa, ‘desde que tenemos una racional lib-
ertad de imprenta, apenas hay cosa racional que podamos racionalmente escribir’
(O.C. I: 1553, 1561). Larra also criticizes editorial censorship when Borrega
refuses to accept articles critical of Mendizábal or Istúriz because his publica-
tion is pro-ministerial.
It is legitimate to measure Antonio Buero Vallejo by political and ideological
criteria, as he publicly declared himself to be a committed social writer and
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consistently linked his writing to his views on society. Nonetheless, the question
remains of his degree of commitment. Was his, as has been suggested, ‘una
pluma prostituida’? That Buero compromised is irrefutable; that his compromise
amounted to collusion with the regime is less clear. What is clear is that the
question was one that Buero could not escape and so attempted to answer with
La detonación.
27 Victor Dixon, ‘Los efectos de inmersión en el teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo: una
who has embraced democracy, knows that if he denounces Ginés Pardo, his own
past actions will be revealed and both his career and his marriage will be
destroyed. He is tormented by his past and has to decide whether to continue to
deny it, thus never escaping its hold on him, or to confront it and face the conse-
quences. Cristina, a university friend of Julia and Fermín, is instrumental in the
revelation of the truth. Buero showed, through the suicide of Julia, that the con-
sequences of such denial do not just affect the individual. The trio of musicians
contracted to play at the anniversary party Juan Luis has organized to please Julia
metamorphose into a trio of judges, all of them former victims of his, and he real-
izes that the past is inescapable.
The protagonist of Lázaro en el laberinto, who lives with his sister and her
children, is tortured by his failure to remember an event from his past. The inci-
dent in question occurred during his student days when he and Silvia, his
girlfriend of the time, were distributing anti-government leaflets. Afterwards, she
was set upon by a group of masked right-wing youths who beat her severely.
Lázaro never saw her again, but heard through his sister, Fina, that she went to
England; in fact she died from her injuries. Over twenty years later he is the
owner of a successful bookshop and lives a quiet, happy life. Then he hears that
Silvia is back and he hopes for a telephone call from her to put his mind at rest,
for Lázaro is tormented by his failure to remember clearly what happened that
day. He cannot recall if he helped her and was beaten up himself or if he was too
afraid and abandoned her. In his apparent eagerness for an answer, he begins to
hear the telephone ringing, even when it is silent. Amparo and Germán, two
friends of his nephew with very different motives and outlooks, act as catalysts
in Lázaro’s realization that he is seeking forgiveness, not clarification, from
Silvia. It is suggested that Lázaro is denying, rather than forgetting an unpleas-
ant past. Buero implied that the pacto de olvido is not the solution to Spain’s ills
and that those who choose to deny the past might yet regret their decision to do
so. The thrust of Buero’s argument is that without the peace of mind brought
about by accountability, true progress cannot be made.
Civil unrest during the Franco period is also alluded to in Las trampas del
azar. The Francoist businessman Armando is shocked when he learns that
Gabriel brought his daughter to a student rally. A student was injured during the
ensuing clash with the police, but the supporters of the regime merely condemn
the students. Civil unrest of a different kind is mentioned in Caimán. Néstor, one
of the most human and plausible of Buero’s heroes and the closest to a
revolutionary intellectual in his later work, is involved in the union movement
and is actively working for improved conditions and facilities in poor areas.
Buero criticized the earlier regime by referring to Néstor’s imprisonment and
maltreatment at the hands of the authorities, before his release during an
amnesty. It is a play in which Buero argues for progression and solidarity, but
not the pacto de olvido. Rosa, Néstor’s wife, is unable to move on from the past
and the death of their child and chooses not to live in the world without her;
Néstor has accepted her death and seeks to change the present so that accidents
such as the one that claimed her life will not recur.
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By remembering in his plays the victims and vanquished of the Civil War,
Buero denounced the regime that ensured they remained victims in post-war
society and the democratic society that chose to deny them their historical voice.
In Jueces en la noche reference is made to the father of Fermín Soria, who spent
time in prison and who later, like the father in El tragaluz, finds it difficult to get
employment because of his political record. His Civil War allegiances shaped his
future and that of his son. Juan Luis, on the other hand, benefited from being the
son of a Francoist general. Again Buero stressed that the present and the future
are determined by the past, and that to ignore this fact is to falsify reality. In Las
trampas del azar, the prosperity of the Francoist businessmen is contrasted with
the poverty of Salustiano who, like Gaspar in Diálogo secreto, hails from the
ranks of the Civil War vanquished.
David Johnston’s analysis of the post-Franco plays highlights the emphasis
that Buero continued to place on demystification and answerability for action
taken in the past:
apertura, which, like the new democratic image of Juan Luis, was no more than
a cosmetic change to appease international observers and to hide the fact that
power did not change hands. Criticism of revisionism, falsification and myth
surfaces again in Música cercana. Alfredo is obsessed by image, so much so that
he wishes to revise his own history in order to fit in with the personal official
myth he has created. He can countenance no limits to his personal power, which
he extends to a dominance of time. The title of the sanitized video version of his
life is El tiempo en mis manos, an appellation that demonstrates his megalomani-
acal belief that he can control and recapture time, purge his past of any event or
image that displeases him and add desirable elements.29 This extends to the
incorporation into his mythical life of the woman whom, as a young man, he
desired. His attempt to control and reinterpret the past also includes his inter-
pretation of the rape of Lorenza, which he chooses to remember as ‘algo bello y
bueno que nos sucedió a los dos’ (O.C. I: 2007). Fabio too, revises his past in
Diálogo secreto, absolving himself of any responsibility for the myth he lives.
Such distancing and mystification, so much a feature of Francoist mythology,
allows his successors to assert their freedom from history, to argue disinterest on
their part and to render alternatives to their control unthinkable. Of course, in his
insistence on accountability and his visitation of the recent and not so recent past,
Buero too was involved in the process of historical revisionism, reclaiming the
past for the previously vanquished, and denying the earlier dominant elite their
exclusive version of events.
Linked to the idea of historical revisionism and the pacto de olvido is the idea
of repetition. In Las trampas del azar Buero returned to a favoured theme of
victim-maker turned victim, as Gabi threatens to destroy his father, who had
earlier brought misery to others:
This two-part play tells the interconnected stories of two families over three
generations. Lisardo is a friend and employee of Armando, and both are com-
mitted Francoists. Lisardo’s son, Gabriel, wants to marry Matilda, the daughter
of Armando, but both sets of parents disapprove. Gabriel disregards their advice
and even Matilda’s reluctance and the marriage goes ahead. Matilda, who was
29 This argument, that Alfredo was attempting to control his past and to falsify his reality,
contrasts with Halsey’s assertion that: ‘Like Lázaro, Música thus dramatizes the protagonist’s
attempt to discover the truth about his past.’ From Dictatorship to Democracy: The Recent
Plays of Buero Vallejo. (From La Fundación to Música Cercana), Ottawa Hispanic Studies, 17
(Ottawa: Dovehouse Editions, 1994), p. 237.
30 O’Connor ‘Las trampas’, p. 6.
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badly scarred as a result of a bad reaction to treatment for cuts to her back when
she was a child, thought that nobody would be able to love her. Gabriel, unbe-
knownst to her, was responsible for the cuts to her back; ten years previously he
had thrown a tile at a street lamp from his sickbed in order to extinguish the light,
and he recalled hearing someone shout out when it broke. The only person he
admitted this to was a Republican veteran who played his violin on the street
beneath the lamp. Once they are married, Gabriel takes a job in her father’s
laboratory and abandons the former idealism that saw him once participate in
anti-regime student protests.
Part two takes place thirty years later and there is no trace of idealism left in the
older Gabriel. The laboratory is the target of ecologists and accused of pollution
and arms manufacture; Gabriel dismisses these criticisms. He now has a son, also
called Gabi, and he is as idealistic and impatient as his father was. Gabi, in his
hatred of his father, assumes that the latter caused his mother’s injuries and does
not believe his parents’ protestations to the contrary. He decides to investigate and,
as fate would have it, bumps into Salustiano who tells him what his father had
revealed years before. Gabi returns to his parents’ house with his girlfriend,
Patricia, and confronts his father. Matilda begins to doubt whether Gabriel ever
loved her and Gabriel, angered by his son’s condemnation, has a heart attack.
Patricia recognizes the damage done by Gabi, who made a victim of, not just his
father, but his mother also. Gabriel, in his dying moments, has a vision of
Salustiano who makes him face up to the consequences of his past actions.
Buero showed history being repeated as radical youth rebels and later
conforms; the individual’s reward for conformity is contrasted with the substan-
tial cost to society of his actions. The repetition motif is further underscored by
the use of the same actors to play the youth of each generation. The repetition
does not end with the advent of a democratic Spain, and the young Gabi is set to
reproduce the mistakes of his father and grandfather in his eagerness to distin-
guish himself from them. The problem of youth is the problem Buero diagnosed
in Larra – impatience. In their desire to break from the past, they fail to learn
anything from it. The voice of wisdom is once again the voice of the outsider,
the old revolutionary who is one of what is now a dying breed. Salustiano speaks
for Buero when he advises Gabriel: ‘Ande con tiento. A veces la precipitación es
un error.’31 O’Connor comments:
31 Antonio Buero Vallejo, Las trampas del azar, intro. by Virtudes Serrano, Colección
Austral, no. 364 (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1995), p. 89. Further references to this play are given
after quotations in the text.
32 O’Connor, ‘La sincronicidad’, pp. 133–4.
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33 In Casi un cuento de hadas and La detonación he also employed the device used now
in Las trampas del azar using the same actors to play different roles in order to make a point.
Ana María Leyra also comments that: ‘Carlos es “como” Ignacio, pero no es Ignacio. También
nosotros somos “como” Ignacio, pero no somos Ignacio “como” Carlos, pero sin ser Carlos.
Repetimos las palabras, los comportamientos, las actitudes, los ciclos, pero en la diferencia,
siendo y no siendo los personajes, sintiéndonos idénticos, sintiéndonos diferentes.’ ‘Las
filosofías de la diferencia y la repetición en el teatro de Buero Vallejo’, in Antonio Buero
Vallejo: literatura, pp. 119–28 (p. 123).
34 Luis Iglesias Feijoo, ‘El último teatro de Buero Vallejo’, in Buero Vallejo: cuarenta
wrote Misión al pueblo desierto, a play that deals with the pacto de olvido and the importance
of cultural memory. Set in contemporary Spain, the theatre audience is immersed in the
Círculo de Estudios and becomes the audience for its lecture on an episode from the Civil War,
which is narrated by the Secretaria and recreated on stage. It tells the story of Lola, a relative
of the Secretaria, who was involved in the Junta de Protección y Salvamento del Tesoro
Artístico, and who sets off with the activo, Damián, to recover an El Greco from a village in
no-man’s land, close to enemy lines, where it is being guarded by Plácido, an artist and the
spokesman for Buero in the play. The play explores the importance of art, as well as
commenting on revolution and history.
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No veo negativo todo progreso, sino muy positivo. Pero los hombres lo han
orientado tanto y tan desenfrenadamente por su instinto depredador, de
dominio y de lucro, que se han pasado de la raya. El resultado es una natu-
raleza gravísimamente deteriorada hoy, la amenaza de holocausto nuclear,
el horroroso despilfarro de gastos de armamento y tantas otras cosas.36
In the society depicted by Buero: ‘No hay ideales. La justicia es una farsa. La lib-
ertad, un engaño. La política se envuelve siempre con andrajos interiores. Los ide-
ales de la oposición se pudren al instalarse en el poder.’37 The lack of values and
the end of ideology are in fact a myth to disguise the existence of a new hegem-
ony. In the later plays, Buero blamed modern Spain’s ills on ‘los apetitos de lucro
y de poder’ and suggested that ‘una honda transformación socialista vuelve a
aparecer como la solución posible’.38 There seems to be a mood of pessimism in
these plays that was absent from the plays written under Franco; even the
intellectuals are defeated and forgotten. The socialist dream to be fulfilled in the
aftermath of the PSOE’s 1982 election victory was soon abandoned: ‘La acidez
de Gaspar al juzgar la nueva sociedad, la del socialismo y el cambio, desgarra al
espectador. Vivimos en la misma sociedad, la misma corrupción, las mismas
inmoralidades. Nada ha cambiado.’39 Unlike in Buero’s earlier plays, Spain’s
future does not belong to the intellectuals and their followers. Even the youth,
in whom Buero usually found hope, has chosen instant gratification and
consumerism over ideals. They are characters in the mould of Vicente from El
tragaluz, for whom the acquisition of wealth takes precedence over all else.
Javier’s dismissal of his sister’s death in Música cercana as ‘una espantosa casu-
alidad’, unrelated to his own activities, echoes the reaction of Vicente to the death
of his baby sister (O.C. I: 2021). Yet even Vicente recognized his culpability at
the end of that play.
Despite the ostensible prominence of the theme in La detonación, it was not
until Jueces en la noche that Buero spoke directly about the transition period. It
contains characters representative of the pillars of Francoist and post-Franco
society and examines the power relationships that existed during the transition,
as well as noting the lasting influence of the Francoist ideology on a supposedly
democratic Spain. Buero made the point that Jueces en la noche was ‘una obra
muy significativa dentro de mi teatro; además, creo que era la obra que exacta-
mente había que estrenar en aquel momento. El que no durara más de dos meses
en cartel se debió a otros fenómenos.’40 Buero criticized the many former
Francoists who simply changed their title in order to retain their positions of
privilege in society. Juan Luis is clearly a member of UCD or AP.41 Buero makes
his intentions clear:
The central argument of the play asserts that accountability and remembering are
necessary for a successful transition to democracy. Confronted with the dilemma
of accepting responsibility for past actions and perhaps losing power as a result,
or denying memory in order to ensure his survival, Juan Luis Palacios chooses
de Franco que se incorporaba a la nueva situación,’ but unfortunately did not reveal his name.
Ramón F. Reboiras, ‘Entrevista a Buero Vallejo: “Somos una especie lamentable, sin porvenir” ’,
Cambio 16, 16 January 1995, pp. 70–2 (p. 72).
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the latter. Thus, what is offered in the play is a vision of the transition based on
the pacto de olvido, where power does not so much change hands as change
appearance. The pacto de olvido continued to preoccupy Buero, as he showed in
his last play, Misión al pueblo desierto. He stressed the importance of the his-
tory through the character of la Secretaria del Círculo de Estudios in the face of
the argument of the Vocal Adjunto that the issues raised by her about the Civil
War ‘carecen ya para nosotros de vigencia’ (Misión, p. 9). What is portrayed by
characters in the post-Franco plays as progress and freedom was revealed by
Buero to be a continuation of the elitism of old. Underlying Buero’s argument is
the notion that to advance in modern Spanish society is to accept the pacto de
olvido and a new distortion of reality.
Buero moved from this to deal with the themes of myth and history in Música
cercana. Again, Buero engaged to some degree in his own form of mystification
of a lost innocence, something that Alfredo, because of his determination to
control history, can never achieve. The play also contains one of Buero’s more
interesting post-Franco rebel figures, significantly one whose cause transcends
the borders of a Spain that is considered beyond redemption.43 Although his
nationality and his politics are not specified in the play, Buero clarified these in
an interview with Patricia W. O’Connor in 1990, when he made clear that René
is Nicaraguan and a communist. Buero protested against the power relations and
structures of modern society and reiterated his long-held view that socialism is
the best option for society. He criticized capitalism as ‘una estructura errónea
desde el punto de vista humano, porque se basa en la explotación del hombre por
el hombre, en el afán de lucro y en el incentivo del bienestar personal a costa de
los demás’.44 He was very critical of the capitalist ideology of modern Spanish
society and argued that only the victims, such as Lorenza, and the outsiders, such
as Gaspar, Salustiano and René, are fit to be judges and witnesses. Others, such
as Alfredo and his son Javier, are more concerned with rewriting the past, and
exploiting the present, than learning from it and implementing change. It is not,
in other words, simply that modern Spain is a place without a defined ideology,
but rather that it has a nominally socialist and, thus a mystified, capitalist
ideology. Like all successful ideologies, it relies heavily on myth, ritual and
symbol. It presents itself as democratic and socialist and distorts the reality that
material inequality and injustice still prevail.
Also obscured by the myth of a fully democratized society is the reality of the
insidious influence of the business world on the body politic. The involvement of
43 O’Connor suggested that the Nicaraguan René is an equivocal figure, in that both his
cause and his love are questionable. Buero defended his creation, by claiming that his
dilemma rests on the powerful pull of both his duties to his country and his love of Sandra.
His moral rectitude is highlighted, and his moral dilemma exacerbated, by his unwillingness
to cheat even those who are manipulating him. Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos,
pp. 305–6.
44 Patricia W. O’Connor, ‘Una conversación con Antonio Buero Vallejo sobre Música
business interests in the political forum comes to the fore in Jueces en la noche
and continues to feature in the later post-Franco works. The inequity that
prevailed under Franco permeates socialist Spain and the large corporations can
employ a type of economic censorship to remove from their ranks anyone who
might threaten the status quo or challenge their methods. Amparo in Lázaro en el
laberinto is let go from the company she worked for despite the increase in com-
pany profits; there is a suggestion that her political affiliations are the reason. In
Jueces en la noche, Don Jorge, the owner of Indelecsa, a large multinational cor-
poration with investments in Spain, is seen to have a special, almost paternal rela-
tionship with Juan Luis. The latter consults Don Jorge about political matters,
such as the advisability of moving further to the left in a bid to retain political
power. Don Jorge also has links with the reactionary right, in the form of Ginés
Pardo, and there is a suggestion that the company may be involved in the terror-
ist activity being planned by him. It is clear from a conversation that Don Jorge
has with Juan Luis that a degree of instability in a country might prove beneficial
to the business interests of the company, particularly if it is something they can
control. Juan Luis is rewarded for his favourable treatment of Indelecsa while a
Minister, with a lucrative position as a consultant with the company. He explains
to his wife why he is courting the favour of Don Jorge: ‘Las decisiones de la
alta política no se pueden tomar ignorando los grandes poderes económicos.
Si vuelvo a ser ministro, mi vinculación a esa empresa lo va a facilitar mucho’
(O.C. I: 1642).
The glamorous world of business is examined from the perspective of its
beneficiaries in Música cercana and Las trampas del azar. Yet Buero also high-
lighted the negative repercussions of corrupt business practice on society. In Las
trampas del azar, he revisited the Francoist origins of some of the successful
businessmen of the post-Franco period, reiterating the point about a transform-
ation rather than an end of ideology. In Spain in the 1980s, Buero suggested,
what mattered was the wealth of an individual, not the manner in which the
wealth was acquired. In Música cercana Alfredo and his son Javier are involved
in a large multinational company called Mundifisa, described as ‘una sociedad
de inversiones y de financiación’ (O.C. I: 1977). Here, language is exposed as a
tool of mystification; it is used to disguise the reality, which is that Mundifisa is
linked to the laundering of drug money. Alfredo also cites the creation of jobs
and wealth as a justification of his activities, just as Felipe from Llegada de los
dioses and Juan Luis from Jueces en la noche did before him. The gap between
motivation and justification is exposed: it is personal wealth, rather than munif-
icence, that is the impetus for his actions. The multinationals depicted here and
in Jueces en la noche are part of a powerful global elite, respected for their
wealth and power, but who consider themselves above the law of the states in
which they have their subsidiaries. The inclusion of the Nicaraguan, René,
allowed Buero to highlight the damage inflicted on other countries and peoples
by such corporations. Yet the damage eventually affects Spain also and, despite
the protection bought by his wealth, Alfredo cannot safeguard his daughter from
those who are excluded from the latest Foundation.
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Buero extended his discourse on modern society in the play Caimán. The acci-
dental death of Carmela is linked to fraud and bankruptcy in a construction firm.
It is possible to trace an underlying argument against the business policies that
foster unemployment while increasing the profits of a select few. Dionisio was
made redundant in the sweeping cost-cutting measures of the period. What is
portrayed by some as the progress of modern society is revealed as a step towards
social calamity. Poverty, reminiscent of the destitution experienced in the after-
math of the Civil War, is a problem in 1980s society, and there is reference made
to both the increased number of beggars on the streets and the cynical techniques
employed by them to maximize their money-making potential. Néstor is the
modern socialist and trade unionist, equally critical of the corruption of the
wealthy and the cynical apathy of the poor. He is the only one of Buero’s post-
Franco intellectuals capable of inspiring action. He is a posibilista, with reason-
able expectations and hopes. One of the victims of society is revealed at the end
of the play to have been saved through the support and action of this homme
engagé. Caimán is perhaps the only truly hopeful play of Buero’s post-Franco
theatre; it is worth noting that it dates from 1981 – the year before the socialists
came to power.
Buero was also concerned to show that ideological powers effective under
Franco retained much of their influence in the new Spain. Significant among
these was the Roman Catholic Church. In Jueces en la noche, he seemed to sug-
gest that it had abdicated its responsibility to offer moral guidance in its haste to
distance itself from the past. In Juan Luis’s dream the Church and military,
represented by Padre Anselmo and the General, are closely linked, just as they
had been for much of the Franco era. While the priest can find justification
for the earlier killing of a rojo, the assassination of the General is problematical.
The thrust of Buero’s argument was that this link still existed in post-Franco
Spain, despite outward signs to the contrary. Both represent the interests of a
conservative, Catholic elite group that continued to wield substantial power in
society. When Juan Luis consults the priest for advice regarding the privileged
information he has received about the possible terrorist strike against a military
target, the priest fails to counsel him in accordance with the teachings of the
Church. Instead, he implies that Juan Luis must keep the family unit together at
all costs. The family is, of course, one of the ideological state apparatuses dear to
both the Church and the Franco regime. An exchange between Cristina and Padre
Anselmo is also highly critical of the Church, which proscribes divorce while
hypocritically providing annulments for those who can afford them. The institu-
tion of the family, like the institution of the Church, is valued more than the
people who constitute it or the spirit in which it is formed. The priest advises Juan
Luis to pray that the left do not become too powerful, underscoring Buero’s con-
tention that the Church was very much allied to a certain political ideology. The
crux of Buero’s argument is that the Church had failed in its role, both as moral
guide and charitable institution. In fact, he reasoned that it was people like Néstor
in Caimán, rather than priests, who were bringing hope and charity, coupled with
faith in terrestrial salvation, to the deprived. The Church does not appear in the
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later post-Franco plays. The society portrayed by Buero in the late post-Franco
plays is a secular one where consumerism is the new religion. God is dead.
The mantra of this new Spain is spoken by Javier in Música cercana: ‘Nadie es
insobornable’ (O.C. I: 1976).
Buero extended his discourse to undermine the notion of an ideology-free and
democratic Spain by examining the new forms of censorship and propaganda
that are employed to support the new ruling ideology. In Música cercana, he
showed how easily those with power can manipulate the media and condition the
response of the reader to a given story. When the Mundifisa scandal breaks,
Javier informs Alfredo that ‘nuestra cadena de periódicos ya tiene instrucciones,
y nuestros abogados están trabajando’ (O.C. I: 1986). Alfredo has also suggested
the creation of a cultural foundation with the dual purpose of giving René a job,
thus retaining control over him and his daughter and distracting from the
Mundifisa scandal, ‘para lavar mi imagen de discutibles actividades anteriores’
(O.C. I: 1993). The proliferation of such foundations also has the effect of
turning culture into a commodity, while discouraging questions about the moti-
vation for its existence and obscuring the fact that it represents an ideological
employment of culture.
Buero explored another type of ideological cultural control in Diálogo
secreto and questioned the actions of critics who would be censors. The
dramatist returned to art in his exploration of the role of the critic in society
and the importance of interpretation of art. Fabio, the protagonist, is a suc-
cessful art critic and historian who suffers from dyschromatopsia and whose
career and reputation are constructed upon a lie. The play proved popular
among theatre-goers but not with the critics, which was hardly surprising
given the negative portrayal of a critic in the play. It is suggested that Fabio’s
unfounded and vitriolic criticism of Samuel Cosme’s art may have been
enough to cause the young artist to commit suicide. Buero hinted that his criti-
cism was motivated by jealousy, not only of Cosme’s artistic talent, but also
of his daughter’s affection for the artist. Language is exploited by Fabio, who
is protected by his professionalism and reputation and who wields language
like a weapon. As with many who defend self-serving values, he uses his skills
to make nonsense of alternative expositions. His position as a powerful and
expert critic makes his interpretation very difficult to challenge. Gaspar
accuses Fabio of being power-hungry and says that his weakness is ‘el de sen-
tirse poderoso y temido’ (O.C. I: 1857). He also claims that Fabio’s criticism
of Samuel Cosme was unjust: ‘Escribiste lo que sentías, no lo que pensabas’
(O.C. I: 1857).
Although some of the critics seem not to have thought so, Buero claimed
that he was not damning all critics, but merely those who judge unfairly and
abuse their positions of power and who use language to obscure rather than to
clarify. Buero thus returned to a theme dealt with in Las Meninas, where the
critics and censors are considered to play a significant role in the upholding
and defence of the ruling ideology. In that play Buero, through the character
of Velázquez, suggested that the lasciviousness that the censors claim to see
Mono213_Ch08.qxd 3/8/05 9:23 AM Page 245
in his Venus was in fact, in the eye of the beholder. The point Buero made in
1984 was similar. Now, in democratic society, the critic is the censor. As far
back as 1956 Buero wrote: ‘La crítica es necesaria para poner las cosas en su
punto. Estimula, además, y contribuye, incluso cuando se equivoca, a la dis-
cusión de las obras. Y sólo de la discusión sale, a la larga, la luz para todos.
Por eso soy partidario de la crítica’ (O.C. II: 590–1). Yet he went on to com-
plain of ‘el seudotipo de crítico . . . que analiza demasiado, pero que admira
poco’ and of those who fail to be either impartial or rational in their judgements
(O.C. II: 591). The critic may influence the fate of an artist or writer, and Buero
was reminding him of his obligation to the truth, and of the humility required
for such a job that rests to some extent upon interpretation of the work in ques-
tion. The critic, like the artist, is part of the cultural apparatus of any society
and not apart from it.
Some critics of Diálogo secreto objected to the inclusion of a colour-blind
critic, which was considered dubious: ‘En principio, Buero Vallejo plantea en
Diálogo secreto el viejo problema entre la crítica y la creación. Lo plantea mal.
Acude a un caso inverosímil.’45 O’Connor notes that: ‘Se ha acusado a Buero de
atacar en esta obra a la crítica teatral en general y a un determinado crítico.’46
Nevertheless, it is in keeping with the motif of blindness in Buero’s plays, which
symbolizes an inability or unwillingness to see the truth, and is thus relevant in
this case as it demonstrates not only the level of Fabio’s deceitfulness but also
the extreme folly of his actions. Just as he exposed the bias of the censors of the
previous regime, who ostensibly worked for the common good, Buero now
revealed the prejudices of some critics. In an interview with David Johnston,
Buero said of critics in Spain:
This favouritism shown to the foreign over the domestic is probably in part a
reaction to the nationalistic and xenophobic fervour of the previous regime and
the notion that ‘España es diferente’. By criticizing this, Buero was of course
defending his own position as a writer under Franco and suggesting that some of
the criticism he received was unjust. It is worth noting that this alleged prefer-
ence for the foreign, and undervaluation of the indigenous cultural output, may
also have influenced the reception of such works abroad.
footnote explains, is Eduardo Haro Tecglen, theatre critic of El País. Buero denied this.
47 David Johnston, ‘Entrevista a Antonio Buero Vallejo’, Ínsula, no. 516 (1989), 25–6 (p. 26).
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In the post-Franco plays, Buero refused to alter radically his philosophy and
style, instead continuing to employ symbolism and allegory to write plays crit-
ical of the new elite and the latest ruling ideology. Furthermore, Buero took the
opportunity in the post-Franco plays to reflect on language and silence and, in
particular, his own:
He argued that silence and allegory serve an aesthetic purpose, even in a political
work; similarly, language and silence, carefully chosen, fulfil a political role in
a dramatic work. Buero distinguished between opportunistic language and
silence and fearful or provocative language and silence, and defended his own
choice.
Buero characterized himself in part by his contribution to literature of
opposition. Hence it is not surprising that after the death of Franco some con-
sidered his time to be over. Buero did not agree: ‘No es cierto que me «iba mejor
con la censura». Si grandes éxitos obtuve entonces, también sufrí mis mayores
fracasos. Entonces: no ahora’ (O.C. II: 503). It follows that the ambiguity that
was part of his relationship with the Francoist ideology may also have enabled
him to survive it. He was never completely identified with either the regime’s
favoured writers or its most radical opponents. Adolfo Marsillach defended
Buero against claims that he outlived his purpose as a committed dramatist:
48 Quoted by John Hooper, The New Spaniards (London: Penguin, 1995), p. 343. Manuel
Vázquez Montalbán twisted the refrain of those nostalgic for the Franco era to explain the lack
of a cultural and political renaissance in the post-Franco era.
49 Javier Alfaya, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: en la ardiente lucidez’, La calle, 25 September–
Buero disagreed with the idea put forward by some critics, that he was better
writing against Franco than writing in freedom. He denied that his work became
ineffectual in the post-Franco years, while conceding that he had developed a
certain style that he had no intention of changing.51 García Lorenzo praised
Buero’s consistency, where others saw stagnation: ‘Pero pienso que el teatro de
Buero sigue diciendo hoy exactamente lo mismo que decía hace veinte, treinta
años.’52 Despite such support, there were those who have suggested that Buero’s
style of drama, and his repetition of the same old themes, were no longer
relevant. Of course the problem was not merely that Buero’s traditional style and
repetitive themes seemed outdated, but also that theatre of commitment itself was
no longer judged to be necessary. Even Cabal, who considers Buero’s contribu-
tion during the Franco years and the transition to have been valuable, believes
that the older dramatist was somehow out of step with the new Spain: ‘Buero ha
hecho un esfuerzo intelectual honrado en esto para reflejar esa transición.’Yet he
qualifies his praise of Buero by stating that, being:
Un hombre académico, muy desligado del pulso social del país, da una visión
que yo creo que no coincide en su análisis con la nueva generación. Creo que
los escritores y el público, que es lo más importante, el público de la nueva
generación . . . no partimos de los mismos análisis que Antonio Buero. Es
lógico.
He went on to claim that the theatre of Buero, Sastre and others, presumably of
the Realist Generation, was ‘pasado ya’.53
Nonetheless, the significance of Jueces en la noche in twentieth-century
Spanish drama should not be overlooked. In 1979, while others dealt with the
past, Buero was dealing with the transition and the future. Afterwards, however,
50 Marsillach, ‘Cinco años’, pp. 228, 229. One of those to criticize Buero and in particular
his play Jueces en la noche was Eloy Herrera, famous for his theatre of right-wing agitation
propaganda: ‘Autores que escribieron al dictado de unas conveniencias coyunturales y que al
quedar en libertad de imaginación demostraron sus limitadas actitudes creativas. Ahora
mismo tenemos el caso de Buero Vallejo con su último folletín-panfleto Jueces en la noche.’
Zatlin Boring, ‘Encuesta sobre el teatro madrileño’, p. 15.
51 Amell, ‘Conversación’, p. 133.
52 García Lorenzo, ‘Buero Vallejo’, p. 6.
53 Sheehan, ‘Tres generaciones’, p. 32.
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his work, while focusing on modern Spain, had a despairing tone that revealed
the dramatist to be more retrospective than before. Dixon too, noted that ‘últi-
mamente ha parecido estar menos esperanzado que antes’.54 The message of
hope for Spain that earlier balanced his emphasis on history, is absent in all but
the words of defeated old men. Learning from the past and avoiding historical
errors seems less likely when history has been deliberately and selectively
obscured and the collective memory is, like Lázaro’s, a damaged one. Buero
himself seemed to realize that the position of the artist or intellectual with whom
he identified in Spanish society, rather than coming centre stage in an era of
freedom, had become more alienated. In the later post-Franco plays, Buero’s
politicized message is no longer spoken by the protagonists but by the old, the
disappointed and the alienated. Even in Misión al pueblo desierto, it is Plácido
who functions as Buero’s spokesperson, although the young Secretaria of the
Círculo de Estudios is critical of the pacto de olvido. Hence, without giving up
hope entirely, Buero did seem to recognize that his language no longer spoke to
those he wished to influence and the response from the audience was not protest
or commitment, but a deliberate silence.
54 Victor Dixon, ‘H. G. Wells en la vida y en la obra de Antonio Buero Vallejo’, in Antonio
Conclusion
Buero, like others before him, took the view that: ‘Vivimos tiempos muy difí-
ciles, en los cuales no puede uno hablar ni callar sin peligro’ (O.C. II: 1291).
A prudent man, he chose to address the issue of language and silence with posi-
bilismo, insisting that this form of protest was a valid one, the alternatives being
silence, collusion or exile. Language and silence were the main constituents of
the writer’s relationship with the ideological tool of censorship, yet Buero
insisted: ‘Considerar la censura como fenómeno absolutamente castrador es
una inexactitud. De haberlo sido, es obvio que nadie habría podido hacer nada’
(O.C. II: 507). This notwithstanding, his success during the years of the Franco
regime has been the subject of some controversy. As one of the Civil War
vanquished, his achievement was indeed remarkable and unusual, and through-
out his long career as a dramatist Buero often felt the need to defend himself
against accusations of compromise or collusion. In contrast to some of his
contemporaries, Buero believed that while preferable, absolute personal and
political freedom were not necessary conditions for the purpose of artistic
creation: ‘La historia nos muestra que no son necesarias. Probablemente nos
muestra también que con carácter «absoluto» nunca son posibles’ (O.C. II: 708–9).
Unlike some of his contemporaries, he chose to acknowledge that the influence
of art on society was a limited one:
El efecto o el influjo que el arte en general ejercía era mucho más pequeño
de lo que podía pretenderse. Esto sí es una realidad y puede haber producido
una decepción. [. . .] Esta realidad y esta decepción no provienen de ningún
error ideológico de fondo, sino de una ilusión que pudiéramos llamar juve-
nil o ingenua en el sentido de que consideraba demasiado potentes unos
medios que nunca lo han sido para el que sepa mirar con objetividad la
Historia.1
1 Galán and Lara, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: ¿un tigre domesticado?’, p. 32.
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propaganda, was simply meek. G. G. Brown wrote: ‘One cannot help thinking
that if the typical theatre-going public applauds it, then it cannot be of any
great social significance.’2
There is little doubt that Buero’s considered attitude towards the ideology of
Francoism allowed him to enjoy a career in the commercial theatre matched by
no other committed dramatist, and it enabled him to voice some criticism of the
regime, albeit veiled. Buero himself suggested that his success had more to do
with his attitude, an element of good luck and ideological motivations of the
regime, than any collusion or connections he might have had:
La hipótesis más fácil es la de pensar que este señor se ha vendido. Pero ocurre
que, a veces, en España, por fortuna para ella, hay ‘reinos de Taifas’, y que
aunque una dictadura muy fuerte trate de ahormar al país entero, pues de
pronto, un Jurado campa por sus respetos, una crítica campa por los
suyos . . . Una conjunción de cosas, en este sentido favorables, han determi-
nado la posibilidad de mi aparición y mi continuidad bajo Franco.3
2 Gerald G. Brown, A Literary History of Spain: The Twentieth Century, 2nd edn (London:
CONCLUSION 251
in his later works the dramatist asserted the importance of history, responsibility
and memory.5
Buero consistently defended his posibilismo and insisted that it was both a
valid and a strident form of commitment:
Eso que se llamó ‘mi posibilismo’ fue el posibilismo de todos, tanto de los que
lo comprendían como de los que no, independientemente de la suerte que hayan
tenido. En cuanto al mío, que por haber tenido algunas veces suerte ha sido
tildado, en ocasiones, de excesivo, quisiera hacer notar que fue una actitud difí-
cil expresada mediante obras que pasaron grandes obstáculos antes de poderse
estrenar, y que, cuando se estrenaron, causaron fuerte impacto social. Se trataba,
por consiguiente, de un posibilismo exigente, tan al borde de la imposibilidad
que, a veces, el toro me pillaba por meses o por años. Todavía no está lejos El
doctor Valmy . . . que estuvo catorce años fuera de la circulación.6
Por supuesto que creo que en mi teatro hay grandes dosis de política, pero de
una política entendida como un fenómeno dramático, no como exposición de
ideologías concretas, ya que en este sentido creo que no sería indicado el
vehículo.7
He clearly chose not to align himself to any specific oppositional ideology, even
going so far as to criticize it in some of his works. However, the political nature
of some of his theatre had consequences for his art. Writers like Buero Vallejo,
who chose to remain in Spain rather than to flee, did so at some cost. He always
defended his actions, yet it is undeniable that the decision to remain in Spain and
to write for commercial audiences did involve a certain compromise. Buero had
to deal with the regime, accept cuts and modifications to his work and consider
carefully both his language and his silences. To an extent he recognized and
admitted to the compromise in which he was engaged, yet he refused to concede
that he may have compromised too much or too often. While Buero argued that
aesthetic devices could be used to evade censorship and simultaneously to
improve the work, the question of whether or not such devices would have been
employed if censorship did not exist is a pertinent one. Buero was consistent in
his denial of his use of certain aesthetic devices for strictly political purposes,
but as the plays were written in those circumstances and not in a censorship-free
environment, this can only be speculation or wishful thinking.
5 Milan Kundera, quoted in Kaye, ‘Why Do Ruling Classes Fear History?’, p. 90.
6 Martín Iniesta, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo: “Mi posibilismo” ’, p. 20.
7 Pérez de Olaguer, ‘Antonio Buero Vallejo, nuevo Académico’, p. 6.
Mono213_Conclusion.qxd 3/8/05 9:24 AM Page 252
8 José Monleón, ‘En la frontera del teatro’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Monograph no. 3,
AGA/IDD 49.021 Topogr. 73-46 Ca. 69.037 Carpeta no. 57: Teatro 1976.
10 O’Connor, Antonio Buero Vallejo en sus espejos, p. 32.
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CONCLUSION 253
admits that ‘cuando las obras se representaban por fin, se representaban siempre
para un público burgués. Porque dentro de la estructura del teatro español el pro-
letariado no iba al teatro.’11 The commercial theatre audiences were overwhelm-
ingly middle-class and therefore unlikely to risk their privileged positions and
favoured status by committing themselves to reform in the manner advocated by
the dramatist. Like his fictionalized Velázquez, perhaps he was looking for his
public in the wrong place. As José Monleón wrote: ‘Nuestros autores rebelados
acaban – y repito que ello puede responder al legítimo deseo de estrenar –
gritando dentro de la Iglesia Teatral Española.’12
Asked by Medardo Fraile whether he had an abstract or a concrete idea of the
public as he wrote, Buero responded: ‘Una idea abstracta, pero es probable que
esa idea se impregne de la consideración del público real con quien vamos a
enfrentarnos; para combatirlo, claro.’13 Brustein wrote of the modern dramatist:
‘No longer the spokesman for the audience, or its paid entertainer, the drama-
tist becomes its adversary.’14 This effort must seem wasted, however, when the
audience is unmoved by this hostility, and merely concerned with being enter-
tained, as often appeared to be the case. As Bentley correctly pointed out, ‘an
enemy does not make a good audience’.15 Unlike Sartre, who believed that com-
mitted theatre should be aimed at the apathetic left, Bentley was of the opinion
that committed drama should be directed at those who are uncommitted. Buero,
it would seem, inclined towards Bentley’s view, and in his plays, most obviously
in La doble historia del doctor Valmy, he attacks the apathy of the bourgeois
audience. Nonetheless, he also denounced the apathy of the proletariat, who was
not usually present in the commercial theatre to be inspired by his enacted les-
son. So, while it is true that Buero was by no means a spokesman or apologist
for the largely bourgeois audience and even criticized their complacency and
collusion, neither was he a true dramatist of revolt as defined by Brustein.
Buero, perhaps because of his direct experience of revolutionary conflict and
the opposing views held within his own family, chose a more conciliatory line
and his heroes are constantly limited in their endeavours by what is or is not
possible. Yet, on another occasion, in response to the question, ‘¿Qué es el teatro
para Antonio Buero Vallejo?’, the dramatist replied: ‘Íntimamente, un intento
de arte, de pensamiento, de desahogo y de autorrealización. Mirando hacia
fuera, la tentativa de crear un público y de conectar con él.’16 Perhaps, then,
Buero’s objective in writing posibilista theatre for the commercial theatre was
to appeal to people on moral, ethical and historical, rather than ideological,
grounds.
Szanto, unlike many of the dramatists who employed this form of dialectical
theatre, recognized its essential failing:
This was Buero’s problem. In addition, the situation was worse in Spain, as the
state was not only bourgeois but also autocratic. The fundamental paradox was
this: the typical theatre-goer went to see a play in search of entertainment and
escapism, while the dramatist was seeking to educate his mind and prick his
political conscience. As Jardiel Poncela jokingly acknowledged: ‘El que hace un
teatro educativo no tarda en encontrarse sin público al que poder educar.’18
Nor was the Spanish theatre of protest particularly successful outside Spain,
unlike that of Germany and France, for example. Most of the committed drama-
tists were contented to remain in Spain and to direct their political message at an
inattentive audience. Their European contemporaries took their message beyond
the borders of their countries and engaged in a global discourse on ideology,
while the Spaniards remained largely inward-looking, focusing on ideological
problems within the context of Spain. Despite the universality of his commen-
taries on man and his place in society and in history, Buero’s success in a wider,
European or global context was not great. Perhaps because of his experiences
prior to taking up his pen, Buero does not appear to have been prepared to suf-
fer for his art the way some other Spanish and European writers did, but instead
he demonstrated a willingness to compromise by his adoption of posibilismo.
Clearly, Buero’s theatre does not set out to alter society radically. It is a testi-
monial theatre, at times seriously limited by the dramatist’s efforts to engage
with the ruling hegemony. His intention was to criticize and to demystify the
dominant ideology, not to overthrow it. Defending his position in his discourse
with the ideology of Francoism, a relationship defined by language and silence,
Buero stated:
Me inclino a pensar que al teatro español hay que valorarlo más por sus pal-
abras que por sus silencios, aunque con esto contradiga a los silenciados. Las
cosas se valoran por su propia existencia y cuando no existen no hay manera
de valorarlas. [. . .] A mí me gusta citar el expresivo ejemplo de los grandes
escritores rusos de la época de los zares, que trabajaron bajo una censura
fortísima, muy similar a la que nosotros hemos tenido. Por tanto, habrá que
tener en cuenta los silencios, sólo hasta cierto punto y quizá en poca medida.19
CONCLUSION 255
Only that which exists can be judged later and although the restrictions on the
Spanish writer working during the Franco regime may have been severe, he still
possessed a voice, which according to Buero, he was obliged to use to the best
of his ability. He had little time for those who claimed that they did not write
because they could not say what they wanted to say: ‘Mala, buena o regular, la
valoración que nosotros demos a esta etapa del teatro español, será por lo que se
ha hecho y no por lo que no se ha hecho.’20
Yet, for all that posibilismo allowed him to express, it was a choice that limited
the dramatist. The cleverness of the ploy must be recognized, but so too must its
ambiguity, and it can be interpreted either as shrewd pragmatism or cynical
opportunism. Perhaps the most controversial compromise was Buero’s accept-
ance of a seat in the Real Academia, which some interpreted as a victory for posi-
bilismo, while others saw it as the final surrender of the dramatist. In his dramatic
work, Buero’s posibilista style was presented as a choice of language over
silence and a choice that ensured that the voice of opposition, albeit muted,
would be heard. Others considered that the message was corrupted or negated by
the essential compromise involved. Perhaps the most disturbing factor in Buero’s
posibilismo, however, was the dramatist’s refusal to acknowledge the serious
contradictions and limitations involved. In his theatre Buero excused similarly
compromised intellectuals and artists, most obviously in Las Meninas, while
denouncing the errors of others. That Buero Vallejo found in posibilismo a solu-
tion to his own moral dilemma about writing in a repressive society is difficult
to deny, although at times the impression is given that perhaps he protested
too much.
Buero drew deliberate and at times dubious parallels between himself and
Larra in an attempt to vindicate his posibilismo. Paul Ilie’s remarks about Larra
might equally be applied to Buero: ‘The “progressive” liberal – some might say
revolutionary – in Larra was impotent precisely because the bourgeois in him
insisted on maintaining good relations with a society that he fundamentally
repudiated.’21 Because of his family background, Buero, like Larra, was a mem-
ber of the social class most resistant to change. It was perhaps Buero’s greatest
limitation that he was so close to the bourgeois ideology, despite his proclaimed
socialism. Again and again in his works, his bourgeois, traditional intellectuals
advocate limited reform, rather than outright social revolution. This is perhaps
unsurprising, given his background, but its implications for the choices he made
are undeniable. Despite Buero’s sincerity, the question of whether or not his was
the most appropriate solution for dealing with the censors and the Francoist
hegemony remains. Perhaps the greatest failing of Buero’s posibilismo was that
it meant that his theatre was misdirected. It is difficult to stir a public that is
determined to be entertained. Quite simply, in his choice of posibilismo, Buero
at times played it too safe, tailoring his voice to suit an audience that, for the
most part, consisted of supporters of the dominant ideology.
Nonetheless, it has to be acknowledged that Buero did manage to engage in
demystification and criticism from within Spain. Some have claimed that Buero
Vallejo’s protest was a lame one and that his dissenting voice was rarely distin-
guished. Nevertheless, his protest was sufficient to draw upon the author the
unwelcome attention of the censors and also, on occasion, that of the aggressive
authors of death threats. One of the more interesting acknowledgements of
Buero’s commitment came from a critic who disapproved of Buero’s appropria-
tion of Larra. Fernández Torres, despite his reservations about some of Buero’s
choices, commended him for his determined opposition to the cultural con-
straints of the regime:
Buero did voice some criticism, although it can be argued that he could have
done more. His ethical dramas and his exploration of the moral dilemmas of indi-
viduals showed up the dilemmas faced by many in Spanish society, as well as
the warped moral stance of a nominally Catholic state. Yet perhaps his most
important contribution to Spanish literature is his emphasis on the demystifica-
tion of history and, in post-Franco Spanish society, his lonely voice calling for
accountability and remembering. Berenguer commented: ‘El autor persiste en su
voluntad de dialogar críticamente con la nueva situación, afrontando la prob-
lemática de la relación del individuo con su propia conciencia y con la
sociedad.’23 Buero died just as a new generation of Spaniards began to confront
the past and challenge the pacto de olvido, echoing the hope expressed in his last
play, Misión al pueblo desierto, that those who believe that, ‘ciertos aspectos de
nuestra Guerra, aunque ahora esté de moda decir lo contrario, distan de haber
perdido actualidad’, will have the last word (Misión, p. 9).
It is worth noting that Larra’s testament to his times is valued today, despite
its flaws. ‘Survivability, as Brecht saw, is in any case a profoundly suspect cri-
terion of literary value: the history of the life, death and resurrection of literary
texts is part of the history of ideologies.’24 This book argues that Buero’s the-
atrical legacy, while equally flawed, is similarly valuable as a testament to the
repressive times of a committed writer and as a testament to the battle between
language and silence. A vindication of the word perhaps, but with the shadow
CONCLUSION 257
of silence ever present as a reminder of what was not said. The reader must
decide how far to accept Buero’s own reply to one of his detractors:
LARRA Que este joven calle y me desprecie. Cuando crea que puede hablar,
ya no tendrá voz. Y su pluma no se prostituye . . . porque ya no tiene
pluma (O.C. I: 1536).
Mono213_Conclusion.qxd 3/8/05 9:24 AM Page 258
Mono213_List of plays.qxd 3/8/05 9:28 AM Page 259
List of Plays
Adaptations
1. El Puente 1952 Never performed
2. Hamlet 1960 15 December 1961, Teatro
Español, Madrid
3. Madre Coraje y sus 1962 6 October 1966, Teatro Bellas
hijos Artes, Madrid
4. El pato silvestre 1981 26 January 1982, Teatro María
Guerrero, Madrid
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 261
List of Appendices
262 APPENDIX
Appendix VIII Guía de censura for the play El sueño de la razón, 9 December
1969.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de
la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254 Exp.
259-69.
Appendix IX Authorization of the play La Fundación, 28 June 1973.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de
la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-56 Ca. 85.495
Exp. 145-73.
Appendix X Correspondence between Antonio Buero Vallejo and Carlos
Robles Picquer, Director General de Cultura Popular y el
Espectáculo, about the staging of Historia de una escalera,
March 1968.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de
la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.418
Exp. 433-49.
Appendix XI Letter from the director, José Tamayo, to José María García
Escudero, Director General de Teatro, about Madre Coraje y
sus hijos, 3 October 1966.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de
la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.724
Exp. 227-62.
Appendix XII Moral Report on the play Madre Coraje y sus hijos by the
censor, Padre Avelino Esteban y Romero, 21 August 1962.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General
de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.724
Exp. 227-62.
Appendix XIII Report on the play El sueño de la razón, 9 December 1969.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General
de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-55 Ca. 85.254
Exp. 259-69.
Appendix XIV Report on the play La doble historia del doctor Valmy sent by
the Subdirector General de Actividades Teatrales to the Director
General de Cinematografía y Teatro, 4 December 1975.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General
de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779
Exp. 147-64.
Appendix XV Authorization of the play La doble historia del doctor Valmy,
12 December 1975.
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General
de la Administración. IDD 52.22 Topogr. 83-51 Ca. 71.779
Exp. 147-64.
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 263
APPENDIX 263
Appendix I
Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte,
Archivo General de la Administración
1
Basque version of En la ardiente oscuridad.
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 266
266 APPENDIX I
Adaptations
El puente (Gorostiza) 78.576 323-52 83/51 52.22
El pato silvestre (Ibsen) 88.307 779-81 83/57 52.22
Madre Coraje y sus hijos 87.589 217-62 83/57 52.22 [T]
(Brecht) 71.724 227-62 83-51 52.22
Hamlet (Shakespeare) 78.858 246-61 83/51 52.22
APPENDIX I 267
268 APPENDIX I
APPENDIX I 269
Adaptations
Hamlet Aga 14.164 5148-62 21/9-15 50.05
Aga 14.884 6842-63 21/9-15 50.05
Madre Coraje y sus Aga 18.346 6641-67 21/15-25 50.06
hijos
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 270
270 APPENDIX I
[T] texto
[F] falta
[PR] por restaurar
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 271
Appendix II
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 272
Appendix III
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 273
Appendix IV
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 276
Appendix V
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 277
Appendix VI
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 278
Appendix VII
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 279
Appendix VIII
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 281
Appendix IX
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 283
APPENDIX IX 283
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 284
Appendix X
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 285
APPENDIX X 285
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 286
286 APPENDIX X
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 287
Appendix XI
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 288
Appendix XII
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 289
Appendix XIII
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 291
Appendix XIV
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 292
Appendix XV
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 295
APPENDIX XV 295
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 9:59 AM Page 296
Appendix XVI
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 10:00 AM Page 297
Appendix XVII
Mono213_ Appendices.qxd 3/8/05 10:00 AM Page 298
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BIBLIOGRAPHY 317
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Mono213_Index.qxd 3/8/05 5:52 PM Page 318
Index
For ease of consultation, an index of Antonio Buero Vallejo’s plays has been listed separately
from the rest of the index. The titles of plays by other authors are listed under authors’ names,
except in the cases of some plays of the Second Republic and the Civil War where the author
has not been identified in the text.
En la ardiente oscuridad, 8, 66, 73, 92, 104, 173, 176, 177, 180, 182, 185, 186,
121, 122, 133, 134, 135, 139, 145, 163, 187, 188–9, 192, 193, 195, 199, 222,
165–6, 168, 172, 176, 177, 178 n.18, 252
185, 187–8, 194, 196, 198, 199, 238 n.33 La doble historia del doctor Valmy, 8, 61,
Historia de una escalera, 54–5, 65, 70–1, 62, 66, 76, 81–4, 88, 90, 100, 104, 109,
73, 76, 113, 114, 127, 132, 154, 156, 113, 121, 122, 123, 124, 134, 138, 139
162, 173, 175 n.63, 166 n.78, 168, 172, 176, 177,
Las palabras en la arena, 8, 62, 73, 74, 92, 183–4, 188, 194, 198, 199, 203–5, 224,
133, 142, 162, 170, 178, 179, 195, 196 251, 253
La tejedora de sueños, 62, 92, 142, 156, El tragaluz, 66, 75, 84, 103, 104, 120, 122,
158–62, 180, 188 n.35, 197, 222 134, 143–4, 146, 154, 156–7, 163, 164,
La señal que se espera, 1 172, 176 n.15, 185, 191, 194, 198, 199,
Casi un cuento de hadas, 133, 168, 238 n.33 223, 235, 240
Madrugada, 1, 133 Mito, 1 n.2, 87, 163, 168, 179, 198
El terror inmóvil, 1, 157 El sueño de la razón, 8, 62, 76–7, 87–9,
Aventura en lo gris, 77–8, 104, 134, 153, 114, 121, 122, 123, 133, 136, 142, 145,
156, 162, 184, 188 n.35, 198–9 146, 152–3, 156, 163, 167, 169, 170,
Irene, o el tesoro, 1, 133, 157, 185 176, 178, 179, 195, 197, 198, 199, 222,
Hoy es fiesta, 1, 92, 132, 157, 163, 169, 230, 252 see also Goya
175, 185 Llegada de los dioses, 76, 89, 116,
Una extraña armonía, 1, 76 122, 124, 136, 139, 157, 162, 165, 167,
Las cartas boca abajo, 62, 66, 92, 157, 183, 184, 185, 188, 194 n.52, 199, 223,
199 242
Un soñador para un pueblo, 8, 20 n.34, La Fundación, 8, 77, 90–1, 119 n.18, 122,
71–2, 79, 81, 104, 120, 132, 134, 142, 123, 135, 136, 137, 146, 155 n.43, 157,
145–6, 147, 163, 168, 169, 175, 179, 163, 164, 166 n.78, 168, 170–1, 172,
181, 182–3, 190, 192, 227, 252 175, 176, 177, 179, 182, 184, 185, 186,
Las Meninas, 8, 62, 68, 70, 74, 79–80, 81, 187–8, 190, 199, 222
104, 114, 120, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, La detonación, 14, 23, 36, 66, 131, 132,
137, 142, 146, 148–9, 152, 161, 165, 142, 148 n.26, 151, 165, 175, 178, 181,
166–7, 168, 169, 175, 179, 181, 189–90, 188, 190, 191, 218, 222, 223, 225–33,
192, 195, 196, 197, 198, 222, 230, 244, 235, 238, 240, 252, 257
255 see also Velázquez Jueces en la noche, 139 n.63, 174, 197, 219,
El concierto de San Ovidio, 92, 104, 120, 222, 223 n.5, 224, 225, 228, 233, 235,
121 n.20, 122, 124, 133, 134, 135, 136, 238, 240, 242, 243, 246, 247
139, 142, 143, 145, 150, 162, 163, 172, Caimán, 120, 163, 234, 243
Mono213_Index.qxd 3/8/05 5:52 PM Page 319
INDEX 319
Diálogo secreto, 62, 136, 162, 163, 222, Misión al pueblo desierto, 120, 175,
225, 233, 235, 236, 244 182 n.24, 220, 238, 241, 248, 256
Lázaro en el laberinto, 139, 224, 225, 234, Adaptations:
242 El Puente, 70, 75
Música cercana, 139, 154, 162, 174, 216, Hamlet, 73, 76, 81, 154
222, 233, 236, 240, 241, 242, 244 Mother Courage and her Children (Madre
Las trampas del azar, 154, 162, 174, 185, Coraje y sus hijos), 72, 73, 80–1, 92,
219, 222–3, 234, 235, 238, 242 115, 154, 170
320 INDEX
Benedetti, Mario, 177 n.16, 185 n.31 and style, 116–24, 138
Beneyto, Antonio 3 n.5, 21 n.37, 32, 104 n.76 and theatre reform, 55, 129
Beneyto Pérez, Juan, 30 n.65, 110 and transition, 200, 203–5, 208, 212–6,
Benítez Claros, Rafael, 182 n.27 218, 219, 220
Bentley, Eric, 44, 63, 253 Buho, El, 46
Berenguer, Ángel, 57 n.18, 218, 256 Burke, Redmond A., 14 n.22
Bergamín, José, 49, 103
Bilbatúa, Miguel, 45, 46, 59 n.27, 69, 105 Cabal, Fermín, 212, 213, 220, 247
Bleiberg, Germán, 49 Cabanillas, Pío, 37
Blindness, 84, 90, 121–4, 148, 150, 151–2, Café Teatro Stefanía, 201
159 n.53, 163, 166, 167, 187–8, 189, Cain and Abel, 119, 132, 155, 162, 164
190, 198, 199, 222, 223 n.3, 244, 245 Calvo Sotelo, Joaquín, 51–2 n.3, 53, 54, 106
see also Madness La muralla, 53, 107
Brecht, Bertolt, 59, 64 n.37, 72, 80–1, 99, Campmany, Jaime, 64 n.35
101, 115, 119, 120, 121 n.20, 256 Camus, Albert, 56, 59–60, 101, 119, 134,
Antigone, 101 135, 144, 152, 180, 182, 186, 187, 250
Mother Courage and her Children, 72, Les Justes, 144, 187
73, 80–1, 92, 115, 154, 170 Candel, Francisco, 20
The Caucasian Chalk Circle, 98, 101 Cano, José Luis, 110
Yo, Bertolt Brecht, 99 Caracol, El, 45
Breuilly, John, 21, 22, 24 Carlos III, 72, 79, 146 n.22, 147, 148, 182–3
Brown, Gerald G., 250, Carr, Raymond, 200
Brustein, Robert, 119, 253 Carrero Blanco, Admiral Luis, 37
Buero Vallejo, Antonio, Casa, Frank P., 217
adaptations, 59–60, 70, 73, 75, 76, 80–1 Casas del pueblo, 46, 48
appearance of, 54–6 Casona, Alejandro, 46, 54
and commitment 2, 44, 55, 56–67, 69, Castellet, José María, 15 n.24, 157
117, 119, 120, 125, 131–9, 172–6, Catharsis, 120, 121, 173
233, 246, 249–57 Caudillo, See Franco
and compromise 1, 2, 56, 58–9, 63–4, Cazorla, Hazel, 159 n.52, 161
69–70, 72, 111, 112–39, 149, 190, Cebrián, José Luis, 207
233, 249–57 Celaya, Gabriel, 117
and critical reception of theatre, 55, 149, Censored plays and the transition, 217–9
220, 223–5, 231, 244–5, 246–8, 250, Censorship, 2, 8, 28, 29–41, 51, 52, 53 n.8,
252–3, 254, 257 57, 61, 63, 68–111, 119, 136, 148,
death of, 1 149–50, 183, 197, 199, 207, 215, 218,
and demystification, 140–69 220, 221, 225, 227, 231, 244, 246–7,
and environmental censorship, 101–8, 111 249, 252, 256
and family, 55, 118, 151, 255 of anti-militarism, 47–50, 52, 70, 71, 72,
and ideology, 55, 60, 172–99 73, 77–93, 94, 97, 98, 101
and negotiation with censors, 70, 71–2, of art, 74, 79–80, 134, 148–50, 167 n.83,
73–4, 79, 85–6, 89 190, 195, 197–8
and official censorship 3, 35, 58, 61, 65, of film, 18, 33, 38, 39
68–111, 112, 113–6, 117, 124–39, of morals and bad taste, 36, 70, 71,
169–71, 203–5 72–7, 77, 81, 82, 91, 97, 98, 99–101,
and post-Franco theatre, 4, 36, 117, 142, 108, 115, 129, 133, 170
154, 156, 174, 182 n.24, 214, 216, of politics, 47–50, 52, 70, 71, 72, 73,
219, 221–48 77–93, 95, 97, 98, 99–101, 108, 114,
and prizes, 105–6, 130 129, 170–1, 198, 203–5
and protests and petitions, 102–03, 115 of press, 18, 34, 63
and Real Academia, 115–6, 130, 255 of theatre, 14, 18, 33, 35, 38–41, 55,
and religion and god, 74, 133–4, 163–4 68–111, 138, 169–71, 209–10
and Republican allegiance, 1, 3, 55, 113, arbitrary application of, 68, 78–9, 93, 95,
118 98, 102, 108, 125, 198
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and the Civil War, 9, 17, 48–50 Communism, 173–4, 241, 243
and the Second Republic, 17, 47–48 Communists, 22, 23, 24, 62, 152 n.35
and the transition to democracy, 200, Communist threat, 11, 16, 17
207–11, 213–16, 242 Anti-Communism, 21, 36, 54, 93, 95
effects of, 108–11 Communist literature, 45–50, 54, 95
environmental, 101–08, 190, 203, 204, See also Political Parties
215, 224, 232 ¡Comunista!, 48
evasion of, 67, 75, 77, 87, 114, 119, 127, Contemplativo see under Activos and
169–71, 226, 251 Contemplativos
Junta de Censura, 38, 39, 40, 72–3 Consejo Central del Teatro, 48
justification of, 30, 31, 34, 84 Cooper, Norman, 9
legislation 3, 11, 12, 13, 17, 18, 21, 25, Cramsie, Hilde, F., 44 n.102, 65
26, 30, 31, 32, 33, 37, 38–41, 42, 43, Critics, 223–4, 247 n.50
68, 75, 83, 84, 91, 100, 207–12 in the plays, 244–5
preventative, 13–14, 30, 31, 34, 214 See also critical reception of theatre under
procedures, 39, 40–41, 209–10 Buero Vallejo, Antonio
punitive, 14 Cross Newman, Jean, 162
sanctions, 31, 32, 34 Cuenca Toribio, José María, 9 n.8, 12 n.16
self-censorship 3, 93, 109–10, 127, 128,
138, 197, 213, 230, 232 De Beauvoir, Simone, 97
silencio administrativo, 39, 80, 90, 98, 200 De Diego, Fernando, 161
Special Reports: Moral, 73, 74, 80–1, De la Cierva, Ricardo, 107
95, 98, 170 De la Fuente, Pablo, 49
Special Reports: Political and Military, De la Fuente Ballesteros, Ricardo, 144
73, 95 De la Puente, Pilar, 141, 227
voluntary, 31, 32, 87, 108 De los Reyes, Gabriel, 127–8
See also Ministries, posibilismo, Roman De los Ríos, Fernando, 46
Catholic Church De Paco, Mariano, 55 n.14, 15, 103 n.73,
Censors, 12 n.17, 13 n.20, 14 n.21, 20, 21, 174, 190, 191
22, 25, 27, 29 n.64, 31, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, De Quinto, José María, 51, 52, 53
83, 89, 102–3, 108, 114, 115, 205 n.19 Deafness, 152 see also Blindness, Madness
in the plays, 134, 183, 184, 191, 195, Death Threats, 202, 204, 256
198, 226–7, 231, 232, 244–5 Del Amo, Álvaro, 59 n.27
Centro Dramático Nacional (CDN), 207, Della Costa, Cardinal, 14
211, 219 n.62 Delibes, Miguel, 31
Centro Nacional de Teatro Clásico (CNTC), Democracy, 11, 15, 25, 27, 31, 193 n.51,
211 200, 206, 207, 208, 216, 217, 220, 221,
Centro Nacional de Nuevas Tendencias 241, 244, 247
Escénicas (CNNTE), 211, 214 Democrats, 26, 29
Cervantes, Miguel de, 49, 135 Organic democracy, 11, 19
El cerco de Numancia, 49 See also Transition Period
El retablo de las maravillas, 99 Destape, 201, 205, 207, 219
Civil War, 6, 8, 10, 15, 16, 17, 29, 30, 48, Deutscher, Isaac, 136
50, 51, 53, 65, 71, 78, 84, 91, 98, 119, Díaz Plaja, Guillermo, 116
132, 134, 141, 142, 144, 154, 156, 160, Dictatorship, 12, 13, 25, 28, 34, 60, 78,
162, 179, 199, 217, 220, 235, 238, 241, 112, 154, 182 n.27, 183, 186, 217, 226,
243, 249, 256 See also Roman Catholic 233
Church Dieste, Rafael, 49, 50
Class Struggle, 151–2, 174 Al almanecer, 50
Classification of Drama, 14, 38, 209 Dixon, Victor, 120 n.19, 192, 248
Cold War, 16 Doménech, Ricardo, 54, 151, 162, 188, 223
Common Good, 8, 10, 12, 13, 19, 22, 34, Domingo, Marcelino, 46
35, 52, 60, 82, 93, 110, 133, 134 n.48, Don Quijote, 87, 123, 149, 162, 163, 168
168, 179, 183, 187, 195, 245 Dowling, John, 129
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Dreams (& nightmares), 78, 137, 150, 153–4, Fraga Iribarne, Manuel, 20–1, 22, 31, 36, 37,
158, 163, 167–8, 185, 188 n.36, 190, 197, 38, 83, 89, 102–3, 108, 115, 205 n.19
223 n.4, 228, 240 n.41 Fraile, Medardo, 253
Dreamers, 71, 135, 145 Franco Bahamonde, Francisco, 5, 6, 9, 10,
Durán, Franco, 160 12, 16, 18, 19, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 36,
45, 51, 61, 72, 80, 84, 90, 109, 146, 161,
Eagleton, Terry 2, 22, 41, 118, 173, 179, 200, 215, 216, 219, 226, 227, 228
192 Franco regime, 1, 2, 3, 5–29, 42, 43, 51, 58,
Education system, 12, 14–17, 21, 52, 152, 59, 66, 69, 79, 91, 99, 100, 101, 106,
153 n.37, 198, 213 110, 117, 118, 119, 137, 141, 142, 146,
Federación Universitaria Escolar (FUE), 150, 151, 152, 155, 158, 170, 179, 184,
15, 141 n.4, 173 185, 208, 213, 215, 218, 220, 227, 232,
Sindicato Español Universitario (SEU), 233, 234, 235, 245, 249, 252
15, 16, 94 Honours and Awards, 1, 106–7, 116,
student unrest 6, 15, 16, 151, 224, 233, 130, 138, 221
237 See also Francoist Ideology under
university police, 15, 16 Ideology
See also Roman Catholic Church and See also post-Franco Society
Ideological State Apparatuses under Francoism, 1, 2, 5, 16, 24, 27, 42, 55, 68,
Ideology 112, 118, 134, 144, 146, 158 n.49, 162,
Eisenhower, Dwight D., 20 211, 215, 220, 221, 227, 238, 246
Escobar, Luis, 48, 114 Freedom, 27, 91, 119, 123, 136, 179, 206,
Esslin, Martin, 44 210, 215, 217, 222, 241
Establishment Figures, 126, 132, 134, 135, and creation 1, 34, 58–67, 69, 116, 126–7,
148, 155, 176, 177, 179, 190, 192, 193, 136, 150, 207, 220, 247, 249
194, 196 of the press, 14, 31, 38
Ethics, 135, 136 See also Censorship, Media
Euripides, 97 Freemasonry, 15, 16, 29, 178
Exile, 58, 99, 101, 125, 129–30, 131, 134, Fusi, Juan Pablo, 9, 12 n.16, 20, 200
135, 153, 181, 190, 197, 217, 231, 232,
249 Gagen, Derek, 151 n.33, 152, 180, 189,
Existentialism, 56, 91 223 n.5
Gala, Antonio, 69, 201, 206 n.22, 212
Facio, Ángel, 205 ¿Por qué corres, Ulises?, 201
Falangism, 5, 7, 15, 18, 26–7, 140 Galarza Morante, Colonel Valentín, 36
Falangists, 19, 36, 96 García Escudero, José María, 34, 37, 115
Falcón, Irene de, See Garfias, César García Lorca, Federico, 46, 47, 49 n.112
Family, 15, 33, 152, 162, 196–7, 243 Bodas de sangre, 47
Fascism 5, 10, 15, 26 La casa de Bernarda Alba, 205
Fascist, 51 García Lorenzo, Luciano, 3 n.6, 121, 125,
Felipe IV, 75, 80, 148, 168–9, 190, 191, 132, 143, 247
197, 222 Garciasol, Ramón de, 105 n.82
Fernán Gómez, Fernando, 217 Gardiner, Harold C., 13 n.18
Las bicicletas son para el verano, 217 Garfias, César, 47
Fernández Insuela, Antonio, 212 La peste fascista, 47
Fernández Torres, Alberto, 229, 256 Gateway Theatre, 84
Fernando VII, 88, 114, 134, 135, 136, Gellner, Ernest, 25
147 n.25, 152–3, 167–8, 178, 189 n.39, Generalísimo see under Franco
192 n.46, 195, 222, 226, 227–8 Generation of ’98, 52, 62, 175
Ferreiro, Cristina, 139 Giménez Arnau, José Antonio, 53, 106
Film, 29, 142, 213 see also NO-DO under Murió hace quince años, 53
Media Giner, Salvador, 16
Folklore, 27, 47, 52, 53 Gomá y Tomás, Cardinal, Spanish Primate, 9
Forest, Eva, 105 Gómez García, Manuel, 69 n.2
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324 INDEX
INDEX 325
Monarchs, 10, 27, 72, 75, 79, 80, 88, 114, Nationalist Victory, 17, 23, 24, 51
134, 135, 136, 146 n.22, 147, 148, 152–3, Nationalism and Theatre, 45, 48, 50, 53,
167–9, 174, 178, 182–3, 189 n.39, 190, 56–7, 94–6, 158–62, 206–7
191, 192 n.46, 197, 211, 222, 226, 227–8 Nationalization, 18, 19, 20, 29, 32, 36
Monleón, José, 44, 52, 53, 54 n.10, 105, Nationhood, 24, 42
214, 252, 253 Navarro, Leandro, 47
Morals, 52, 53, 56, 60, 119, 120, 136, 139, Nazi, 58, 179, 183
148, 223, 243, 250, 253 Neville, Edgar, 54
moral dilemmas, 53, 187, 233, 240, Nietzsche, Friedrich, 11, 21
241 n.43, 256 Nosotros, 47
morality of violence, 172, 176–84 Nueva Escena, 49
Moreno, Manuel de Jesús, 47
De muy buen barro, 47 Odysseus, See Ulysses
Moreno Gómez, Armando, 84 Oficina Nacional Permanente de Vigilancia
Movimiento Nacional, 5, 31 de Espectáculos, 14
Muñiz, Carlos, 57, 97–8, 105, 130 n.40, Olano, Antonio D., 206
138, 212, 214, 218 Cara al sol… con la chaqueta nueva, 206
El grillo, 105 Madrid, pecado mortal, 206
El tintero, 98 Olmo, Lauro, 56 n.16, 57, 99, 105, 212,
Lola, espejo oscuro, 97 214, 218
Tragicomedia del serenísimo príncipe El retablo de las maravillas y olé, 99
Don Carlos, 97–8, 218 El milagro, 99
Muñoz Seca, Pedro, 48, 53, 214 La camisa, 99
Mussolini, Benito, 78 La condecoración, 99, 218
Mussot, Luis, 49 La niña, el raterillo y la cajita de
¡No pasarán!, 49 música, 99
Myth, 1, 4, 44, 87, 117, 133, 142, 157–69, Magdalena, 99
169–71, 221, 241 Mare Nostrum S.A., 99
demystification 3, 44, 61–2, 63, 65, 92, Junio, siete stop, 99
136, 140–2, 154, 157–8, 161, 162–4, Yo, Bertolt Brecht, 99
165–69, 171, 191, 194, 222, 228, Onetti, Antonio, 220
235, 254, 256 O’Casey, Sean, 59
mystification, 124, 136, 177, 221, 224, Red Roses for Me, 59
226, 229, 236, 239, 241, 242 O’Connor, Patricia W., 55 n.13, 56 n.16,
official myth, 5, 15, 19, 23, 24, 25, 26, 58 n.25, 71 n.6, 72 n.7, 76 n.17, 79, 80,
87, 134, 140–2, 146, 155, 158, 159, 86, 106, 176 n.15, 185 n.32, 201, 205,
160, 161–2, 163, 167, 178, 179, 188, 223, 230, 241, 245, 252
191, 194, 198, 252 O’Neill, Carlota, 47
Biblical mythology, 162, 164 see also Al rojo, 47
Cain and Abel O’Neill, Eugene, 113 n.3
Greek mythology, 158, 162 Opus Dei, 12, 240 n.41
See also Myth under Ideology; See also Osuna, José, 75, 88, 93, 103, 104 n.79, 114,
Raza 115
326 INDEX
INDEX 327
Sánchez Bella, Alfredo, 37 Spectators, 44 n.101, 53, 61, 66, 71, 76, 77,
Sánchez Silva, José María, 29 81, 82, 96, 113, 117, 119, 120 n.19, 122,
Sanchis Sinisterra, José, 53, 214 131, 132, 135, 137, 141, 142, 148, 150,
Saña, Heleno, 42 n.95 152, 154, 156, 158, 163, 164, 176, 177,
Santo Oficio, 148, 195, 197, 198 202, 205, 212, 219, 222, 223, 250, 251,
Sartre, Jean Paul, 44, 56, 59–60, 65, 97, 252–4, 255–6
101, 253 State Apparatuses see under Ideology
Huis clos (El infierno, A puerta State of Emergency, 16, 23, 151
cerrada), 97 Steiner, George, 42, 58, 64, 66, 143, 188 n.36
Morts sans sepulture (Muertos sin Strindberg, August, 97
sepultura), 97 Creditors, 97
Sastre, Alfonso, 2, 56–7, 59, 60, 65, 66, 70, Suárez, Adolfo, 208, 216
73, 93–7, 98, 101, 102, 104–5, 109, 117, Surelia, 79, 82, 83, 153, 177, 184, 198, 199
125–30, 135, 138, 141, 207, 218, 230, Szanto, George H., 45, 52, 56, 61, 63, 137,
231, 247, 252 143, 254
Cargamento de sueños, 95
Escuadra hacia la muerte, 56, 93, 94–5 Talavera, José María, 47
El pan de todos, 73 Alma charra, 47
En la red, 96, 128, 135 Tamayo Rivas, José, 76, 79, 80, 114, 115, 252
Guillermo Tell tiene los ojos tristes, 96 Teatro Arlequin, 206
La mordaza, 96 Teatro Bellas Artes, 231 n.25
La sangre y la ceniza: Diálogos de Teatro Benavente, 203, 204
Miguel Servet, 218, 231 Teatro Candilejas, 74
Prólogo patético, 95, 96 Teatro de agitación, 48
Tierra roja, 96 Teatro de Agitación Social (TAS), 65, 93
Adaptations, 59, 97, 102 Teatro de arte y propaganda, 49
Creditors (Los acreedores), 97 Teatro de circunstancias, 49
Huis clos (El infierno, A puerta Teatro de Misiones Pedagógicas, 46
cerrada), 97 Teatro de la Zarzuela, 45, 49
Medea, 97 Teatro del pueblo, 46
Morts sans sepulture (Muertos sin Teatro en la calle, 49
sepultura), 97 Teatro Español, 45, 76, 79, 106
Red Roses for Me, 59 Teatro Igualada, 231 n.25
Science Fiction, 84, 87 Teatre Intim, 45
Schaffer, Peter, 201 Teatro Lírico Nacional, 211
Equus, 201 Teatro María Guerrero, 77, 94
Self-delusion see Madness Teatro Nacional de la Falange, 48
Sender, Ramón J., 49, 50 Teatro para el frente, 49
La llave, 50 Teatro para el pueblo, 46
Serrano, Julieta, 105 Teatro Reina Victoria, 83, 88
Serrano Suñer, Román, 30, 36, 42 Teatro Unitario de la Revolución Socialista,
Shakespeare, William, 59 207
Hamlet, 73, 76, 81, 154 Teatros Nacionales, 207
Sheehan, Robert Louis, 69 n.3, 130 n.40 Theatre,
Sloterdijk, Peter, 21 of agitation propaganda (agit-prop),
Smith, Anthony D., 10 45–50, 51, 52, 56, 64, 135, 206, 247
Social Class, 75, 173 of dialectical propaganda, 56, 61, 254
Socialism, 45, 172, 174, 239, 241, 242, of integration propaganda, 51–54, 56,
243 114, 135, 206, 249–50
Socialist, 55, 212, 216, 221 avant-garde drama, 54
Socialist literature, 30, 45 bourgeois, 46, 53, 54, 102, 109
Sollish Sikka, Linda, 139, 163, 164 classical, 119, 120, 205, 213, 214, 215
Sophocles, 122 commercial, 1, 55, 56, 69, 70, 78, 99,
Antigone, 101 101, 102, 112, 113, 114, 119, 129,
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137, 138, 192, 207, 231, 249–50, 160, 164, 166, 167, 168, 170, 173, 177,
252, 253 187–8, 189, 191, 192, 194, 195, 196,
erotic, 201 197, 220, 229 n.18, 230, 234, 235, 245
escapist, 46, 47, 48, 52, 53, 54, 55, 217, Tuñón de Lara, Manuel, 15, 26
250
foreign, 54, 57 n.18, 101, 214, 254 Ulysses, 158, 159–62, 166 n.49, 180, 222
Golden Age, 48, 54, 207 Unamuno, Miguel de, 47, 144, 195, 235
independent, 212, 213, 217 El otro, 47
proletarian, 45, 46 Unity, 19, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 29, 42, 52,
right-wing, 117, 206, 207, 214, 247 n.50 140, 142, 197
sainete, 54, 119
social realism, 1, 53, 54, 57, 84, 109 Val, Delfín, 47
zarzuela, 47, 211 Alma charra, 47
Theatre Crisis, 205 Valle-Inclán, Ramón, 46, 47, 218
Theatre Directors, 48, 74, 75, 76, 77, 79, 80, Divinas palabras, 47
83, 84, 88, 93, 103, 104 n.79, 114, 115, Los cuernos de don Friolera, 218
128, 204, 205, 252 Vázquez Montalbán, Manuel, 7 n.3, 10,
Theatre Groups, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 65, 93, n.10, 11, n.12, 28 n.60, 61, 42 n.92,
126 n.29, 128, 207 246 n.48
Theatre of Commitment, 48, 54, 55, 56–67, Vicente Mosquete, José Luis, 65 n.40,
87, 101, 119, 125, 202, 217, 218, 220, 75 n.15, 103
225, 232–3 Victims, 184–5, 186, 235, 237, 243
Theatre Organizations, 46, 48, 211 Vidal i Barraquer, Francesc, Cardinal
Theatre Prizes, 46, 55, 99, 105–7, 204, 212, Archbishop of Tarragona, 9
214, 217, 218, 219 n.62 see also Honours Villapecellin, José Martín, 47
and Awards under Franco Regime R.I. (República Inmoral), 47
Theatre Reform, 45–6, 48, 55, 93, 129, 207, Violence, 151, 175
211 in drama, 56, 71, 82, 90, 96, 97, 119,
Theatre Venues, 45, 49, 74, 76, 77, 79, 83, 134, 135, 153, 156, 159, 180, 184
84, 88, 94, 106, 201, 203, 204, 206, 207, justification of, 60, 186, 195
211, 214, 219 n.62, 231 n.25 see also morality of violence under
Therborn, Göran, 20 n.35 Morals
Torrado, Adolfo, 47, 48, 53 Viva la República (o, el ultimo traidor), 49
Torture, 60, 66, 76, 81–2, 90, 91, 97, 119, Voloshinov, Valentin, 165
123, 135, 156, 166 n.77, 167 n.81, 177,
180, 183, 184, 194, 210, 224
Trade Unions, 7, 24–5, 48, 71, 234, 243 War, 160–1, 190, 225–6 see also Civil War,
Tragedy, 1, 54, 55, 119–20, 124, 133, 135, World War II
139, 143, 156, 162, 166 n.77, 172 n.1, Weiss, Peter, 59
175, 187, 222 Williams, Raymond, 3, 5
Transition Period, 4, 200–20, 221, 222, 224, Williams, Tennessee, 113 n.3
225, 226, 227, 228, 233, 234, 235–8, World War II, 10, 17, 26, 36, 78
239, 240, 247 Writers’ Organizations, 32, 38, 45, 48–9
Truth, 5, 12, 17 n.29, 19, 20, 21, 23, 25, 26,
27, 29, 31, 34, 37, 42, 44, 59, 66, 82, Zatlin Boring, Phyllis, 206
103, 116, 119, 122, 123, 124, 135, 136, Zorilla, José, 55
140, 141, 142, 153 n.37, 157, 159, Don Juan Tenorio, 55, 106