Santa Clara University

Theatrical Passion: Establishing a Context for Mel Gibson’s "The Passion of the Christ"

Michael Zampelli, S.J., director, Center for Performing Arts, Santa Clara University

Ever since I saw one of the pilot screenings of Mel Gibson’s "The Passion of the Christ" in the middle days of the summer of 2003, I have been searching for an opportunity to collect some of my thoughts and reflect on them not simply in light of my own Catholic Christian spirituality but also in light of my own academic discipline: theater history. I must begin by admitting that, in the main, I did not like the film. Despite a few compellingly beautiful moments, I spent most of the time at Mr. Gibson’s film with my eyes wide shut and my body clammy and queasy in my seat. My mostly negative reactions prompted my initial questions, such as: "Is this what passion plays were/are meant to do?" "Is this obsession with realism—especially realism in representing violence—constitutive of the passion play genre, or is it the love-child of more modern tastes and technologies?" "What are the meanings generated by a passion of this kind, and how might it reasonably be received?" I hope to venture some answers to these questions by situating the film within the larger context of theatrical Passions.

History of theatrical Passion Plays

As a theatrical subject, the passion of Christ does not make its entrance onto the Western stage until the latter 12th century. Though the events of Easter morning would be dramatized in simple liturgical drama as early as the 10th century, 1 there is, as Glynne Wickham notes, "a studious avoidance of any serious treatment of Christ’s passion before the end of the 12th century, and then only in Italy."2 Scholars generally agree that the affective spirituality preached by the newly constituted mendicant orders—the Franciscans and Dominicans—and the rise of the Gothic created the conditions of possibility for theatrical explorations of Christ’s passion. When Christ’s humanity became the focus of the medieval spiritual life—his vulnerability in the Christmas crche and his agony on the cross—the passion as play moved closer to center stage.

The oldest passion play on record is the Montecassino Passion from the 12th century written in Latin. Like the many others that followed, the Montecassino Passion "covers the events of Holy Week from the Last Supper and betrayal by Judas to the death and burial of Jesus."3 As William Tydeman notes in The Medieval European Stage, a very valuable compendium of documentary sources, "[i]n all these plays the Crucifixion is shown but not the actual nailing; the main emphasis is on the planctus or lament of the Virgin Mary over the body of Jesus. All the plays include the Resurrection."4 The following brief stage direction from this early passion play contains some important information for us to consider at this point in our theatrical journey. It reads:

Then the armed men [loricati] […] shall lead Him to the place where He is to be crucified [they lay the cross] on His shoulders […] The Lord Jesus shall kneel down and raise his hands to Heaven praying for the crucifying Jews [crucifixoribus Judeis], and shall say in a loud voice: […] and the soldiers […] place [ponant] Him on the cross and the two thieves.5

This excerpt underscores two things: first, the Jews and not the Romans are associated with the violence done to Jesus, whether or not they are actually functioning as the executioners, and second, the actors playing the soldiers " place" the actor playing Jesus on the cross; they do not nail him or tie him, but they "place" him—ponant.

The first detail is worth noting because it invites us to be aware of how different passion plays locate the cause of Jesus’ sufferings not only in the theologically abstract "sins of the world," but also—because of dramatic necessity—in particular characters who usually represent identifiable populations within the community. In considering Mel Gibson’s " Passion," we cannot avoid confronting this same issue: Who or what is dramatically responsible for the horrific violence wrought on the Christus? How are we made to feel about those characters? The second detail alerts us to the theatrical techniques used to make Jesus’ sufferings present to a particular audience—techniques ranging from the very simple to the more complex. The Montecassino Passion is restrained in its approach to the crucifixion; not all passions are. Mel Gibson’s "Passion" chooses, unlike the earliest of passion plays, to showcase the violence—and this choice, like all artistic choices, must be interpreted within the context of production. What are the "tastes" of a particular audience at a particular time?

The 13th and 14th centuries saw a continual increase in the popularity of passion and cycle plays, now spreading beyond Italy to France, the Low Countries, and German speaking lands. In 1400, an Italian merchant described to his patron a passion play he witnessed at Avignon. His account emphasizes the grand scale of the production and the considerable resources required for its execution: 200 actors, an innumerable quantity of "costumed players and armed men," and lavishly decorated scaffolding for the 10,000 to 12,000 spectators who attended the three-day spectacle during which "a man was put on the cross just as Our Lord was." This play, it seemed, cost a bundle.6 The extravagant investment of time, money, and energy in representing the passion does not begin with the cinema.

English-speaking audiences will be most familiar with the cycle plays that emerged in England in the later 14th century. Again, the Gothic emphasis on Christ’s humanity, on his very recognizable suffering as "a poignant demonstration of his compassion for [hu]mankind," is amply revealed in the Corpus Christi cycles plays "with their tender depictions of Christ’s birth amidst poverty and cold, and their gruesomely vivid renditions of the Crucifixion…"7 The cycle plays are relatively complex theatrical realities that communicate a great deal about the religious, political, social, and economic environments within which they were developed and staged. For our purposes, however, they are intriguing because of their emphasis on the elements of torture in the Passion narrative. In particular, the cycle plays highlight "the buffeting, " that is the beating and manhandling of Jesus when he is in the presence of Annas and Caiphas, the interrogation before Herod, the scourging, which also includes the crowning with thorns, and the crucifixion.8

The Wakefield cycle boasts one of the more elaborate buffeting sequences. The ietaes, or torturers, as they are called in the text, are Jews. Unlike Annas and Caiphas, these characters are ordinary people for whom torturing is a job. And, at the appointed time, they "go to work on Jesus"—beating him on the head and body, blindfolding him, spinning him around, taunting him, and dragging him about the stage. The violence wrought on Jesus is enough to incapacitate him, for when it is time to return him to Caiphas, the torturers’ lines refer to Jesus’ almost having been knocked unconscious and to his inability to move or even lift his feet.9

The Wakefield Scourging continues where the buffeting leaves off and includes the crowning with thorns and the carrying of the cross. Stripping Jesus of his clothes and tying him to a pillar, the torturers whip Jesus with the same gusto that characterized the buffeting. The lines that punctuate the beating heighten the realism of the violence:

"Now fall I the first to flap on his hide." (Strike) "My heart might burst asunder unless I can get at him!" (Strike) "I’d gladly give you a blow right now." (Strike) "Watch out! Let me strike with my rusty weapon, so that the blood will run down!" (Strike) "Do it!" (Strike) "Rock him!" (Strike) "Beat him!" (Strike)

Eventually, the torturers crown Jesus with thorns and present him with a heavy cross—which, by the way, was real precisely because it would have had to support the weight of the actor playing Jesus.10

The York Crucifixion, a very powerful piece of theater written by someone referred to as the "York realist," finds a silent Jesus being stretched on the cross by, again, four working people who are simply doing their jobs. The contrast between their work-a-day attitudes and Jesus’ solemn silence is psychologically chilling, but the most brutal section of the piece is when the workers must fasten Jesus to the cross. They discover that the pin holes in the cross beam were placed too far apart. So, they tie rope around Jesus’ arms and stretch him until his hands reach the marks. Then, only after he has been "racked," do these workers drive the nails into his hands and feet. Indeed the violence and brutality inherent in these scenes read even apart from their performance.

Realistic violence in Passion plays

Much of the documentary evidence, not only from England but also from the rest of Europe, attests to the desire for achieving realistic effects in these passion plays—in all scenes, but especially in those with extreme violence. Costume and property lists from various countries reveal the techniques by which passion plays achieved these special effects. The costume list for the 16th century Lucerne Passion Play includes this note:

These four, who torture Christ, are…to have their equipment: ropes, cords, a stool or block to sit Christ on; a pole when they want to suspend him by the feet…scourges and rods for the scourging; a crown of thorns…Also a pot with blood colouring, to wet the scourges and rods.11

A 14th century Old Provenal manuscript cited by Jody Enders reveals how a crucifixion could be effectively staged with a sufficiently bloody Jesus. It calls for "an iron cap, and then some sponges on that iron cap that are full of vermilion or blood, and then placed atop those sponges will be a false wig."12

You might explain to the them the use of the scourges dipped in dye/blood as well as the "bladders" filled with blood that would make the nailing to the cross more believable.

The taste for realistic depictions of violence and pain can even be found outside of property lists and costume plots. Consider the following account concerning the passion play staged in Metz in 1437:

And the role of God [i.e. Christ] was played by a priest, seigneur Nicolle de Neufchastel en Lorraine who was then the vicar of St. Victor’s Church in Metz. And this priest was in great danger of his life and nearly died during the crucifixion, for he fainted and would have died had he not been rescued….And the following day the said priest from St. Victor was restored to health and played out the resurrection and performed his part very nobly. And this play lasted four days. And in this play was yet another priest called lord Jehan de Missey who was chaplain of Mairange, who took the part of Judas; and because he was left hanging too long, he also was unconscious and seemed dead, for he had fainted; therefore he was swiftly taken down and carried to a place nearby where he was rubbed with vinegar and other things to restore him.13

Seems like it was a bad day in Metz! The point, however, is that the acting of the parts aimed at a verisimilitude that flirted with some real danger. In these cases, perhaps, some overenthusiastic stagehands may have tied the actors too tightly to their respective torture devices, and realism came dangerously close to reality.

The purpose of violent realism

To what end did these medieval performances of passion pursue such violent realism? The question is not an easy one to answer. From a religious perspective, theatrical realism highlighted the theological reality of the events being represented. Th e passion of Christ was real, and the Christian audiences at these events were the actual beneficiaries of this action. In a sense, these plays did not concern something that had taken place "a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away." Rather they concerned something that was taking place again—here and now. In this case, theatrical realism fostered a spiritual connectedness with a foundational mystery of faith and community. From a social and political perspective, the realistic depiction of violence recalled to medieval audiences the very real tortures employed by the state in maintaining order. Jody Enders in her very compelling study, The Medieval Theatre of Cruelty: Rhetoric, Memory, Violence, argues that "the medieval understanding of torture both enabled and encouraged the dramatic representation of violence as a means of coercing theatre audiences into accepting the various ‘truths’ enacted didactically in mysteries, miracles, and even farces."14 In this case, theatrical realism encouraged a realistic assessment of the order of things: Jesus endures suffering as an innocent person and his innocence might inspire a fair amount of devotional outrage; others in the community, however, endure such suffering justly. Depending upon the time and place, Jews and heretics, unruly women and sodomites become the proper objects of violent censure and chastisement. If Passion plays in some sense nourished the unity and identity of the local Christian community, they also in some sense involved the distancing and containment of "Otherness."15

Gibson's modern take on the Passion

Mel Gibson’s "The Passion of the Christ" sits within a particular Western theatrical tradition:

• Like the later medieval passions, it showcases the violence of Jesus’ last hours but with a realism that would have never been possible on medieval stages (unless, of course, you buy medieval urban legends regarding "snuff drama"16). Simply, film can create a realism that theater cannot.
• Just as the medieval passion plays aimed at "making present" the sacrifice of Christ for particular communities, so does Gibson’s film aim at representing this divine action for humankind— not just Christians, he himself notes, but for everyone.17
• I would like to suggest that despite the director’s obsession with realistic detail—with the use of Aramaic and Latin, with the stomach-turning violence that does indeed seem consistent with Roman oppression— the film is Mel Gibson’s experience of Christ’s Passion.18 Though it makes claims to universality—"this is the way it was"—this passion is like all the other passions— at Montecassino, at Benediktbeuern, at Metz, at Valenciennes, at Cologne, at Wakefield, and at York—in that it is a particular "take" on the narrative staged (knowingly or not) with particular ends-in-view.
• Like the earlier passions, the character of Mary figures very prominently, but unlike those passions Gibson’s Mary does not just sing lamentations—she is, like Michelangelo’s Mary in the Rome pieta—a larger than life figure who clearly represents Mother Church.
• Like other passions, Gibson’s film seeks to fashion a community—perhaps not a community of faith but at least a community of appreciation (artistic and financial)—and, like other Passions, it also alienates.19

As I intimated at the beginning of these reflections, the spirituality mediated by this film is fairly far from my own. Were I staging the story it would have been very different, and I would venture to guess that Mr. Gibson would have hated it. But that is the way it goes. This story—like all stories—must be interpreted and staged. That interpretation and staging is very much conditioned by the personal interests of the director and the cultural climate. Claiming that this story has found its definitive (read "historically accurate") interpretation is ludicrous. I am grateful to the film, however, for the opportunity to clarify my own appreciation of the Christ-event. Gibson’s bold choices and his occasional brilliant insight have provided me with an engaging—if upsetting—conversation partner. Mostly, though, I appreciate that the film has generated opportunities like this in which communities can engage in spirited conversation about the very real intersections among art and culture, faith and commerce.

1 The centrality of the resurrection to Christian life and liturgy made it an apt subject for dramatization; however, as David Bevington reminds us, "it was also so sacred that any extensive interpretation of it might have seemed presumptuous. (Bevington 31)
2 Wickham 53.
3 Tydeman 145.
4 Tydeman 145. The 13th century Benediktbeuern Crucifixion provides an example. The stage directions read: "Then let Jesus be led to be crucified […] Then let Jesus be hanged on the cross, and let there be a title: Jesus of Nazareth, the king of the Jews {…] Then let the Mother of our Lord come, lamenting, with John the Evangelist, and, approaching the cross, she looks upon the crucified one: 'Alas, alas, woe is me today and evermore! Alas, how I now look upon the dearest child that ever any woman in this world brought forth.'" (Tydeman 146.)
5 Tydeman 146.
6 Tydeman 156-157.
7 Bevington 234.
8 Bevington 536.
9 Bevington 551.
10 Bevington 562.
11 Tydeman 385.
12 Enders, Medieval Theatre of Cruelty 193.
13 Tyedeman 346-347.
14 Enders, Medieval Theatre of Cruelty 4.
15 Jody Enders observes, "Still, if torture somehow assists in the formation of civilized Christian communities, then it does so on the backs of mutilated bodies, variously deemed deserving or undeserving of their ordeals. As it mirrors, heals, and makes communities it just as readily unmakes other communities-pagan, Jewish, female, lower-class." (Enders, Medieval Theatre of Cruelty 21)
16 See Jody Enders, Death by Drama and Other Medieval Urban Legends (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002).
17 In the same way that Gandhi can be appreciated by more people than just Hindus, so may Christ be appreciated as a revolutionary historical figure by more than just Christians.
18 It seems relatively obvious to me that the Jesus in Gibson's film is the spiritual ancestor of "Bravehart"-the heroic man who endures pain for the sake of his people. This image of Jesus, though uninspiring to me, finds a correlate in the medieval Passions, some of whose prologues liken Christ to the heroes Roland and Oliver. See Wickham 59.
19I recall my earlier observation that the violence endured by Jesus in the Passion is dramatically effective because it is perpetrated on him by particular people-Jews, Romans, whomever-not by abstractions like "the sins of the world." Hence, Gibson's film does generate dramatic energy against the Jews and the Roman soldiers. It creates a similar attitude toward the "queer" characters that populate the court of King Herod.