Changing Images of Romeo and Juliet,
Renaissance to Modern
Jill L. Levenson
In each of the sixteenth-century fictions that popularized Romeo and Juliet, the narrative identifies the lovers primarily in two ways: by their positions in the story, and by the narrator's continuing description of their intense passion. But when the protagonists speak, they sound like everyone else in Verona. And because the major fictions are translations of one another, the protagonists and the rest of Verona sound alike in Italian, French, and English. They share the rhetoric and other conventions of the Renaissance novella, where people communicate through reasoned argument or formalized gestures. As a result, we recognize these lovers in their narratives, but we would not recognize them on the street.
When Shakespeare dramatized this well-known fiction, he distinguished the voices of Romeo and Juliet from the others. The comedy and wordplay he added deepen the original narrative, but they do not account for the individuality of the lovers. That distinctiveness arises from Shakespeare's manipulation of conventions from another medium: Renaissance love poetry. Since Nicholas Brooke emphasized the point in Shakespeare's Early Tragedies, we all realize ìthat the experience of the non-dramatic sonnets is involved here, and in fact the play can partly be seen as a dramatic exploration of the world of the love sonnet.  If the play as a whole investigates the components of amatory poetry, however, amatory poetry serves as a chief means for distinguishing among the characters and singling out Romeo and Juliet.
As all of the crucial dramatis personae express themselves in the idiom of love poetry, the personalities in Romeo and Juliet define themselves especially by the skills with which they manage poetic conventions. Most of Verona betrays a failure of imagination in using the standard conceits and commonplaces of love, laboring the familiar, saying nothing original; and in this ordinariness, most of Verona remains constant. Yet Mercutio speaks his anti-Petrarchan strain with a creative difference. More important, Romeo and Juliet disclose their special qualities and their everyday qualities as well through the modulations of their verse.
Variations in the poetry reveal variations in the protagonists: the lovers' changing moods, perceptions, intensities. In later tragedies, Shakespeare would employ less contrived means for portraying character. But here, changes in the verse from moment to moment convey the shifting contours of personality. Immediately after Romeo's banishment, for example, at the beginning of 3.2, Juliet's prothalamium quickly shrinks to mere wordplay and sound effects as she glimpses calamity in the Nurseís report, the swift reduction implying that absolute grief has arrested Juliet's imagination. Yet shortly, as she begins to recover from shock and learns the truth, her verse expands again with typical Petrarchan devices. She describes Romeo in a catalogue of oxymora that do not fit their subject accurately:
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish ravening lamb! [Ll. 75-76]
At this moment, the formal, imprecise figures of speech indicate Juliet's unreadiness for this first encounter with sorrow and disillusion. Her lexicon for making distinctions cannot verbalize the true nature of either her husband or her experience. Within a few minutes, though, her diction changes again, and as it does, it communicates that her vision is clearing. Less figurative, more prosaic, it simply analyzes the bleak reality just disclosed:
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murd'red me; I would forget it fain, But, O, it presses to my memory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished" [Ll. 108-12]
As the tragedy takes its course, modulations like these, as well as the more striking poetic changes that occur between scenes, early and late, add up to our impressions of Romeo and Juliet. The sense that their passion for each other is extraordinary, and that it transforms them from typical adolescents into patterns of love, arises especially from the way they speak. Their soliloquies do not analyze these developments, nor do the assessments of other characters. Nothing in the text explicitly remarks how the lovers have grown from ordinary to archetypal. But the variations in their poetry siguify both transformation and, finally, uniqueness. Like some of Shakespeare's other plays from this period, Romeo and Juliet makes a connection between qualities of love and qualities of imagination. Sexual passion sparks imagination and vice versa; the more sensual and genuine the feelings, the more original and lyric their expression. In this tragedy, the playwright fuses these qualities in verse at times so wonderful that it seems to embody the emotion itself: the garden and balcony passages express transcendent love in transcendent poetry.
In contrast with their fictional prototypes, then, Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet do not simply mark key episodes in a famous narrative. They are also verbal creations, poetic conventions dynamically changing, inspiration working its way through platitudes. And they assumed physical presence on the Elizabethan stage in the young male actors who vocalized their words. As Alfred Harbage describes them, Elizabethan actors 'were craftsmen of the theatre, and. . . theirs was a craft of intercession'.  Apparently their mediation depended on studied elocution as well as stylized, graceful movement. The developing actors who performed Romeo and Juliet must have relied on prosody, stage directions, content, and perhaps Shakespeare himself as they translated the text into living impressions. Essentially, they projected character from verse, rounding out their impersonations with formal gestures. If the actor's presence gave the character physicality, his delivery of the lines conferred more specific traits: imagination, sensuality, youth, impulse, and gender. Through the actor's person, the dramatist's abstract conception materialized.
With his verbal constructs, Shakespeare evidently gave the young male actors who played Romeo and Juliet everything they needed to produce the illusion of reality on the Elizabethan stage. But he did not provide for the future. By the time of the Restoration, performance had lost the key to. Shakespeare's depiction of the lovers, and since then, instead of looking for it, actors and producers have usually replaced the lock. Of course, changing mores and tastes have influenced these performance strategies, as we shall see from glancing at five decisive moments in the tragedy's theatrical history. Although Romeo and Juliet have remained stylized through all the versions of Shakespeare's play, in the passage of time they have absorbed and reflected fashions in the performing and fine arts more than literary trends. With one or two exceptions, later productions have substituted new means of stylization, nonpoetic means, and they have generated impressions of Romeo and Juliet different from those signified by original texts.
David Garrick recast Shakespeare's young lovers for the eighteenth-century stage because the originals held little appeal. By 1748 he had modified both the protagonists and the tragedy to meet his patrons' standards for decorum in the theater. As a results in his highly successful script that lasted for ninety-seven years Romeo and Juliet not only speak, but also act differently from their Elizabethan counterparts.
Towards elegance of tragic diction, Garrick first cleared the play of 'jingle' or rhyme. This procedure satisfied the eighteenth-century criterion for blank verse as the proper medium of tragedy, but it also collapsed several of the poetic forms supporting the original play and its characters. Thinning the Petrarchan content, Garrick also trimmed the remaining conceits to check any persistent flights of fancy. And when the poetry became flatter, so did the lovers. Additional cuts by 1750 made the tragic figures conform to acceptable stereotypes. As George C. Branam explains in Eighteenth-Century Adaptations of Shakespearean Tragedy, ìthe mood of high seriousness with which the eighteenth century approached tragedy encouraged the idealization of characters and the exaggeration of 'noble' qualities.  In short, Romeo's less-than-noble change of heart disturbed his tragic image: it disappeared, along with Rosaline, from Garrick's text, and Romeo met a Juliet he already loved at the Capulet ball. Juliet appeared as unblemished as Romeo: Garrick removed all sexual innuendo and other subtleties from her speech, transforming her into a perfectly innocent heroine.
So Garrick changed not only the lovers' idiom, but also their places in the narrative sequence. In fact, he changed the sequence itself. As he cut the text for staging, he also produced a lucid narrative format corresponding with that of eighteenth-century pathetic drama, the genre that centers on the trials of its victimized protagonists. With his additions-particularly the seventy-five-line dialogue he created for the lovers' death scene, Garrick replaced the individuality of Shakespeare's protagonists with the quality of pathos. According to a contemporary article in The General Evening Post, Shakespeare had neglected to fill his catastrophe with as much distress as it could hold; Garrick supplied the missing agonies. 
In the process he created a performance script radically different from Shakespeare's. While Garrick disposed of improprieties, he also revised the text as a vehicle for two performers; and with his modifications, he allowed performance to impose a whole new dimension on the figures of Romeo and Juliet: a dimension that materialized from the star actors' understanding of the roles. Although the new eighteenth-century acting style fell short of Stansslavsky, it depended on the actorís conception of his character rather than eloquent delivery of the playwrightís words. It may have shared a degree of formality with Elizabethan practice, but in the end it interpreted character rather than transmitting it.
On the eighteenth-century stage, therefore, Garrickís Romeo and Juliet became a tragedy of character interpreted moment by moment, in the current performance style, through the actorsí voices and gestures. One mid-eighteenth-century document, MacNamara Morgan's Letter to Miss Nossiter (published anonymously in London 1753), describes a young actress' rendering of Juliet at Covent Garden. Clearly idealized, this exhaustive account reveals the age's criteria for successful enactment of dramatic texts in general and this Shakespearean tragedy in particular. The perfect rendition assigned the appropriate gesture and tone to every line, sometimes to every word, and at least to every idea in every sentence (p. 16). In performance, a drama conceived as pathetic tragedy demanded not only thoughtful inflection of its blank verse, but also unstinting effusions of its pathos. As Miss Nossiter performed Juliet in the third act of her ideal rendering, for instance, her constantly changing deportment played variations on the theme of heartbreak.
Thus eighteenth-century performances of Garrick's Romeo and Juliet constantly restated the lovers' passion, in both senses of the word passion. The audience witnessed a finished and controlled performance, an unequivocal if melancholy statement of what the play meant. During the first half of the nineteenth century, that picture sent revivals of the tragedy into decline. In particular, the emotional writhings now associated with the character of Romeo discouraged male actors. Charles Shattuck explains, for example, that ìthe regular actor of Macbeth and Othello would find embarrassingly womanish that passage in Friar Lawrence's cell where Romeo is called upon to tear his hair in grief and throw himself upon the ground.  Although these players envisioned a boy in the part, it was a woman who finally enacted it: Charlotte Cushman, now regarded by scholars like Shattuck as the greatest American actress of the nineteenth century, created a sensation in London during the 1845 or 46 season with her portrayal of Romeo. Arousing curiosity and attracting crowds, her interpretation excited more response than the breeches role itself.
Theater historians know Cushman as the actress who discarded Garrick's script of Romeo and Juliet, for a while, anyway, restoring Shakespeareís plot. But she made enough changes to produce her own version of the narrative. Many cuts abridge her text, some intended to accelerate performance, others to conform with BawdIerís Family Shakespeare. Although these reductions frequently correspond with the eighteenth-century cuts, Cushman's script out-Garricks Garrick in eliminating impracticalities and indecencies. The Cushman version does restore a odicum of Shakespeare's wit to Romeo and Juliet by reintroducing many of his words. At the same time, it reconstructs a number of the original poetic Forms. Nevertheless, despite these gestures towards authenticity, Cushman's text, like Garrick's simplifies Shakespeare's original composition; and in the end, it too remains a decorous star vehicle that forgoes poetic subtleties to enhance the lovers' passion. If Garrick reworked Shakespeare's script as a vehicle for two star actors, however, Cushman arranged its performance as a vehicle for one. With her, Romeo and Juliet became Romeo and Romeo.
By the time she played the young lover, Cushman had become a polished, all-purpose actress with an unusually eclectic style combining eighteenth-century conventions for performing tragedy, the new American style of diction, and naturalistic techniques-all fused by the influence of William Charles Macready. From Macready she also learned to analyze character, identifying with the personality she conceived and projecting it as a unified whole. According to one recollection, [she] impersonated, she did not recite. 
Reviews and other accounts indicate that Cushman impersonated Romeo with all the professional resources she had acquired to date. They also reveal that her performance raised to the level of brilliance an otherwise humdrum (or worse) production: plain and inconvenient staging; careless blocking;íungifted supporting cast. How did she conceptualize Romeo to overcome these obstacles? Unlike her predecessors who wrung pathos from every line, Cushman emphasized the energy and intense feeling released by passion. Her ardency issued with such abundance that it not only vitalized the rest of the performances, but generated an interpretation of the entire tragedy.
Again and again, critics praised the 'reality' of Cushman's performance with enthusiasm like that of James Sheridan Knowles, the playwright amazed by her Romeo in the Friar's cell after the sentence of banishment:
ìIt was a scene of topmost passion; not simulated passion 'no such thing; real, palpably real; the genuine heart-storm was on,' on in wildest fitfulness of fury.  According to the reviewers, the character of the young lover had lately declined into a mere 'convention,' 'a collection of speeches,' or worse, 'an unfortunate and somewhat energetic Englishman.' They found Cushman's portrayal 'a creative, a living, breathing, animated, ardent human being,' or more specifically, 'a living, breathing, burning Italian'.  Cushman had seized on an abstraction in the original text, an emotional state, and made it an objective reality on the stage through her performance style. For twenty-three years she continued to project this uncomplicated Romeo to admiring crowds, taking over the whole tragedy with her expression of his most obvious traits.
In the work of Garrick and Cushman, early audiences found images of Romeo and Juliet that satisfied not only their tastes, but also their fantasies. Even though both versions petered out in their latter seasons, each enjoyed decades on the stage. Since the mid-nineteenth century, however, no theatrical production of the tragedy has resulted in such long-lasting conceptions. Major revivals came and went in the years after Cushman's performances, series of tableaux that reduced even Henry James to boredom.  Once the century turned, theater became increasingly restless and began to experiment with the various components of dramaturgy.
As time passed, new media fed into those components and other arts furnished additional means for invigorating old conventions. A new breed, the director, sifted among the growing number of available styles and techniques, determining a fresh concept of production for each play he staged. Caught in this flux, the Shakespeare canon has responded to the pulls of many different performance trends, from Elizabethan authenticity to wholesale dispatch of previous traditions. No image of Romeo and luliet has lasted on the stage more than a year or two against this constantly changing theatrical backdrop.
Before mid-century, two distinctive productions of the tragedy illustrate the current range of performance styles and the sorts of protagonists they fostered. The young John Gielgud, alternating the roles of Mercutio and Romeo with the young Laurence Olivier, produced the play in 1935 for a commercial run at the New Theatre in London's West End. A critical and box-office success, this revival attempted to honor Shakespeare's intentions and his verse. Twelve years later, a very young Peter Brook mounted Romeo and Juliet as his second production for the Royal Shakespeare Company. Audiences came in large numbers, but the critics resisted this iconoclastic version, which interpreted the original through techniques from cinema and the fine arts.
Gielgud's production also reflected contemporary influences, but here they negotiated a compromise between Elizabethan conventions and the modern stage, as well as its audience. With attention to the play-text and great ingenuity, the design team Motley devised a streamlined set that imitated Shakespeare's theater, allowing for continuous actions at filmic speed. Costumes, inspired by Italian Renaissance paintings, gave visual expression to features of characterization inherent in the verse. Working with the electrician, Gielgud tried to suggest hot Verona summer through lighting, but unsophisticated equipment made the atmosphere seem overcast. More reliable, the canned incidental music in the style of Purcell discreetly sustained the tragic mood.
For Gielgud, these effects advanced his major purpose: restoring the format and poetry of Shakespeare's play. Toward this end he rehearsed from an almost uncut Temple edition, shaping an ensemble production rather than a star vehicle. He did not impose a reading on the text or engage in theoretical discussions of its meaning. Rather, he emphasized skillful delivery of the lines among the actors, most of them classically trained and ideally matched up with their parts. As Margaret Percy Harris of Motley recalls, this group had no problem with the silliness of the narrative and little difficulty with the wordplay. When you do it for the verse, you find a meaning in it. At least when John speaks it, you do. In an interview during rehearsals, Gielgud stated his main purpose in terms of the poetry:
... I want to set Romeo and Juliet in contrast to the other characters-poetry in contrast to prose. I want to set them almost on an operatic plane, so that they shall sing those marvellous duets while the other characters speak their lines.
They must not only be Romeo and Juliet: they must be symbolic, immortal types of the lovers of all times. 
In this production, therefore, Romeo and Juliet rejoined the larger scenario that had contained them on the Elizabethan stage. Echoing the old tradition, actors drew their characters from the playwright's verse rather than their own conceptions or the producerís; and they spoke their lines as precisely as they could. As a result, critics evaluated their performances according to the ways they sounded: most thought Gielgud conveyed the most elegant Romeo and Mercutio, eliciting characterization from every line: Olivier. not superb as a noise,  evidently tried to compensate in gesture and intensity what he lacked in elocution; and Peggy Ashcroft made almost all of Juliet's expression both comprehensible and genuine, although she had trouble with the stylized outbursts of 3.2. Keyed to the lines, color in this productionóthe sets, props, and especially costumes-pointed essential features of the verse, even its modulations. All in all, as new conventions supported old in Gielgud's Romeo and Juliet, the protagonists sounded impassioned, looked young and beautiful, and carried out Shakespeare's entire plot.
Apparently unaware of Gielgud's production, Peter Brook viewed his own as a complete departure from precedent: 'It is our job ... to forget the conventions of painted curtains and traditional business, . . . and endless scene-changing. . . . We must make you feel this is not the 'Romeo and Juliet' you have all loved and read, but that you have come into an unknown theatre in an unknown town prepared for a new experience. Toward this end, Brook emphasized the visual elements of theater: 'We must . . keep you in [the] picture', he told the Playgoers' Society at the Birmingham Repertory, and he stressed the picture from rehearsals on. The actors worked ìin a small room, in close physical contact, so they could watch intently reactions to . . the words they spoke.  In reviews, the visuals repeatedly attracted more attention than the performers, and critics continually drew analogies with painting, cinema, and ballet.
RoIf Gerard created the remarkable sets that were impressionistic, small pieces of architecture, 'little bits of isolated realism bathed in translucent light.' Crafted from light, shadow, space, texture, and mass, Gerard's blocks and screens adapted to various effects. Cleared, the stage produced a mood of desolation especially appropriate to the idea of banishment. Filled, it enhanced the action that took place in glorious color: the brawling crowd scenes; the fatal duel treated in the manner of ballet; the cinematic torch-lit masque of Capulet's feast. Costumed in crimson, black, gold, and blue, the characters looked less romantic than passionate and violent. When pencils of light isolated individuals and groups against a Mediterranean blue backcloth, the whole composition appeared more cinematographic than theatrical. According to the New Statesman, lighting 'destroy[ed] the stage as stage, that is, as a square, confined space.' The stage assumed other functions with Brook, as one representative critic summarized: 'One feels that to him the stage is alternately a gallery in which to display his paintings, then a screen on which to outmove the movies. It seldom fails to fascinate the eye'. 
It generally failed to fascinate the ear, however, despite the assistance of Robert Gerhard's original score. If the music picked up emotional and poetic cadences, the lead actors lost them. Daphne Slater, eighteen years old and ìdewy from RADA,  and Laurence Payne, twenty-seven years old and a relative newcomer, acted out Brookís conception of ìtwo children lost in the maelstrom around  In the process, a sympathetic viewer recalls, one way and another, hallowed lines seemed constantly to be ... spoken out into the wings or head downwards.  The Evening Standard described the balcony scene as 'splendidly, indomitably British.' Payne behaved 'like an undergraduate turned sentimental on Boat Race night'. Neither of them made any attempt to sing the lines.  'It was, many said, the play without the lovers.' 
Although it took as long to perform as Gielgud's version, about three and a half hours, it was also the play without much of the fourth and fifth acts; even the reconciliation between Capulets and Montagues was omitted. Brook excused his cuts and other decisions-in public forums arranged for the purpose. He found Shakespeare's dramaturgy wanting in the last part of the tragedy, and he felt it morally wrong to emphasize the verbal elements of drama 'the last decadence'.  In later years, Brook would explain his youthful point of view to Ralph Berry from his mature perspective: 'I had always wanted to direct films, and in fact I started in films before going into the theatre. A film director shows his pictures to the world, and I thought a stage director did the same in another way.'  When he gave this interview in the 1970s, Brook recognized the danger in moving Shakespeare's words and scenes around. With his second Shakespearean effort, however, he envisioned and projected tragic protagonists who looked and sounded plain in a dynamic environment that coordinated pictures, colors, mood, and action.
Brook's early production and ambitions lead conveniently to my final illustration, Franco Zeffirelli's film of Romeo and Juliet. This cinematic version carries Brookís methods-and Zeffirelli's 1960 theatrical production to their logical conclusions; and it provides an appropriate stopping place for at least two other reasons: it remains the most popular and commercially successful rendition of the play during the twentieth century, and it converts the Romeo and Juliet narrative to another genre, as Shakespeare did in the late sixteenth century and at the start of this paper. Whereas Shakespeare translated fiction into theater through verse and dramatic conventions, Zeffirelli turns theater into cinema through all the resources of the new medium. Shakespeare borrowed plot and character from his predecessors; Zeffirelli uses key events and characters from the play as well as one-third of Shakespeare's dialogue.
We can see how the film 'absorbs' the play by glancing at two touchstone passages in Zeffíirelli's script, a blueprint that agrees closely with the finished product. What happens, for instance, to Juliet's characterization at the beginning of 3.2, after the fatal duel and before her wedding night? In the right-hand column of the script, which gives instructions for 'SOUND,' dialogue and effects read thus (n.b., the Nurse does not actually speak the bracketed words in the film):
Nurse (off): Oh Tybalt Nurse: Tybalt, Tybalt The best friend I had Oh, corteous Tybalt, honest gentlemen. Nurse (off-sobs): That [ever] I should live to see Thee dead Juliet: Oh, God! (sobs off) Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse (off): It did, it did, alas the day, it did. Juliet: (overlaping) Oh, Nurse, Oh, serpent heart, hit with a flow' ring face! (sobs) Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? (Moans and sobs off)
The accompanying left-hand column of the script specifies an 'ACTION' for each 'SOUND' and a setting: the Nurse leans against and then moves foreword right along a dresser in the Capulet house. While she sobs, Juliet looks right, then rushes right, the camera panning with her. As they overlap verbally, she and the Nurse embrace in a medium shot, and then they sink to the floor as the camera tilts down. Finally Juliet throws herself left, exiting foreground left for the closing moans and sobs.
Zeffirelli has siphoned the anguish from this part of the narrative, conveyed it through gestural and sound effects, set it off with the camera, and produced the impression of an adolescent sorely disappointed and oddly formal in her expression of grief. He creates a similar impression of Romeo in Friar Lawrence's cell, a scene introduced as tolling bells and murmuring fade after the Princeís sentence. During the whole sequence, Romeo speaks thirteen Shakespearean lines; the Nurse speaks the same number; but Friar Lawrence speaks three dozen. While the Friar admits the Nurse to another tolling bell, and they both admonish Romeo, the young lover fills out his performance with sobs (there are as many directions for sobs as lines of dialogue), grunts, pants, thumpings, grappling, and general commotion.
Romeo and Juliet look beautiful in this film, and they carry on against a gorgeous and authentic Mediterranean backdrop. Nino Rota's score emphasizes the melancholy aspects of their love of all young love. And as Albert R. Cirillo has demonstrated in a long, sympathetic analysis of Zeffirelli's method, visual and aural effects often work together to project multifaceted images of the protagonists and their relationship, especially their communication through physical action and gesture. But if the director uses sight, sound, color, photography, pictorial composition in the way that a poet uses rhythm, rhyme, and recurrent imagery, the cinematic results vary significantly from the poetic. Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet sound different from the rest of Verona as they express themselves in skillfully managed verse; Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet  sound different because they speak less-and less articulately than the others. Zeffirelli's characters therefore lack the imaginative qualities that distinguish Shakespeare's; and his visual and aural effects, superimposed, do not replace the lyricism that identifies Romeo and Juliet in the original dramatic text. So we recognize Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet by their places in the narrative and by the ways the actors make them look and sound to fit the director's 'controlling image.' We perceive contemporary, lovely, strikingly young figures, Renaissance in dress and awkward in diction, a conflation of the very old and the very new. In this age of advertising and technology, we recognize them today even outside the film, on posters and in television guides: they are Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey almost twenty years ago, literal translations of Romeo and Juliet into flower children of the aging twentieth century.
© Dr. Jill Levenson
Trinity College, Toronto, Canada
The content of this paper will appear fully elaborated in my book about Romeo and Juliet in performance to be published by Manchester University Press in 1987. Material on Shakespeare's poetry and sources has already been published in Shakespeare Studies 15 (1982): 21-36, and Studies in Philology (Summer 1984): 325-47.
1. (London: Methuen & Co., 1968), 80.
2. Alfred Harbage. Theatre for Shakespeare (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1955),
3. (Berkerly snd Los Angeles: University of California Press. 1956), 116.
4. 5. H. and A. K., 17ó19 October 1771.
5. Shakespeare on the American Stage (Washington, D.C.: Folger Books, 1976), 93.
6. Emma C. Cushman, 'Charlotte Cushman: A Memory' 1918 typescript at the Library of Congreas, 7.
7. Quoted in Emma Stebbins, Chartoue Cushman: Her Letters and .Vtemories of Her Life (Boston, 1879), 63.
8. The London Times, 30 December 1845, and an unidentifiable review, 13 January 1846, in Cushman's scrapbook at the Library of Congress.
9. See E. J. West, Irving in Shakespeare: Interpretation or Creation Shakespeare Quarterly6 (Autumn 1955): 419.
10. Quoted in The Evening Standard, 10 October 1935.
11. The Sketch, 30 October 1935.
12. Quoted in The Birmingham Post, 10 March 1947.
13. Time and Tide, 12 April 1947; The New Statesman, 18 October 1947: The Evening Standard, II April 1947.
14. The News Chronicle. 28 November 1946.
15. Quoted in The Neuso Chrossicte, 8 April 1947.
16. Time and Tide, 12 April 1947.
17. 11 April 1947.
18. The Daity Telegraph, 7 October 1947.
19. The Stratford-on-Avon Herald, 18 April 1947.
20. On Directing Shakespeare: Interviews with Contemporary Directors (London: Croom Helm, 1977), 117.
21. 'The Art of Franco Zeffirelli and Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet', TriQuarterly 16 (Fall 1979): 92.
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