When the Loeb went into operation, nearly all of its doors were kept locked.

And keys were hard to come by...

In the Fall of 1955, Daniel Seltzer came to Harvard as a graduate student in English. Before long, he became involved in Harvard theatre, and both directed and starred in an Adams House production of Othello. Seltzer got his Ph.D. in Fall '59, and was made an instructor in English the same term. He was one of the seven founding members of the faculty student Loeb advisory committee, and after he became an assistant professor in '61 he was named to the all-powerful Faculty Committee on Drama.

Seltzer opposed the Loeb's emphasis on professionalism, but not from the same standpoint as most undergraduates. He saw little use in a drama center which made no attempt to educate the students who worked in it. He wanted to dilute the "laissez-faire amateurism" so opposed by Chapman with credit courses and seminars, rather than simply turn over leading roles to more experienced people.

It was Seltzer's misfortune to arrive in a climate of widespread hostility toward most of the ideas he advanced. Faculty sentiment was divided between support for Chapman's professionalism, and for the amateurism which had been the mark of Harvard theatre before the Loeb. Most students were committed to the latter, and they were just as hostile to credit courses as to outside people, graduate students and faculty members.

Seltzer's views played no tangible part in Loeb politics until the Fall of '63. The age-old issue of faculty control continued to obsess the HDC; disorganized amateurism remained the Loeb administration's target. Incredibly little headway was made on either side from the Loeb's inauguration through its first three years.

The Shakespeare Festival

When Chapman went on sabbatical in the Fall of '63, he was replaced not by George Hamlin, assistant director of the Loeb, but by Seltzer. Seltzer was on the faculty, which probably explains why he got the temporary post and Hamlin didn't. Seltzer's ideas about integrating the Loeb into the educational process -- with credit and non-credit courses for undergraduates -- had slowly gained strong support from several influential Faculty Committee members. Seltzer made it immediately clear that as director of the Loeb he would see some of his plans put into execution, at least in miniature. He said he hoped to speed the Loeb's development into a "truly educational instrument in the study of dramatic literature."

To many, Seltzer's vision smacked of drama schoolery, which nearly everyone was against. On the Faculty, William Alfred was perhaps the most outspoken opponent of drama courses at the Loeb. Alfred also frowned on professionalism--"the aim of the University is to make students responsible for big plants," he said; "the theatre will get that way, but it will take time."

It happened that Seltzer's second term as director of the Loeb marked the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare's (and Marlowe's) birth. That called for a celebration -- and everyone wanted to take part. The Shakespeare Festival, generally plotted by Chapman, Hamlin, and Seltzer the preceding Spring, was expected to be one of the most exciting events not only in the history of the Loeb, but of Harvard theatre.

There were to be two Shakespeare productions, and four Marlowe readings. The whole thing would continue over the summer. Related seminars would be conducted by Faculty Shakespeare and Marlowe scholars, so festival participants could learn as well as perform. It sounded just dandy.

A phenomenal number of people signed up to be interviewed for the festival -- so many that casting had to be done with mimeographed form letters sent to each applicant, telling him whether he had been accepted, and what parts he had been given. With these letters the roof fell on most personal visions for the festival. The old Loeb hands -- graduate students, outside people, and a small clique of upperclassmen -- found themselves, almost without exception, cast in minor roles.

A large percentage of the 250 people chosen to participate in the festival were inexperienced, younger undergraduates, many of whom wrested juicy parts away from their elders. Seltzer was bringing a totally new generation into the Loeb. And yet, as his detractors were quick to note, Seltzer had given himself the juiciest parts of all. He was to direct Julius Caesar, starring Hamlin, and to star in King Lear, directed by Hamlin. Many excluded from major roles in the festival saw a Seltzer conspiracy to build an organization geared toward Seltzer's goal of putting the Loeb in the course catalogue. More ominously, they foresaw a drama department with Seltzer in charge.

The Shakespeare Festival was not the smashing success Seltzer hoped it would be. His Julius Caesar was poorly received, as was King Lear, which followed. The Marlowe readings, somewhat more successful, were no triumph either. Some of the actors consigned to small roles in the Shakespeare plays, or to larger ones onlyin the readings, had declined their parts to become temporary Loeb exiles. They were hardly overcome with grief over the Festival's failings.

It also had undeniable merits. Seltzer had succeeded in opening the Loeb to students who might never have gotten involved. He had, regardless of his apparent or real motives, introduced academic structure to production work, and reversed the positions of the in-group and the out-group. Now the only exiles were disgruntled elders.

The Revolution of the Saints

The HDC's influence at the Loeb during its first four years was erratic and undefinable. Student directors generally chose their own plays, but often with advance consideration for what the Faculty Committee would tolerate. In a few instances when undergraduates put forth radical proposals, they were quickly overruled.

In the Spring of '61, Mark Mirsky wanted to stage The Jew of Malta, but it was rejected by the Faculty Committee, ostensibly because of the difficulty of finding a lead actor. Unofficially, HDC members speculated that fear of incurring outside criticism had been the real reason for the committee's acton.

Director Paul Ronder submitted three plays for the Fall of '62. But when he returned to Harvard at the end of the Summer, he had decided to do Long Day's Journey Into Night, which had not been on his original list. The rights to Long Day's Journey were unavailable, so Ronder chose Ulysses in Nighttown as an alternate; this the Faculty Committee rejected, calling it unfeasible.

Frustrations like these were not uncommon. Yet they resulted as much from the fragmented structure of the HDC as from concerted faculty attempts to exert control. HDC membership meetings were loud, long and fruitless--particularly since no amount of discussion could overcome the organization's overriding problem: lack of money.

HDC non-Loeb productions had been unprofitable, and Loeb profits, such as they were, went to the University, which also financed all mainstage productions. The HDC's main source of funds -- the green-room Coke machine -- was unable to keep the HDC above water, and by the Fall of '64 the Harvard Dramatic Club was all but bankrupt.

Until then the HDC had been an admirable participatory democracy. There was a five-man executive committee, but it had no real power, and its operations were under the complete control of the whole organization. The HDC met en masse whenever there was an important question to decide. Plays were selected in much the same way as a party nominates its presidential candidate, only with less decorum.

This probably would have continued indefinitely, but for the HDC's impending financial ruin. To avoid complete bankruptcy, HDC leaders realized they needed at least a small share of Loeb proceeds. It was suggested that the HDC become co-sponsor of every Loeb production, and that HDC benefit performances be scheduled when necessary. This was unacceptable to the Loeb's administration, which looked with disfavor on the process of assigning mainstage slots by vote of the HDC's whole membership.

The formula which solved everything was developed by John Anderson '66, who later went into cahoots with John Lithgow '67, then a sophomore and already recognized as one of the best actors to come through Harvard in years. Anderson and Lithgow suggested that the executive committee become self-perpetuating--that it choose its own new members--and that it alone be entrusted with selecting plays for mainstage production. In return for this concession to Faculty feelings (Chapman's in particular), the HDC was to pass on all Loeb productions, and its finances were to be regularly replenished through benefit performances.

The most amazing part of Anderson and Lithgow's proposal was their method for choosing the first new executive committee. They simply suggested that, together with Laura Esterman '66 and David Maynard '67, they would become the executive committee. This, understandably enough, aroused the fury of many HDC members.

Chapman, however, liked the idea, even though he did suggest that a fifth person be admitted into the new body: Timothy S. Mayer '66, president of Harvard G&S. Chapman thought this would make the committee more representative of all undergraduates interested in Harvard theatre. Anderson, Lithgow, Maynard, and Miss Esterman concurred.

Predictably the HDC meeting at which the whole formula was unveiled turned into a bloody, no-holds-barred battle. The main opponent of the new proposal was Charles Ascheim '66, and the meeting finally adjourned having only decided to give Ascheim a chance to speak with Chapman -- to see if he would accept an elected executive committee.

Chapman stated unmistakably that he would not. When the HDC met the following week, even Ascheim reluctantly supported a plan for a self-perpetuating committee.

The Age of Mayer

Every revolution needs a leader, and the Spring '65 upheaval at the Loeb proved no exception. Power was fine, but there had to be someone on the newly enfranchised HDC executive committee to consolidate and exert it. That someone quickly became Timothy S. Mayer '66, president of Harvard G&S and one of the five self-appointed leaders of the new HDC hierarchy.

In the Fall of '64, for the gargantuan sum of $8000, Mayer had mounted a dazzling production of Gilbert and Sullivan's Utopia, Limited on the Loeb mainstage. He lost no time getting to the vital center of HDC politics.

Mayer's approach to HDC matters was a blend of fast talking and friends in high places. He made no attempt to hide personal likes and dislikes, which were legion. But he was always intelligent, almost always logical, and all to frequently right. Mayer might have been outclassed in the world of politics, but as a politician in the world of theatre, he was without peer.

HDC meetings took on a new character once the executive committee assumed the right to select plays. The membership-at-large still elected its own officers -- a president and two secretaries -- but these were, until recently, figurehead posts; the presidency was almost a consolation prize for not getting onto the executive committee. Regular meetings were devoted to electing officers, talking about the Coke machine, and arguing policy questions on which the executive committee had the real control.

It became increasingly difficult to assemble a quorum. As a result, meetings began with the absurdly unconstitutional process of an insufficient number of members deciding to suspend the quorum rule. Lack of authority spawned lack of interest, which in turn made it harder and harder for the HDC membership to decide anything.

The executive committee decided nearly everything. Under the tutelage of Mayer, the HDC was finally able to present a united front to the Faculty -- and the long-debated issue of faculty control, whether real or imaginary, seemed to have resolved itself in favor of the undergraduates.

The effects of the new system were less than staggering. Most shows approved by the executive committee would probably have been done, and done the same way, under the old done, and done the same way, under the old system. But no longer did undergraduate directors feel so obliged to propose uncontroversial plays or "recog- nized classics of the stage." It was tacitly acknowledged by both faculty and students that the HDC, in return for vesting its power in a non-elected executive committee, would be rewarded with a larger part in the administration of the Loeb.

In the first year under the new system, one defect became obvious. The same people who assigned mainstage slots were competing for them. Consequently any degree of critical detachment was impossible.

Maybe in recognition of this problem, the self-perpetuating committee began to choose more non-directors. Mayer, one of the original members, and Ascheim, who came on in the Fall of '65, were replaced last Spring by Peter Jaszi and Howard Cutler, both actors involved in tech and production work.

Institutions and Personalities

When the Loeb went into operation, nearly all of its doors were kept locked. And keys were hard to come by. Chapman, who hoped the Loeb would become a sort of meeting place for interested undergraduates, asked Buildings and Grounds for more keys, but he was repeatedly put off. The Loeb was run like any other university building, and it was more a meeting place for its countless janitors than for the students who occasionally worked there.

The practice rooms on the second floor are still unfurnished and unattractive. Chapman, Hamlin and Seltzer have reasonably comfortable office space, and the HDC office certainly has a lived-in look. But by and large the Loeb is immaculate and bare--or, as its detractors would put it, "cold and forbidding." Alongside this lack of warmth, directors complain about the proliferation of Loeb bureaucracy, which imposes all sorts of additional limitations.