The archaeological aesthetic in ancient world documentary

Archaeology as evidence

Delphi: Bellybutton of the Ancient World (Tern TV, 2010) provides the case study for our first archaeological mode. As the title suggests, this programme is about a single place, defined as the centre of the ancient world. From the very start, and for the majority of the programme, presenter Michael Scott is on location, pondering Delphi’s history amidst the ruins of its ancient sanctuaries. Given the vogue for travel within historical documentary, this might be expected. Yet, the excavated sanctuary is not merely the locus of Scott’s investigations, an attractive and topically appropriate setting to discourse from. Rather, the archaeological remains are fundamental to the historiographical process. The excavated sanctuary of Apollo becomes an evocative venue for narrative explication and imaginative repopulation, while the complex and its associated artefacts provide physical evidence of the phenomena and events described. The primacy afforded to archaeology generates a visual style, and at the same time builds authority for the programme’s evaluation of Delphi’s significance in the ancient world.

Two episodes demonstrate the evocative capacity of the archaeological site. The first follows a discussion of the sanctuary’s excavation history with expert witnesses, intercut with photographs taken during the process, and an assertion by the presenter that, for visitors, Delphi was and remains ‘a beacon for internationalism’ (05:49). This will be a central contention, but for now it is a hypothesis that must be tested, and the way to do this is ‘to find out what was really going on at this site thousands of years ago’ (06:11–06:17). One montage later, Scott appears in person at the sanctuary of Apollo. This place has so far been glimpsed through overhead and close-up shots, excavation photographs and a painting by the late 19th-century architect Albert Tournaire. Now it takes centre-stage, as the setting for an exposition on ‘what actually happened when they [ancient worshippers] arrived’ (07:23–07:25). Proceeding up a winding path, Scott in voiceover recalls the words of the philosopher Plutarch, a witness to the parallel journey in antiquity. But on arrival at the temple, the narrative becomes his own, as he describes in person the advent of worshippers intent on consulting the oracle. Going inside, Scott continues to conjure up their progress: ‘And here we are inside the sacred temple of Apollo, following in the footsteps of the people who came to consult the oracle, moving from the public front end of the temple towards the back, the inner sanctum, the most sacred area’ (08:32–08:45). Speaking in the hushed tones of David Attenborough’s wildlife observations, the presenter retraces the human journey through the temple. The narration of what happened at the site in the past slips into a ‘live’ reconstruction of the experiences of bygone people in the present.

Never mind that the temple of Apollo is a ruined shell, and the route leads through exposed channels in the floor. The archaeological remains of Delphi’s première sanctuary offer access to the past; or rather, they offer a springboard to imaginative reconstructions by the ‘visitor’. For this is how both Scott and the viewer are positioned. ² On screen, Delphi repeatedly bustles with tourists. Indeed, it is ‘a reincarnation of the ancient sanctuary’, although people ‘come now to learn about the past, not the future’ (17:52–17:55, 18:04–18:07). The presenter shares their mission. When he embarks upon his mimetic journey, the viewer follows with the camera closely behind. This touristic element is reprised when, from a vantage point, the viewer is invited to:

Imagine what this place must have been like at full capacity. When the games were on, maybe up to 40,000 people in the stadium, here in the theatre, watching the athletic and musical competitions. At night gathered around the landscape with around [sic.] their campfires, glittering all over the valley. The animals that had to be brought here not just to sacrifice but also to feed that many people. The noise, the smell, all the tourists coming in and out as Delphi became more and more famous. And in amongst that the temple of Apollo, and perhaps the consultants waiting desperately for the next available day to see the oracle. All that crammed into one crag of the Parnassian mountains. (20:15–20:57)

The urgency and intimacy of this reconstruction is enhanced by the pace and sotto voce intensity of Scott’s delivery. Guided by it, the viewer populates the space with the sights, sounds and smells of its former inhabitants in their mind’s eye. The sanctuary, and the landscape in which it is situated, becomes an affective space. In part, this results from a ‘charismatic’ presentation, designed to stimulate the viewer’s emotions (see Bell and Gray 2007; Ytreberg, 2002: 764–8). But it also corresponds to the ‘touristic’ experience. Today’s heritage industry promises that by visiting places of historical significance visitors will be transported into the past, to experience life as it was lived before (see e.g. Gable and Handler, 2004). The sensory evocation and explication of worshippers’ psychological state encourages a holistic understanding of what it felt like to be at Delphi (cf. Corner, 2010: 15). When Scott concludes that ‘walking through Delphi is like walking through the story of ancient Greece’ (45: 48–54), we might infer that it is not only the programme’s teleological narrative of development and decline that can be accessed through the stones – reflecting a ubiquitous conflation of physical ruin and cultural decay (Macaulay, 1953) – but the story of human experience.

In this respect, Scott’s physical and expository reconstructions resonate with another mode of history: re-enactment. A lack of costume distinguishes them from the more elaborate versions observed in television documentary and reality programmes, and enjoyed by members of dedicated societies. Yet, they correspond in ambition to the performances of actors or ‘real-life’ volunteers who dress up and undertake a series of activities (scripted or otherwise) intended to convey the look, occupations, motivations, emotions and experiences of people in the past (de Groot, 2006). The modus operandi may generate a lower level of affective engagement to fully dramatized and immersive events. Certainly, if re-enactment is ‘a body-based discourse in which the past is reanimated through physical and psychological experience’ (Agnew, 2004: 330), there are limits on what can be achieved without the presenter donning a cloak, making the long trek to Delphi, and setting up camp in the hills. The limited and abstract nature of Scott’s re-enactments does not allow for personal reflection on or interrogation through supposed first-hand experience of the trials and tribulations of Delphi’s supplicants (cf. Cook, 2004: 492). Nonetheless, when the presenter ‘follows’ in the footsteps of ancient worshippers and invites the viewers to imagine themselves as worshippers within the landscape, Delphi shares the re-enactor’s assumption that we can learn about the past by inhabiting a role within historical spaces (cf. de Groot, 2009: 109–16).

The excavated sanctuary of Apollo thus grounds and animates Delphi’s history. It can be marshalled to this end because the site’s perceived connection to the past lends it evidential status. To Gieryn (2006), ‘museums, monuments and memorials materialize what happened before, embodying the past in a more or less authentic physical form’. The important word is materialize (cf. Huyssen, 2003: 1). Delphi’s sanctuary is the product of those 19th-century excavations and its UNESCO charter. Chock-a-block with excavated buildings from across the centuries, devoid of original colour, contents and inhabitants, it is a modern construction. Nonetheless, because people once built and occupied the site, it appears to offer a tangible connection to that time, over two millennia ago, when the sanctuary was alive. As a consequence, the past conjured on-site possesses authenticity. The attraction of going on location is not simply that ‘the place actually exists, therefore what is said must be true’ (McArthur, 1978: 29, original emphasis). Through the archaeology, the site is historically pregnant. For this reason ‘the place itself is convincing’ (Gieryn, 2006). Yet, because the connection is tenuous, interpretations and representations may be highly creative (Woodward, 2002: 15). Scott’s evocation of long-dead inhabitants might be plausible, but it is ultimately romantic supposition and fancy. The archaeological site is thus persuasive and allusive. It provides ‘evidence’ of a very particular kind.

Artefacts associated with Delphi’s sanctuaries also appear on screen to warrant particular historical claims. In documentary generally, images are indexical. They stand for objects in the profilmic world that have been captured on camera and so possess evidential status, generating an impression that the viewer is witnessing reality (e.g. Nichols, 2010: 34; Winston, 1995: 127). But the notion of warranting depends upon an inferable correlation between image and word, so that the visuals might be understood to certify a spoken proposition. ³ In Delphi, this manifests itself in two ways. First, a correlation may be implied. For example, describing the increasing popularity of Delphi, the voiceover remarks:

From 800 bc onwards it began to attract interest and offerings from further and further afield. At first they were small bronze statues of warriors and praying worshippers; later they ran to giant bronze cauldrons and gold and silver too. The oracle was heading for stardom. (16:42–17:06)

Objects flash on screen: bronze figurines bearing weapons or waving their arms; a riveted sheet of green metal; the head of a statue made from ivory and gold. No attempt is made to identify individual items in the imagistic flow. However, like the ruined remains of the sanctuary of Apollo, their antiquity is manifest: partly because of their ‘old’ appearance, and partly because their materials and gestures match the votive offerings described. The presentation of artefacts on screen testifies to their donation in the past, but it is that on-screen appearance alongside the verbal narration that gives them definition and allows them to occupy this role. An artefact’s ability to speak for the past is latent and is actualized through its deployment within a specific narrative context. Items ‘warrant’ Delphi’s history through their generic antiquity and illustrative potential.

Second, archaeology may warrant historical analyses by acting as direct evidence, so that the correlation becomes productive. The material is epigraphical: inscribed stones found at the Apollo sanctuary or the smaller sanctuary of Athena, or in Athens’ epigraphical museum. For example, in the stadium at the top of Apollo’s sanctuary, the presenter finds proof that in ancient Greece athletics and religion were intertwined. Crouching down, he points towards one stone in the stadium wall that is inscribed and reads what is written (the camera zooms in close):

It’s an instruction in the wall of the stadium saying that wine – to onion – me pharen, may not be taken out – out – of the stadium, not into the stadium as we might expect. Out of the stadium, because they were actually making sacrificial wine inside the stadium to use in sacrifices that would have preceded the athletic competition. And if you did take that wine out of the stadium, you got fined at least 5 drachmas and had to make additional sacrifices to the gods. (22:55–23:24)

Greek words are singled out by hand. Glossed and translated, the inscription becomes a source of information. Undergoing similar treatment, contracts written on polygonal walls chart the emancipation of Greek slaves who were placed temporarily under Apollo’s care, and an inscribed statue base at Athena’s temple reveals Greek feelings of unity following shared military victory. In these scenes the presenter performs one of the standard practices of an ancient historian: identifying, analysing and contextualizing written artefacts (see e.g. Osborne, 2004). He again interacts dynamically with the archaeological record, but in an analytical rather than expository mode. The action is repeated during a visit to Athens’ epigraphical museum. As Scott wanders among the inscribed plinths, he explains in voiceover: ‘I like it [the museum] because it contains direct evidence of how the Athenian democracy worked’ (38:27–38:33). When he pauses to observe specific monuments the voiceover continues:

Here is the machine which decided by lot who was to sit on the 500-strong grand juries.… Here is a list of those, rich and poor, who died in battle for the democracy.… Here are pottery sherds which bear the names of Athens’s most famous politicians.… But here too is an eight-foot high list of the cities who had to pay up as members of the Athenian Empire. It’s evidence of how the unity of Greece proclaimed at Delphi was beginning to turn into domination by one city. (38:36–39:29)

Although not subject to direct analysis like the on-site inscriptions, the stones are made to reveal snapshots of Athenian procedures and politics. As the presenter promises on entering the museum, ‘we can actually see it [democracy] in action’ (38:14–38:17); here visitors come ‘face to face with the mechanics of Athenian democracy’ (39:37–39:41). In this rhetoric, antiquity is once more accessed through its material remains.

Archaeology in performance

In its engagement with archaeology, our second case study, Pompeii: Life and Death in a Roman Town (Lion TV, 2010), bears some similarity to the first. It focuses on a single location: ‘the most important archaeological site in the Roman world’ (03:06–03:10). And this site is every bit as central to the narrative, when presenter Mary Beard goes on location, entering Pompeii’s baths, brothels, bakeries and bars to embark upon her own animated brand of evocative reconstruction. Yet, the representation of antiquity through Pompeii’s ‘perfectly preserved ruins’ (03:19–03:21) is accompanied by interrogation of a specific set of artefacts: skeletons of fifty-four men, women, and children who died during the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 ad in a cellar in nearby Oplontis. As Beard turns to them repeatedly for evidence of life in Pompeii, their analysis becomes the lynch-pin of the documentary, offering structure and substance to its assertions (cf. Lazer, 2009, for this approach). However, the bones not only introduce a distinctive set of warranting material, but enable the presenter to adopt the role of archaeological investigator, so that archaeology is in performance.

From their first appearance, the bones are revealers of ‘secrets’, an informative counterpart to the famous plaster casts synonymous with Pompeii. Although the casts give the impression that at Pompeii one comes (yet again) ‘face to face with antiquity’ (03:13–03:14), their utility is limited. ⁴ The skeletons, by comparison, have the potential to advance our knowledge of Pompeii and put the presenter’s theories about its inhabitants ‘to the test’ through forensic analysis. First, however, the unearthing of the skeletons is dramatically ‘restaged’ (05:11–06:39). The camera has been zooming in on a doorway from above, but suddenly the screen is filled with the light from a torch. Silhouetted in a darkened room and shot in close-up, Beard looks around; now with the light of the door behind, her torch shines forth. Bones lie higgledy-piggledy in the foreground. To the innocent eye they look exactly like unexcavated bones lying in a cave. As the presenter approaches, it is almost as if she is making an archaeological discovery. The illusion is dispelled when she contemplates how the people got there, and again when the process of cataloguing is described. And now, as the cave fills with tables laid out piece by piece with bones from a box in rapid-time and the interrogation of the skeletons begins, Beard morphs from archaeological explorer to forensic examiner.

At each stage of the investigation the presenter is on hand not only to ask questions but to observe and theorize:

One of the most complete skeletons is a man aged about 55. Apart from some dental cavities he looks in pretty good nick. If we look at the other bones, I mean I noticed this – I don’t know much about skeletons but that looks to me like something that’s got a real big muscle attachment. (07:30–07:47)

Although downplaying her expertise, the presenter demonstrates intimate knowledge and understanding of the skeleton. She identifies its sex and age, and ascertains the dead person’s general health on the basis of physical features. Furthermore, she directs attention to what she recognizes as an important feature of the bone. Kanz will add information and Beard will ask questions, but for now she is performing the interrogation. Throughout the programme, whether looking at teeth or skull size to determine illness, diet or ethnicity, she will engage vigorously with the bones and the science. Furthermore, the archaeological evidence is used to build a bigger picture. Thus, talking about the discovery that two children had syphilis, Beard broadens the scope to consider what this meant in practice: ‘it’s going from a really nice scientific observation just to a glimpse of a family support network, parents looking after them. The very base of their survival is about human care’ (23:13–23:36). All this archaeology is useful for building theories about antiquity. And it is for this reason she clambers down into the ancient cesspits of Herculaneum, aided by historian Andrew Wallace Hadrill:

AWH: Let’s come down here Mary. It’s not quite so scary as it looks.

MB (voiceover, as she begins the descent): Down here the evidence of Roman diet has been perfectly preserved for two millennia.

MB (in persona): I’m not great on ladders, actually.

AWH: You appear to be disappearing into the bowels of the earth.

(33:45–33:59)

Having previously ‘discovered’ the bones in an Oplontis cellar, the presenter now embarks upon another archaeological adventure. She is a little cautious and the tone light-hearted. Still, as the pair emerge into a darkened tunnel, the beam of their torches appearing first as pinpricks in the dark and then sweeping the walls, the performance extends to (reluctant) explorer, in pursuit of archaeological insights.

The presenter thus stands at the core of the documentary as a forensic and quasi-intrepid archaeologist, a discoverer of past lives through the archaeological record. The investigation is very much framed as an inquisition, carried out through the language of questioning (‘I wonder’), observation (‘I’ll see’, ‘if you look carefully’), discovery (‘I’ll explore’, ‘help me discover’), guesswork (‘I guess’ ) and theorizing (‘my bet …’, ‘doesn’t add up to me’, ‘it makes me realize’). Beard reads not only the bones but also the more conventional archaeological record offered by the Pompeii site to evaluate and reject previous hypotheses – myth-busting, in the programme’s colloquial expression – and draws her own conclusions about the lifestyles of people there. For some this is a ‘journalistic’ or ‘detective’ approach. ⁵ But given the subject matter and style, Beard really offers a consummate performance of an archaeologist in action. ⁶ Or, more accurately, she conforms to the idea of the archaeologist in popular culture, embodying three out of four common themes. This adventurer (theme A) and detective (theme D) makes significant revelations (theme R) (see Holtroff, 2007: 62–103). As this formulation emphasizes, the media archaeologist is ultimately a figure of knowledge. Thus, the presenter’s performance as archaeological investigator lends authority to Pompeii’s historical allegations about life and death in a Roman town.

This adventurer’s nervousness on the ladder adds an extra dimension, however. The scenario is repeated in episode one of the subsequent BBC series Meet the Romans with Mary Beard (Lion TV, 2012). Beard’s descent into an excavated shaft in Rome’s Monte Testaccio, a mountain made from discarded pottery, is depicted first by an upward shot of the ladder that emphasizes its steep gradient and the depth of the shaft. Close-ups of her feet and hands as they find individual rungs then follow. ‘Phew,’ she announces on reaching the bottom, ‘Made it!’ (19:39–19:50). This is the only point at which Beard undertakes an archaeological performance akin to that in Pompeii. For the most part, the Cambridge Professor of Classics interrogates inscriptions and other material evidence, demonstrating her competence in Latin and a rigorous attention to detail. Yet the ladder scenes may work in a similar fashion for both programmes by softening Beard. In historical documentary authoritative voices of women, especially those over the age of 50, remain rare (Bell, 2009). In tandem with the presenter’s genial disposition and charismatic style, complemented by an up-beat soundtrack, the insertion of humour and vulnerability into Beard’s performance may neutralize potential viewer discomfort at her manifest intelligence and the experience of being ‘lectured at by a woman’ (see Hughes, 2009: 8; cited also by Bell, 2008). Should this seem uncharitable to television audiences, who may not be so hung up on gender issues as commissioning executives, another effect is possible. Twice in Pompeii expectations for historical documentary are thwarted: first, when the presenter disputes the information delivered by an expert witness and, second, when she rejects emotional response as a vehicle for insight (Hobden, 2012: 23, 30). Beard’s un-intrepid archaeological adventurer pokes fun at the convention, while exploiting its authorizing potential.

Archaeology in action

Ancient Worlds (BBC Productions, 2010) takes the archaeological performance one step further when its presenter, Richard Miles, embarks upon a mini-excavation. This is archaeology in action. The event takes place in episode one (‘Come Together’) at Tell Brak in modern Syria (15:39–20:37). Having outlined briefly the settlement’s excavation history and finds, Miles clambers down sherd-strewn banks to ‘area TW’, soon explained to be a ‘light industrial unit’. This archaeological terminology, however, is only a foretaste. Miles is next seen climbing up a ladder, brush in hand, face to face with a trench wall. Gripping a jutting edge, he brushes away loose dust and, using his trowel, deftly prises out an item that archaeologists, we are told, would recognize as a bevel-rimmed bowl (BRB). Its method of production, ubiquity and significance as a marker in the development of civilization from farming to the ration bowl and, hence, of a ‘redistributive economy’ (21:14–21:15) is explained. Miles trumps Beard by undertaking the archaeology that forms the basis of his analysis, without another expert in sight.

Once again the presenter conforms to the popular image of an archaeologist, who in modern fiction is invariably a solo operator (Hall, 2004). The scene also encapsulates some of the excitement of archaeological discovery in the field conveyed during Channel 4’s Time Team (VideoText Communications and Picture House TV, 1994–present). In this long-running series, a ‘pop-up’ team have three days to excavate (for example) a mediaeval monastery or Roman villa or industrial revolution workshop (Taylor, 1998). The sense of expectation and revelation drummed up during Time Team’s excavations is matched through the dramatic pacing: Miles’ initial recognition that ‘this looks like it could be a complete one’ (17:51–17:55), his self-directed blandishments to be careful lest the object break, that object’s eventual release, and its display for the camera in Miles’ hands. ‘And there you have a bowl from the fourth millennium BC, and it’s complete. Amazing’ (18:33–18:43). At this point, the camera pulls back to reveal the presenter standing on a precariously balanced ladder, marking this presenter as another adventure archaeologist. Furthermore, the mini-excavation is prefaced with the instruction: ‘Don’t try this at home, not unless you’re a trained archaeologist and you’ve got permission from the authorities’ (17:26–17:33). The comment may be playful, but it reinforces Miles’ expertise above and beyond the viewer at home, who depends upon his skills to participate in the dig and his knowledge to understand the historical importance of the excavated artefact. The generic authority invested in archaeological practitioners is drawn upon and confirmed, underlining the validity of insights into the social and economic structures of the ancient Near East that derive from, and give context to, the BRB.

Archaeology dramatized

Atlantis: End of a World, Birth of a Legend (Moonlighting Atlantis Productions, 2011) puts archaeology into action in a quite different way, when the material remains of antiquity warrant the people and places brought to life on screen. By contrast to our previous case studies, Atlantis is a hybrid form. Billed as a ‘factually based drama’, it expands upon the dramatic re-enactment that often features in historical documentary to create a full-blown melodrama, framed and frequently interrupted by a voiceover description of life in the Minoan world and the eruption of Thera, an island volcano. ⁷ The opening sequence encapsulates this hybridity and the role archaeology will play. Citing the philosopher Plato’s account of Atlantis, the narrator remarks: ‘New research suggests Plato’s story was based on real events’ (00:54–00:58). Out-takes from the forthcoming drama give way to shots of underwater deposits and an excavated city, where a hand clears away rubble to expose a fresco of a man carrying fish. The truth is promised through archaeology. Moreover, archaeology is fundamental to the dramatic reconstruction. As the camera lingers on the face of a young woman, the central character Pinaruti, her profile fades out to be replaced by a weathered painting. With upturned nose, pursed lips and gold hoop earrings, the fresco head is a near match (00:42–00:45). This transition mirrors the closing scene of Fellini-Satyricon (1969), a cinematic adaptation of a Latin novel by Petronius. There the face of the protagonist Encolopio fades into a fresco portrait; when the camera draws back, other characters from the film are shown depicted on ruined walls. Both make explicit the relationship between artefact and representation that underpins the visualization of ‘authentic’ ancient worlds in sword-and-sandals epic (Blanshard and Shahabudin [2011: 5] and Llewellyn-Jones [2005] give examples from the repertoire of Cecil B. DeMille). There is a difference, though. In Fellini’s film the apparent warranting of Encolpio’s adventures is compromised by the accuracy of the portraits, which makes clear the ‘archaeology’ is a modern fabrication. By subverting the association between actor and image, the assumption that we can access antiquity through its remains and our modern historical representations is critiqued (cf. Paul, 2008: 114). In Atlantis, by contrast, the visual progression between actor and artefact asserts the programme’s aesthetic fidelity to the archaeological record. Likewise, that fisherman fresco functions unproblematically like an epic prop. One moment, archaeologists are uncovering it; the next a costumed actor passes it on a city wall (01:17–01:22). The remains of Minoan antiquity authenticate the programme’s 21st-century reconstruction.

Even once the action commences, archaeology is never far away. Over in Knossos and settled in a stadium box, Pinaruti watches her new husband Yishharu attempt to jump a bull. Yishharu’s failure will lead him to Poseidon’s island to make recompense on return to Thera, where the first signs of the impending volcanic eruption will be felt. But before this can happen, the viewer is confronted with the veracity of the bull-leaping spectacle they have just witnessed. While the characters contemplate Yishharu’s performance, the camera moves in on part of the mise-en-scène. The painting of a semi-naked figure grappling with the horns of a bull echoes the arena action. This painting then fades into its real-life counterpart, a restored fresco from Knossos, leading the narrator to intone: ‘Bull-leaping is thought to have been an important initiation rite for young men and possibly even women’ (05:47–06:02). The programme appears to dramatize an actual historical phenomenon, testified by the archaeological evidence.

In Atlantis, archaeology warrants the ‘look’ and action of the dramatic re-enactment of the destruction of ancient Thera (~Atlantis). This fits the programme’s documentary coding. Furthermore, it contributes to the emotional tenor. The grand maestros of early cinema committed vast resources to research and create ‘authentic’ staging and props, not only to claim historical legitimacy for their vision but also because of the association between ‘archaeological authenticity, emotional truth, [and] visual power’: a characteristic of 19th-century novels and paintings depicting Pompeii that carried over into plays and forward into films about antiquity (Richards, 2008: 8–9). Spectacular melodrama was all the more affecting – it acquired greater emotional pull – when settings were recognizably real. Atlantis fits this mould. The characters’ physical and emotional travails – Yishharu’s failed bull-leap and propitiations to Poseidon, Pinaruti’s disconcerting visit to the High Priestess at Thera, the denouncing of Pinaruti by Yishharu’s spurned lover as the cause of the geological unrest, Pinaruti’s flight during the volcanic eruption, and the sacrifice of Yishharu by the priestess high on a mountain place – crescendo within an archaeologically authentic(ated) world that intensifies their increasing plight. The low-key re-encatments staged by the presenter and encouraged in the viewer in Delphi: Bellybutton of the World pale beside the affective power of this full-blown BBC costume drama.

Atlantis’s deployment of archaeology thus reflects its dual origin in documentary and drama. It also mediates the tension between these two genres. Now that fiction, drama and performance are considered part of the documentary tradition, the format is no longer thought anomalous (Caughie, 1983; Corner, 1996: 31–55). Nonetheless, the potential for dramatic re-enactments defined by the structural and emotive needs of melodrama to convey ‘reality’ remains contestable. Effectively, does the confluence of fact and fiction undermine documentary authority, or encourage innovation (Beattie, 2004: 147)? With such questions arising, success depends partly upon the credibility of a programme’s factual foundations (Edgar, 1983: 65). This may explain the extensive use of archaeology in another disaster movie documentary: Pompeii: The Last Day (BBC/TLC/NDR/France 2, 2003). In layout and décor, its sets are modelled upon rooms from the excavated site, which also appear on screen. A helmet, bracelet, flask and bag of coins all enter the narrative, to be worn, dropped and clutched by inhabitants whose final day is re-enacted, and who resolve in their death throes into Pompeii’s famous plaster casts. Through this heavy on-screen presence, archaeology authenticates the drama. As for epic film, it also conveys an impression of detailed research. The dramatized documentary is showing its workings (cf. Goodwin and Kerr, 1983: 5). This is perhaps necessary because, by contrast to Atlantis, where the voiceover only delivers traditional documentary content, the narrator of Pompeii: The Last Day comments directly on the drama, identifying characters, explaining their activities and describing their reactions when Vesuvius explodes. With the boundaries so heavily blurred, archaeology is even more crucial in persuading the viewer to accept the historical representation.

Conclusion: from archaeology to evaluation

Archaeology dominates the visual and discursive economy of ancient world documentary. Each of the four archaeological modes – ‘as evidence’, ‘in performance’, ‘in action’ and ‘dramatized’ –contributes to a distinctive visual style. While going on location and using artefacts to illustrate and warrant assertions is standard in historical documentary, excavated sites, ruined/reconstructed monuments, museum artefacts and archaeological practices create an archaeological ‘look’. At the same time, they facilitate arguments and authorize historical claims. In both senses, archaeology is active within the ‘asserted veridical representation’. Its rhetorical efficacy is facilitated by broader contexts of engagement: a tourist industry and re-enactment culture which prioritizes historical space as an access point to the past; cross-media depictions of archaeologists as sources of revelation and wisdom, be they investigating, exploring or excavating; and cinema’s reconstruction of ancient buildings and objects to authenticate its historical worlds. At the moment of reception, televisual assertions work with viewers’ knowledge or experience of the ancient world through other encounters. By putting archaeology on screen, a programme bids for authenticity and authority.

In sum, the archaeological aesthetic generates a documentary truth-claim. For historical programming this is automatically allied to a promise to inform and instruct. The question then arises, is this claim merely rhetorical, or do our sample programmes usefully (as well as notionally) contribute to the British national broadcaster’s oft-cited obligation to educate as well as entertain? The general debate over the ability of documentary to promote understanding about the past emerged within a wider evaluation of historical film. A central anxiety was the priority of the image: could a visual medium convey the nuance and complexity of written historical discourse? Yet, the first scholars to raise this in academic forums were quick to debunk it: historical writing is selective and produces a crafted representation as much as film (Rosenstone, 1988: 1173). The challenge is then to understand history on film, or ‘historiophoty’, in its own terms, to establish and analyse its language of representation (White, 1988: 1193). Recognizing the characteristics of documentary depictions of the past, however, raises further issues. One filmmaker and theorist recently confessed that ‘television is not very good at history’, summarizing the medium’s constraints: the imposition of temporal and narrative structures and the requirement to utilize photography (Winston, 2010: 42). The aims of history as a discipline are not served by the documentary form. Considering television’s particular demands, Hunt makes an additional point. An absence of ‘social purpose’ and ‘analytical rigour’ hinders the investigation of ‘structures and processes’, because history on television must facilitate empathy rather than explanation and possess a strong narrative (Hunt, 2006: 843–4, 845–6, 849). Delivered by a professional historian and sometime television presenter, these criticisms seem particularly damning.

The present study builds upon the earlier critiques. Historical arguments are shown to be pursued through image and word (or showing and saying) as befits their filmic mode. When the image is archaeological, the conjunction generates a rhetoric grounded in television practice that responds to other forms of historical representation. The visuals persuade at the same time as the spoken content informs. The archaeological aesthetic is one ‘grammatical’ element in the historiophotic language. However, further contemplation suggests that rather than stymie understanding of the past, this documentary feature facilitates it. In every scene discussed above during which archaeological sites or artefacts appear on screen, they offer material for the presenter to analyse and/or the viewer to contemplate. So in Delphi, the sanctuary of Apollo is the venue for informative reconstructions and lends practical evidence about ancient religious practice and experience and Delphi’s politics. Pompeii’s bones, when ‘discovered’ and forensically analysed by Mary Beard, indicate the health, status and ethnicity of Pompeii’s inhabitants, to create a social history of the type desired by Hunt. And the excavated BRB is a starting point for understanding the distributive economy of the ancient Near East in Ancient Worlds. Even in Atlantis, the archaeological material not only warrants the visual representation but also encourages the viewer to reflect upon the historical through the archaeological and dramatic worlds. ‘Television history at its best’, Hunt (2006: 856) argues, ‘invites us to question assumptions, be entertained but also intrigued.’ Academic historians might quibble with some specifics but, across the board, the archaeological aesthetic in our recent BBC documentaries encourages an active mode of engagement. By creating perspectives on possible human experience, the empathy and emotion preferred by television enhance rather than undermine this (cf. Dirk, 2005). Archaeology is intelligently and usefully applied.

Tracing how the archaeological aesthetic operates in history programmes offers one means of evaluating their merits, where success is measured according to the ability to enlighten and stimulate audiences. This may seem a conservative measure, appropriating a scholarly desire for rigour and intellectual engagement. However, it is accommodating and inclusive, rather than exclusive. Historical documentary on television is respected as distinct and active; it engages with and contributes to wider practices of historical representation to reflect and harness its audiences’ wider cultural knowledge about the past. The ability to enlighten and stimulate remains, however, only one possible measure. The potential frames for evaluating television ‘quality’ are diverse – and they are subjective (Brunsdon, 1997: 112–23, 124–47; Mulgan, 1990). If we join Brunsdon (1997: 130) in asking, ‘Quality for whom?, Judgement by whom?, On whose behalf?’, the answers for the present study would be: quality according to an academic measure, judgement by an ancient historian and television viewer, on behalf of other viewers who receive the programmes but who, for the most part, remain outside the debate. Keeping with the archaeological aesthetic, an alternative analysis might gauge individual and group responses to specific representations and ascertain their influence on viewers’ understanding of the past and perception of the present, for example. In this scenario, quality would be determined by impact on individuals and society. However, there is value in continuing a current trend in the study of television aesthetics (e.g. Cardwell, 2006; Hills, 2011). Identifying representational and discursive strategies like the archaeological aesthetic allows fruitful consideration of how (in what ways) and why (for what reasons) a programme is ‘good’ or ‘bad’ within its own terms: as historical documentary on television.