The Bard’s Book Club Revisited

It’s been nearly four months since we finished our travels with Shakespeare, and our lives have pretty much returned to normal, or as normal as we get: going to and acting in plays, reading Shakespeare biographies and Dickens novels, attending and photographing sharknado-marred weddings, etc.

But I am pleased to announce a brief return of the Bard’s Book Club! Beginning in mid-October, we will be reconvening with a new member, who sadly couldn’t join us the first time around, to read and discuss Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. This will be quite the departure from Shakespeare, in length and format as well as in content and mood. About 330 years separate Shakespeare’s last play from Waugh’s masterpiece. Their worlds were vastly different: while Waugh grew up in the shadow of the Great War and spent his young adulthood at lavish parties before converting to Catholicism and entering World War II, Shakespeare lived in a society in which these elements existed in less-shocking degrees. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, wars were commonplace but not devastating or decimating, people had a merry time but also too many daily concerns to organize life around orgies, and religious conversion represented a threat to the social order rather than a personal eccentricity.

Although we don’t intend to compare the two writers in this next study, I point out these general differences to emphasize the newness of our book club’s next endeavor. We are excited to dive into something else and use the reading and discerning skills we’ve strengthened throughout the first phase of the Bard’s Book Club. The key thing is to keep reading, and we have no intention of stopping!

Texas Shakespeare Festival’s Cymbeline

The cast of the Texas Shakespeare Festival production of Cymbeline

Shakespeare’s Romances are truly some of his most mature and compelling works, made all the more relevant and beautiful by a truthful and skilled retelling.  The Texas Shakespeare Festival’s Cymbeline, directed by Deb Alley, closed with it’s matinee performance on Saturday, but it’s run certainly did justice to Shakespeare’s epic story and characters.   I expected as much; last year’s staging of The Winter’s Tale was miraculous and poignant.  In this year’s Romance, the brilliant cut of the script flowed effortlessly and the production managed to lighten up a play that truthfully could be very dark, though I think a bit more of the tragic element would have increased the cathartic experience.  With mastery of words the actors embodied the characters and the world of the play, including the two lovers, who showed me a version of Imogen and Posthumus that I did not expect.  This production answered some of my questions about Cymbeline, and raised new ones.

You might recall from my reflection on our discussion of Cymbeline that this play secured it’s place at the top of my favorites list early on as we were reading through all of Shakespeare’s plays.  Cymbeline is one of Shakespeare’s later, mature works known as the Romances, which encapsulates the best pieces of his prior work and all of his genres in one.  It is a romance, a comedy, a tragedy, a history play, and a war play.  And I cannot describe my excitement when I learned I would finally get to see it.

Emily Brown as Imogen and Thom Miller as Iachimo in the Texas Shakespeare Production of Cymbeline

Having now witnessed this work brought to life on stage, I understand the challenges that often steer directors away from taking on this epic tale.  But I also have seen how well it works!  It’s true, Cymbeline is a challenging play to stage.  There are many characters and plots and, while things don’t get too complicated to follow along, there are characters we don’t see a whole lot of, most notably the title character Cymbeline and the lover Posthumus.  The play is mostly balanced, but I was aware of how long we went without touching base with these two, respectively, and can better understand the challenges this play presents.

This challenge was partially overcome by the brilliant cut of the play.  The internal cuts were flawless.  I love this play and I barely noticed some of the missing pieces.  The Deus ex Machina scene in which Posthumus is visited by the ghosts of his family and the god Jupiter was cut, and not missed.  In fact, I felt the play was more grounded than it might otherwise have been without it.  The Queen, though evil, did not use magic in her schemes, but rather earthly potions and manipulations.  So with the cutting of the supernatural scene we were left with just human beings, Shakespeare’s favorite subject.

Emily Brown as Imogen and Tim Heller as Posthumus in the Texas Shakespeare Festival production of Cymbeline

The two human beings at the center of the play are also two of my favorite Shakespeare characters.  When analyzing the play, I viewed Posthumus and Imogen as two lovers who start off rather immature; their love is passionate, but rebellious.  In reading the play I saw them grow and develop as betrayal, loss, and war changed them, until they were reunited having grown stronger as individuals and coming to fully understand what they meant to each other.

In the TSF production, both characters came off as mature at the beginning.  Passionate and impulsive, but I didn’t see the naivety I expected to, and I was left wondering where these characters had to go from here?  No matter where one begins, betrayal, loss, and war will always be transformative, and I enjoyed watching these mature, strong versions of the characters grow.  Posthumus started out so sure about his love’s loyalty and chastity, and through a journey during which he was broken and guilt-striven, he ended up being sure about his love for Imogen and her innocence all over gain, but in a new way.  Imogen who defied her father and showed strength against adversity proves to be clever, gentle, forgiving and yet firm, defying her husband in the end:

“Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?

Think that you are upon a rock, and now

Throw me again.”

I was fascinated by this unexpected portrayal of Posthumus and Imogen, and I loved it!  The characters clearly do not have to start out in a naive or immature place to transform and mature tremendously.

Tim Heller as Posthumus and Thom Miller as Iachimo in the 2014 Texas Shakespeare Festival production of Cymbeline

The actors were simply brilliant.  Andi Dema, who portrayed Cloten had a mastery of the words and used every single one of them to highlight his characters foolishness and nail unforeseen comedic moments.  Emily Brown as Imogen also used Shakespeare’s words wonderfully, had great energy, and embodied the strength of one of Shakespeare’s strongest female characters.  Tim Heller as Posthumus was passionate in his love, hurt, and hate (I wish he had had his moment of forgiveness at the end.  It was a shame that his lines forgiving Iachimo, which in turn inspire Cymbeline to forgive his enemies, was cut).  Thom Miller was an enjoyable Iachimo to watch, well motivated, clear in his decisions, and poignant in the last scene.  Micah Goodding was endearing as Pissanio, loyal and true.

Andi Dema as Cloten in the Texas Shakespeare Festival production of Cymbeline

All of the actors did a marvelous job not only with their own characters, but also in coming together to lighten up the story.  Personally, I hope one day to see a production of Cymbeline that has a bit more of the tragic element, and takes us to those deeper, darker places, so that the light is more refreshing when it returns.  Cloten’s foolishness led his scene plotting Posthumus’ murder and Imogen’s rape to read as a dim-witted man forming a stupid and clumsy plan.  At first, I was uncomfortable with the audience’s laughter during this scene, but the actor led us through Cloten’s thought process and seemed to show us that there was no real danger to fear from him, giving us freedom to laugh at his scheme.  The murder and beheading of Cloten also prompted some laughter when a dummy body and bloody head was revealed.  I’m not sure how the silly aspects of this scene could be avoided entirely, and this production wasn’t trying to hide those elements, but I struggled to experience the reality of what was happening and immerse myself in the danger of the story when the comedic rather than tragic elements were highlighted in these moments.

I loved this production, don’t get me wrong!  It was perfect for the vision that was being put forth.  I just look forward to seeing other versions of Cymbeline that have different takes as well, to compare and to enjoy.  After all, that’s part of the brilliance of Shakespeare’s works.  There are so many ways to bring his stories to life, and each production brings something new.  I am saddened that Cymbeline is a play not often embraced by Shakespeare companies, but I am certainly glad the Texas Shakespeare Festival was bold enough to produce it this year.  I had high expectations seeing my favorite Shakespeare play on stage for the first time, and I was thrilled by the production I witnessed at TSF!

The Merry Readers of Windsor

A few months ago we decided as a book club that we’d pre-choose our last play. We had a few guidelines:

• We wanted it to be new, so nothing any of us had read before.
• It had to be a comedy. If we’d ended on Titus Andronicus, we may have spent most of our reunion angry and bitter.
• We really wanted a good one. All’s Well That Ends Well would not have left us on a happy note.

With those parameters set, we all agreed on The Merry Wives of Windsor. While a little concerned by the presence of the ever-obnoxious Falstaff, we decided it was worth the gamble.

Mistress Ford (Heidi Kettenring) and Mistress Page (Kelli Fox) from Chicago Shakespeare Theater

Merry Wives didn’t disappoint. It’s a fun, lighthearted play, made even better in light of Shakespeare’s entire canon. Perhaps we’d appreciate any last play because of the ability to compare and contrast it with the others; yet this one especially seemed significant because it addresses the same themes and issues seen throughout the canon, but with a much different approach and outcome.

Themes of revenge, jealousy, adultery, and marriage are all covered in Merry Wives, just as in other plays. Like in Cymbeline and Othello, jealousy and assumed adultery go hand in hand. Revenge is constantly discussed, as in plays like Othello and Merchant of Venice. Marriage without the parents’ consent, reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet, provides the Anne subplot. The issues are hardly new.

Yet Merry Wives doesn’t feel like Othello, Cymbeline, Merchant of Venice, or Romeo and Juliet. The stakes aren’t so high, and as a reader or listener, you can feel the ease of tension. In most of our former plays, whether comedy or romance or tragedy, the threat of death hung over characters like an ever-present fog. Jealousy almost always resulted in a murder attempt, broken relationships, or suicide. Unblessed marriage resulted in pain, suffering, or suicide. Revenge ended in humiliation or death. In the tale of Windsor, however, death is never an option. Falstaff is disciplined, but not in any permanent way. Slender and Doctor Caius are humiliated, but with no real lasting harm. We feel the freedom to relax and enjoy ourselves. What’s more, the play ends in a true unity rarely seen in Shakespeare’s plays. Even in comedies like Much Ado About Nothing, at least one character ends disgraced or something doesn’t feel quite right. This unresolved feeling is completely absent from Merry Wives.

I believe part of the reason for these differences in Merry Wives (if not the entire reason) is that this play deals with the middle-class, the average people who are never given the spotlight in Shakespeare’s other plays. The histories and tragedies naturally featured political and military leaders, and consequently they dealt with much greater problems with much greater effects. Yet in Merry Wives the cast is on the fringes of both the lowest and highest classes, so their problems aren’t nearly as great. As one of our BBC members pointed out, the characters in this play are part of a normal society, and in a normal society you need to follow societal standards in order to survive. Differences must be resolved, people forgiven, and revenge proportionate to the crime. Individuals must embrace unity for the good of the community.

The society’s togetherness is demonstrated through the language of the play as well. For most of Merry Wives, the language is scarred by malapropisms and horrible accents. We rarely see verse, much less perfect iambic pentameter. Then, as the action comes to a head in the final revenge scene, the speech becomes perfectly clear and poetic. The characters can suddenly dance and sing and speak beautifully. They accomplish something that no other Shakespeare cast has done—they have performed a perfect play-within-a-play in their Herne’s Oak deception. Moreover, while in other plays language mainly disassociated the upper class from the lower class and never reconciled, in this play we see the verbal disconnection pushed aside. The foreigners are embraced as part of the community when they take part in the final ruse. The Fords’ marriage is saved by clear communication, while usually we’d expect it to be ruined by a lack thereof. For once, a daughter and son-in-law’s pleas for mercy actually move hearts, and the Fords accept Anne’s marriage. It’s through words that the society is saved. As everyone is brought together in unity, it’s only fitting that their speech becomes unclouded as well.

It’s this unity that sets The Merry Wives of Windsor apart. In this play, balance is restored. Falstaff will not attempt to steal a man’s wife again. Ford trusts his wife completely. Anne has married the man whom she has chosen, and no one is fighting over her anymore. Everyone is invited to the celebrations, and life can move forward. As Mistress Page says,

Good husband, let us every one go home,
And laugh this sport o’er by the country fire;
Sir John and all. (V.v.246-248)

It’s bittersweet, really. As we ended our discussion, I couldn’t help but think how fitting it was that we end with a play about unity. Even if we don’t live in Windsor, our shared experiences have knit the four of us closely together. We’ve established rules, showed grace, laughed, and even feasted together. The end of The Merry Wives of Windsor hints that life will continue, and friendship will last. I believe that’s true for us, as well.

Money Can’t Grow Happiness

Earlier this week, we had our final video-chat meeting: Timon of Athens. (I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have the tragedies out of the way.) The panic is setting in. How am I going to read great works of literature without my book club members (we’re playing with the name “Bard’s Council of Ladies”)? Here are some of the insights from Liz, Katy, and Hannah that I took in this time:

Alcibiades, Timon, and the two whores

There are very few women in this play, fewer than we’ve ever encountered before. There are only the two prostitutes in Alcibiades’s company and the dancers at Timon’s first banquet (whom, frankly, I hesitate to count).

Furthermore, there are no familial or romantic relationships in this play—quite strange for Shakespeare. Every relationship is either business-related or some variation of neighbor and friend (“friend,” I should say).

On an apparently unrelated thought, there is very little character development or growth throughout the plot. Timon does a complete turnaround (but he seems just as narrow and blind in the second half as in the first, just on the opposite side of the spectrum), and a few people change their minds, but no one appears to learn, have epiphanies, etc.

In my own reading, I noted how often the topic of usury comes up. I have added all of these thoughts together for this post.

Although lending money at interest is commonplace today, the medieval and Renaissance mind would be shocked. The old Jewish law (never mind their not-so-kind attitudes towards Jews themselves) commanded one not to charge interest on a loan to a neighbor or countryman. Literal usury comes up several times throughout Timon of Athens. Timon is a debtor, and his creditors want to be paid. Apemantus, the fool, and some servants joke about their usury-practicing masters (who seem to be the ones loaning to Timon) as well as about the fool’s mistress, who is involved in prostitution, another form of “usury” to Elizabethans.

I don’t think that Timon sees himself as part of this system, though. He borrows money, but he mentally distances himself from his debts and certainly doesn’t think of usury as part of his lifestyle. Later, he defines “usuring kindness” as that which wants “in return twenty for one” (IV.iii.501-502). His kindness towards his friends, however, asks only one in return for one:

When he [Ventidius] was poor,
Imprisoned, and in scarcity of friends,
I [Timon] cleared him with five talents. Greet him from me.
Bid him suppose some good necessity
Touches his friend, which craves to be remembered
With those five talents.

He follows the religious law and probably also imagines himself to fulfill a law of friendship. But usury has to do with more than just lending, and that extended area is where Timon gets himself in trouble.

Not only did the Law of Moses forbade charging interest, but people who spent a lot of time thinking about such things also figured that it’s just plain weird to do so. Usury forces money to come from money: a moneylender has ten dollars, loans it to someone else, and when he gets it back, suddenly he has eleven. The medieval Church took issue with this because money is actually sterile. It makes perfect sense to have two sheep, let them spend some time together, and end up with three. It also is quite reasonable and expected to plant one seed in the ground and get a plethora of fruit or grain or what have you. But money cannot reproduce. Bury a coin and later there will still be one coin. Usury was therefore considered not only unlawful but also unnatural.

Timon’s principal difficulty in this play is that he, like so much of Athens, believes that money is a living, breathing organism; although he does not try to make more money with it, as in traditional usury, he attempts to breed human sentiment from it. He gives jewels and gold to people in expectation of receiving love and friendship back from them. Yet in giving gifts instead of his own love (we could argue that Timon gives love as well—perhaps even his “love language” is gift-giving—but he at least gives gifts before and in excess of other forms of loving and becoming familiar with people), he merely encourages the Athenian lords to love his gold and not his person.

A cartoonist’s portrayal of Flavius giving to the other servants (click to go to the rest of play)

Shakespeare emphasizes this erroneous mode of thinking with other instances of gift-giving. When others in the play give money away, they do it in a quite different manner. After Timon has fled in disgrace and disillusionment, Flavius splits his remaining cash with the other servants (IV.ii). It is clear, though, that there is a sense of brotherhood between them. Flavius calls them his “fellows” (3, 25) and assures them that they are “All broken implements of a ruined house” (16, emphasis added). His giving flows naturally out of an existing relationship of sympathy, mutual respect, and affection. Alcibiades, too, follows this pattern. When he meets the newly cynical Timon in the woods outside Athens, he first shows respect and concern for his friend: “Noble Timon, what friendship may I do thee?” (VI.iii.70). Timon, of course, is at this point a cur to everyone, but Alcibiades still wants to help. He acquiesces when Timon says he’d rather be alone and offers him gold (VI.iii.97-99). It turns out that the captain is one of Timon’s only true friends, perhaps because he, being a soldier, has not had as much chance to attend the lavish banquets or simply is more appreciative of the kindness and human connection his interactions with Timon have afforded. In any case, though Timon is now past the point where he can appreciate or respond to these truly loving gifts, the two men have the proper order mastered.

But Timon never really gets it. In the second half of the play, when Timon has lost his illusions about what money can do, he sees the citizens of his city for what they really are: even the “honoured” old men are “usurer[s]” (IV.iii.111-112). This discovery helps him little, though, as we watch him move to the other extreme in his attitudes towards money and friendship. Before he has equated gold with friendship (and both are good); now he dissociates gold with friendship (and both are bad). (Remember Apemantus’s comment that Timon has never known the “middle of humanity,” only “the extremity of both ends,” IV.iii.300-301.) Isn’t it curious that when, while trying to find roots (a natural, living, reproducing thing) and instead stumbling upon gold, Timon chooses to throw it at people? He could easily use his new treasure to start over elsewhere and form relationships the healthy way, but he is so addicted to the sterility of his life up to this point that he cannot imagine relating to either money or people in a new, fertile way.

Alcibiades, on the other hand, has known about Athens and its usury for some time, and this may provide a clue as to how he fits into the play, a question with which we struggled. He twice accuses the senators of usury when he goes to plead for his friend (III.vi). When we see him next, he appears to be planning to undertake the other kind of usury with Phrynia and Timandra. Despite the medieval stigma, I suspect that Shakespeare uses these two women to redeem the rest of the plot. Although they “use” their bodies in unnatural ways in society’s eyes, they also have the ability to bear children and offer hope for the next generation of characters (as far as we know, they’re the only ones who can do so). Alcibiades takes them along in his campaign but (not that I doubt his intentions with them) seems quite emotionally distant from them. Perhaps after the curtain closes, these women will help in reversing the sterilizing effects that usury has had on the city.

I don’t add this addendum to my posts often, but the themes in Timon of Athens, like in so many of Shakespeare’s plays, are also lessons and warnings to us. The trials and fate of Timon caution us to be careful about how we view and use money and other material possessions as well as how we build relationships and structure our lives overall. Alcibiades appears to soften after reading the very bitter epitaph that Timon has written for himself—our group isn’t sure, but we think that he may be offering clemency to all of Athens in the last few lines—and in that he demonstrates a determination not to let the past repeat itself. Let this also prepare or even warn us not to put stock in the dead things of the world and instead to cultivate life.

No discussion is complete without internet-formatted inspirational quotes, right?

“Sad Stories of the Deaths of Kings”: End of an Era, Beginning of a Saga

If we as a group have one regret about our journey through all of Shakespeare’s plays, it’s probably this: we all wish we had read the two history tetralogies in order.  Instead, we read Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2; Henry VIII; King John; Richard III; Henry VI, Parts 1, 2, and 3; and now, as our last history play, we are going back to the beginning.  What started this whole saga of murders and depositions, of politics and privilege, of war and peace? Richard II.

For heaven’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping killed;
All murdered.

– Richard II, Act III, Scene 2

I now understand why this play is a favorite of many of my theater friends, and why so many famous actors (and one actress) have taken on the challenging role of Richard, including Kevin Spacey, Fiona Shaw, Ben Whishaw, Eddy Redmayne, and David Tennant.  Richard is a fascinating character, and the story is quite an intriguing political thriller.  I say “intriguing” because there was a large portion of the play where I was asking myself, “What is really going on?”

Why does Richard seem to so easily give up his title?  IsBullingbrook even after the crown?  Are his followers?  How is all of this even happening?

My confusion came to a climax in Act III, Scene 4, when Bullingbrook charges his men to “show fair duty to his majesty” and bow to King Richard.  Bullingbrook reiterates his desire only to reclaim his lands and title. Richard, however, replies with an infinitely more generous offer:

Cousin, I am too young to be thy father,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too,
For do we must what force will have us do.

I really needed my girls’ help to work through what was happening here.  Why in the world is Richard giving up his throne (though acting like he’s being forced to) when all Bullingbrook wants is his family title?  For Richard, however, Bullingbrook’s request to return to England and claim his rightful title defies more than his banishment; it defies a royal decree.

If one man, who was banished by the king, can march right back into England, gather followers, execute courtiers, and demand his family title, then what power does the king have?  If his rule can be questioned at all, how can he be a king?  For Richard, it is all or nothing.  Is he really a king if he can be forced to do something against his will?

Eddie Redmayne as Richard II at the Donmar Warehouse in 2011

And if he is not the king, who and what is he?  This challenge usurps not only his power, but his very identity.  He realizes, “I have no name, no title … And know not now what name to call myself” (Act 4, Scene 1).  For Richard, the actions of Bullingbrook and his followers strip him of his entire identity, all he has ever known, all he has ever been, and all he had ever seen himself being.  This identity crisis, carried out quite poetically, gives Richard some beautiful clarity just before the end.

It is no wonder he has an identity crisis throughout his deposition.  He is first and foremost thoroughly confused by the idea that anyone would try to usurp him.  He doesn’t know any different.  It’s child-star syndrome.  Richard has been king from a very young age, and up to this point he has never had to fight for his crown; rather, he takes for granted that it is his birthright and divine right.  We drew many comparisons between Richard II and Henry VI, who also is king from a very young age.  Henry VI is also confused by the war that erupts to take his crown.  He has not known his father and grandfather and has not had the privilege of learning how to be a king from them or the precariousness of his situation.

At this time it was also thought that the king of England ruled by divine right, and Richard firmly believes this about himself.  He fully expects God to smite his enemies, and when no pestilence comes, he is left questioning for the first time his own divine right to rule:

David Tennant as Richard II with the Royal Shakespeare Company in 2013

The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bullingbrook hath pressed
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
Heaven for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel.  Then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.

– Richard II, Act III, Scene 2

Richard’s fall marks a very significant change of mindset, a growing consciousness that kings have to have the support of nobles and the common people in order to rule, and kings are not given power by a divine right.  It is the end of an era, but the beginning of a saga.

Ironically, Bullingbrook believes in the divine right of kings.  He is a religious man, a trait we will see more of in Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2, and he feels guilty for Richard’s demise for the rest of his life. In fact, Henry IV believes God is punishing him for his behavior towards Richard.

This guilt is not all Bullingbrook will wrestle with during his rule.  From the instant he becomes king, he has peers plotting against him and cries, “Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?” (Act V, Scene 4). He has to fight for his crown from the first instant and feels the heavy burden that comes with power and majesty.  As he will later reflect in Henry IV, Part 2, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown” (Act III, Scene 1).

And thus the saga begins … From the instant he becomes King, Henry IV will wrestle with guilt and conspiracy.  His son, Hal, will watch his father deteriorate under the weight of the crown and rebellion and will resist his princely duty before finally realizing his place and becoming the greatest monarch England has ever known: Henry V.  After a tragically early death, Henry VI will become a child king.  Too young to truly understand the precarious situation of a king, and unable to know and learn from his father or grandfather’s experience, Henry VI will undo much of his father’s work.   A series of dastardly murders will eventually see King Richard III on the throne, who will be defeated by the scarcely mentioned Henry VII, before one of the most famous English monarchs emerges: Henry VIII.  Six wives later, the crown would pass to Shakespeare’s very own benefactress, Queen Elizabeth I.

For heaven’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings…

Kinsmen Walk the Line

What do you get when you mix A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet, and Two Gentlemen of Verona? An awkwardly comedic tragedy, often called a romance, The Two Noble Kinsmen.

Brian Sgambati, Dan Snook and Graham Hamilton, with Karen Zippler (front) in The Old Globe’s 2004 Shakespeare Festival production, directed by Darko Tresnjak, in the Lowell Davies Festival Theatre. Photo by Craig Schwartz.

Going into this play, all I knew was that this was a romance of doubtful origin. After studying the play, I have no doubts that Shakespeare coauthored this play. We all agreed that some passages just felt like our Bard. Other clunkier passages and less developed characters we could easily see as another’s invention. But honestly, this matters to me only in that it validates our discussion. We are The Bard’s Book Club, after all, not The Elizabethan/Jacobean Drama Book Club.

Ironically, I now have more doubts that this play is a romance than I do about its authorship. Unfamiliar with the plot (I read “The Knight’s Tale” in college, but I couldn’t remember it), I spent most of the play thinking, “Okay, it’s a romance. That means it’ll be like Cymbeline and Pericles and A Winter’s Tale with their grand voyages, adventure, love, and mostly happy endings. Cue the Disney music.” Yeah, I was wrong.

At first I simply recalled Midsummer. We have the Duke and his bride, a group of peasants to entertain them, a love quadrilateral, the May Day celebrations. If you were very creative, you may be able to merge the two plays into one large production (in fact, Katy hopes to do this someday). It would be a major feat, to say the least, but a good director just may pull it off.

Yet we know from the beginning that this isn’t the merry forest tale. In lieu of fairies, we have mourners come to beg the king for help. No Puck confuses and straightens love, and no spells make things better. This is the darker side of Athens.

And with darkness comes madness. Like Hamlet‘s Ophelia, the Jailer’s Daughter is left to madness by her would-be lover. She even narrowly avoids a similar drowning scene, complete with flowers. Yet that’s the point—it’s avoided. She will end happily with a man who loves her, even if all signs pointed to an unhappy demise. We are not reading a full-fledged tragedy, even if this play balances on the brink of one.

Yet, like in Two Gentlemen of Verona, romance and tragedy take the backseat to friendship and broken faith. Unlike the gents, however, the kinsmen are less noticeably opposed. They always seem to truly care about each other, even when arming each other to fight for the same woman. There’s a distinct lack of animosity, and even a lack of difference in character. We can’t easily cheer for Team Palamon and Team Arcite because they’re so similar (though I was more of an Arcite fan). Unless you take issue with pursuing a girl your buddy saw first, neither really do anything that bad. While Proteus was a sort of villain in Two Gentlemen, Palamon and Arcite are equally heroic. As Emilia says when trying to decide between them,

“. . . What a mere child is fancy
That having two fair gauds of equal sweetness,
Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both!”
–IV.ii.52-54

There has to be a difference between the kinsmen, right? And I believe there is a difference, albeit subtle. When Palamon and Arcite pray to the gods, they each choose their own sponsor. Arcite chooses Mars, the god of war. He summons strength and courage with imagery such as “hearts of lions” and “breath of tigers,” and he’s met with the sound of battle. Palamon, however, prays to Venus, the goddess of love and beauty. He tells tales of conquering love, and he’s met with music and doves. Now consider their different experiences in light of Arcite’s line to Palamon when they first see Emilia:

“I will not, as you do, to worship her
As she is heavenly and a blessed goddess.
I love her as a woman, to enjoy her.”
–II.ii.163-135

Arcite is more concerned with the carnal side of love, the earthly. I don’t believe it’s merely an offensive, sexual desire for a woman; rather, I believe Arcite exemplifies the masculine and strong side of love. Emilia is attracted to him just as much as she is to Palamon, and he does win her through his strength (in a way) through the wrestling match, and also in the final contest. He’s also slightly more prone to anger, as he is the first one in the original fight to switch to the passionate thees and thous. He’s the human side of love, and he’s not inherently wrong.

Palamon, on the other hand, signifies the more heavenly, ethereal side of love. He doesn’t just love Emilia like a man loves a woman; he worships her. It’s little wonder that he wins Emilia because the gods directly intervene and spook Arcite’s horse (V.iv.61-65, 104-105). He exemplifies the otherworldly, romantic side of love.

Shakespeare’s romances generally end with reunions and found love. Although darkened by tragic elements, the ending is usually comedic. So, if Palamon is a symbol of romantic love, and he’s the one who, in comedic fashion, marries the girl in the end, does The Two Noble Kinsmen ultimately cross the line into the realm of the romance? I don’t think it does. The play’s ending is still balancing between tragedy and comedy, death and marriage coexisting. Palamon and Arcite both win Emilia, even if only for a short moment, and the happy reunion is marked by grief. Palamon’s courage and strength as well as Arcite’s romance and tenderness both enjoy a victory, suggesting that the truer love wasn’t so clear.

Perhaps this play never did choose a side. As Theseus declares in V.iv.105-109,

“The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar,
And given you your love. Our master, Mars,
Hath vouched his oracle, and to Arcite gave
The grace of the contention. So the deities
Have showed due justice.”

The Awkward Puritan at the Party

It’s hard to be a Puritan on Twelfth Night. I don’t mean a Puritan in Twelfth Night; I mean on Twelfth Night.

First, some terms to be defined:

Puritan: a strict moralist or person critical of self-indulgent behavior, or, more specifically (and when capitalized), a member of the Church of England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries who wanted to “purify” church practice

Twelfth Night: also known as the Feast of the Epiphany, held on January 6th, the last day of the Christmas holidays

A 1665 Jan Steen painting of Twelfth Night feasting

The Feast of the Epiphany technically commemorates the Magi’s discovery of Jesus and, in a broader sense, the manifestation of God to humanity. (Jesus’ baptism and his first miracle at the wedding in Cana are also focal points of this holiday.) We should note, however, that Shakespeare did not title this play The Feast of the Epiphany, or the Manifestation of Our Lord; he called it Twelfth Night, or What You Will. When people speak of the Epiphany, they are usually talking about the sacred aspect of the day, but “Twelfth Night” has a slightly less holy connotation. It was a time of merrymaking, monarchs- and bishops-for-a-day, and, of course, drinking. Ordinary life could be reversed on Twelfth Night.

Why might this be a problem for a puritan/Puritan? Puritans harshly criticized any sort of rowdiness (to non-Puritans, it seemed, any sort of fun): dancing, drunkenness, the theatre, etc. Cross-dressing would also not be a good choice of attire at a Puritan party. Moreover, Puritans did not celebrate Christmas because of some of its pagan sources and traditions. Twelfth Night could be considered wicked on two counts and therefore wholly unacceptable.

This is why Malvolio has such a hard time in the world of Twelfth Night. Previous to our story, he seems to have enjoyed a comfortably controlled position in Olivia’s household. Olivia certainly does not accept his views on everything, but she does regard him as a pillar upon which she can lean—a stable servant, in other words. In Act 1, Scene 5, the first time we meet them both, Olivia asks Malvolio’s opinion (then dismisses it) and depends upon him to get rid of unwanted visitors (or call them back again). Her home may not be a Puritan state, but it is not about to alienate that sect.

Unbeknownst to the fastidious steward, though, an invasion of rambunctious knights is making a foray into this kingdom. As far as I could tell, the play does not tell us if Sir Toby is always around, but that doesn’t matter much. Many people are not wild partiers on their own: they need a party. Maria has always been there, and Sir Andrew’s new presence and the return of Feste the clown creates just the right environment to encourage a not-so-divine Twelfth Night to take wing.

For Malvolio, this is bad news. He does not consciously identify himself as a (P)uritan, although I don’t think that’s necessary. When you think you are the arbiter of good taste in a group, whether morally or in some other sense, you don’t necessarily use a label for yourself, do you? You simply label everyone else. In the same way, Malvolio views himself as the moral and behavioral norm of Olivia’s household. All he wants to do is stamp out “uncivil rule” in his mistress’s demesne (II.iii.111). Yet the others recognize his exhortations as a threat to their merry way of life. They taunt his religious convictions (that is, the convictions of English Puritans; Malvolio is actually, as to be expected in a pagan society, a pagan who calls on the name of Jove) by flashing “cakes and ale,” traditional church feast foods, in his face and invoking the name of the Virgin Mary’s mother (II.iii.104-105). They cook a plot to overturn his somber demeanor. When Maria applies a (P)uritan label to him, Sir Andrew’s reply illustrates the enmity between the two camps: “O, if I thought that [Malvolio is a puritan] I’d beat him like a dog” (II.iii.136). The rest of the knights and company’s actions towards the steward illustrate the danger of one party being in complete control of the world of the play.

For Olivia, Orsino, Viola, and Sebastian, on the other hand, the reign of the topsy-turvy for a time is of great benefit. As Malvolio and, symbolically, his morally restraining influence are imprisoned, Viola is free to dress as a boy and win Orsino’s affections for herself—as well as Olivia’s affections for her brother. Olivia is allowed to pursue Sebastian. All four of them, except perhaps Viola, can be completely content with falling in love with and marrying people they didn’t really know an hour before. This doesn’t make sense to us on one level, and it couldn’t happen in a Puritan world in the first place. The temporary victory of the revelers allows possibilities that guide us to the conclusion of the play.

Nevertheless, just as the Puritan world isn’t conducive to the upper classes, the wild world is also ultimately unsustainable. Sebastian beats the knights out of the way, and Malvolio is released to freedom and his job as soon as Olivia wakes from her love frenzy and realizes that he may be imprisoned unjustly. The play therefore ends on a cheery note: though with a few more companions, we can return to ordinary life where moral conscientiousness plays a restraining role on the unsavory elements of the world but not a restricting role on the owners of that world. We have two weddings to look forward to; what’s not to enjoy?

Yet, as Katy pointed out, Malvolio himself leaves us with a warning, which is chilling in light of the civil war England would endure forty years down the road: “I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you” (V.i.365). He may not risk being put down and cast out again.

Cromwell in the Battle of Naseby in 1645, Charles Landseer

The Worth of War

Promotional poster for Shakespeare’s “Troilus and Cressida” at Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (Kevin O’Donnell and Chaon Cross)

When I selected Troilus and Cressida as our next play to read, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  Initially research revealed that it is a difficult play to place in one genre.  Some of our group had it listed under the Comedies; some sources list it under Tragedies, and others categorize this story as one of Shakespeare’s problem plays.  Reading the brief summary, I expected it to be romantic.  I would now conclude that this play does not fit any one genre, and I will not try to justify a category.  The play is instead a commentary, observing the symptoms and tragic side effects of the infectious disease known as war.

I use the word disease deliberately, because Shakespeare does as well.  The play is full of references to disease and infection.  One particularly notable passage is pronounced by Thersites:

…Now, the rotten diseases
of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs,
loads o’ gravel i’ the back, lethargies, cold
palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing
lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas,
limekilns i’ the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the
rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take
again such preposterous discoveries! – Act V, Scene 1

In fact the last word of the play is “diseases” in Pandarus’ “Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases.”  Pandarus also adds an abundance of bawdy jokes and crude sexual innuendos such that anyone would feel awkward and dirty.  It’s difficult to get caught up in the romance of a play when the text is filled with images of decay and contamination, and whatever Pandarus is on about.  But then, there isn’t much romance in the play, so what is it about?

War.  In Troilus and Cressida, war taints and corrupts family, soldiers, and love.  Nothing escapes it.  Oaths are broken.  Honor is shattered.  Women are used.  And men turn war into a sporting game.

As the Trojan war starts to tear apart the city and desolate the people, we see it tear apart the royal family in a debate of the realists and the romantics.  In Act II, Scene 2, Priam has yet again been asked to surrender Helen, and he turns to his eldest and noblest son Hector for his opinion.  Hector replies “Let Helen go” and proceeds to argue (rightly) that the hundreds of lives lost in the war are not worth Troy’s possession of Helen.  Surprisingly it’s not Paris that responds to this argument (because he’s a spineless twit), but Troilus, who makes many passionate, and not necessarily logical, arguments for the keeping of Helen.  Troilus and Paris have romanticized and idealized war as a noble effort, worthy of the cost for the sake of honor.  This does eventually sway Hector who says, “’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence upon our joint and several dignities.”  Troilus echos “Were it not glory that we more affect than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood spent more in her defense.”

I love this scene of argument because it is still so relevant today.  Why do we go to war?  What is the cost?  Is it worth it? What will we do for honor?  And what is honor worth?  These questions are also explored in the First and Second Parts of Henry IV and in Henry V – especially in Falstaff’s famous speech: “What is honour?  A word.  What is that word ‘honour’? Air. A trim reckoning!” (Henry IV Part 1, Act V, Scene 1)  Though Troilus would famously argue “What’s aught but ’tis valued?” Similar to Shakespeare’s second tetralogy, Troilus and Cressida also strips and defaces war to reveal it for what it is.  War is driven by passion, not reason.

In the end, war destroys it’s most honorable soldier in a dishonorable death.  Hector, Troy’s champion who earned the respect of the Greeks, is struck down while unarmed, not in fair combat, but cornered and overwhelmed by Achilles’ groupies, and his body is maliciously dragged through the dirt.  What was the great Hector fighting for again?  Was it worth it?  War must make us question honor because we must always be assessing the value of what

Laura Pyper as Cressida in Troilus and Cressida at The Globe Theatre

we are fighting for and the cost we are paying.  Because war infects everything, even the soldiers, and tears apart families.

War also tears apart love.  Troilus and Cressida are victims of circumstance, driven apart by the war.  A desperate and endangered Cressida was forced to betray her love to protect herself.  She waivers between loyalty to Troilus and the need for self-protection in the enemy’s camp.  Cressida does what she needs to do in the end to survive and protect herself in a world of men.  She is in the enemy camp and as soon as she entered the men descended on her, every one of them kissing her and speaking of her as though she was an object (as compared to Hector’s visit, where he was treated with great respect). Cressida’s father clearly is not going to protect her.  Diomedes is her only protection in the camp.  What else could she have done but turn to him for shelter, even though the cost was betrayal?

Things could have ended differently.  If it was a comedy, it would have.  Comedies can so easily be tragedies, except everything coincidentally works out in the end.  Rob Kimbro, who recently directed a production of Romeo & Juliet at Rice University, which I had the pleasure of working on, worded this thought wonderfully:

The plots of Shakespeare’s comedies often hinge on tragedy narrowly averted.  Imagine a Much Ado About Nothing in which Benedick, spurred to revenge by Beatrice, kills Claudio and Pedro before Don John’s plan comes to light.  Sometimes the circumstances that lead to the happy comedic ending are pretty improbable, but they’re also inevitable, because the world of those plays is one in which things work out for the best in the end.

In the realistic world of Troilus and Cressida, which strips all romanticism from the ideas of war, honor, and even love, things do not work out for the best in the end.  There is no satisfactory climax to the play.  Because it’s not a play about love, it’s a play about war.  And we are asked, is there ever a satisfying ending?

Rediscovering Lear

I’m very grateful that this was not the first time each of us had read King Lear. We all read it when we studied abroad in London in 2010. The four of us were also lucky enough to see the Royal Shakespeare Company perform it when we visited Stratford-upon-Avon for Shakespeare’s birthday. I say I’m grateful because this play is so complex and heavy and awesome that reading and seeing it multiple times makes such a difference that I feel compelled to reiterate this perhaps obvious yet important notion of how repetition is vital with Shakespeare.  Okay, I got that out of the way, whew! Now, I will continue on with the meatier parts of our discussion and my reflection.

There are many elements that I feel we picked apart and that I understand better this time around. For starters, I felt like I finally got a grasp on understanding the characters of the Fool and Edgar, Gloucester’s legitimate son who disguises himself as a crazy, homeless man named Tom. What struck me most about them this time is seeing both serve as representations or markers of Lear’s diminishing mind.

We see the Fool partway through the beginning of the play, after Cordelia’s banishment. It is at this point where Lear has truly made a foolish mistake by giving away his power and land to two of his daughters, who do not have his best interests at heart, and sending his true and loyal daughter into exile. The Fool tries to make Lear realize his mistake through repetitions of little ditties and jokes. In fact, the role of the fool, historically, went beyond simply entertaining and amusing. The fool was expected to criticize his master along with their guests. Fun Fact: “Queen Elizabeth is said to have rebuked one of her fools for not being severe enough with her” (from The New Cambridge Shakespeare, editied by Jay L. Halio). That is the responsibility and the little power the Fool has with his master. But Lear does not fully acknowledge the Fool’s elucidations. The Fool sticks with Lear through the most intense of storms, trying to care and guide his king to safety. Then shortly after the storm, the Fool leaves and does not return for the rest of the play. Tom, the crazy beggar, stays with Lear, continuing to lead Lear along with Kent, a loyal subject to the King. Along with the transition of attendants, Lear transitions from foolishness to madness.

Greg Hicks, with Kathryn Hunter in The Royal Shakespeare Company’s production at the Courtyard Theatre, Stratford upon Avon

More fun facts: We found out that in Shakespeare’s time the actor who played Cordelia doubled as the Fool, which was not only practical but also would add another layer to that character’s relationship with Lear. Also, some productions have insinuated that the Fool could possibly be Lear’s illegitimate child, which would also be interesting given that the play is largely about the relationship between sons and daughters, legitimate or not.

In our discussion we really tuned in to the importance of Lear’s relationship to Tom. Edgar completely strips away his identity to take on the role. Lear, who has also been stripped of his identity and belongings, recognizes himself  in the beggar. He sees them as equal, and, even though he is losing his mind, he shows us what being human is without the adornments that have come with civilization: “Thou ow’st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. . . thou art the thing itself. Unaccompanied man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art” (3.4.93-97). Lear views himself in his true nature.

Nature is one of the more poignant themes of Lear. We see it referenced all over the place in a variety of ways including simply witnessing the realities of being human. We all know that each of us will keep continuing to age until we die. We all share that same fate. This play forces us to think about our own mortality and our own fragility. I think if this play is done well we are taken in and made to feel the same amount of vulnerability as Lear feels at the end of the play. That is one of the many reasons why this play is so difficult, moving, uncomfortable, and ultimately so important.

One Gentleman and One Cur of Verona

What does it mean to forgive deeply and truly?

That’s the question we struggled with while discussing Two Gentlemen of Verona. With all the backstabbing and deception, could we excuse Proteus enough to be okay with Valentine’s forgiveness of him at the end of the play? Much like the endings to other plays, such as All’s Well that Ends Well, something didn’t sit right. It felt too easy. Sure, you can forgive your best friend for trying to steal your girlfriend. But to readily forgive him for trying to rape her? And then to plan your immediate double wedding? Why would Valentine do something so crazy?

Valentine Rescuing Silvia from Proteus, by William Holman Hunt

Let’s start with Proteus. He can change his mind and his love at the drop of a hat; his name literally means “changing shape” or “mutable.” We generally don’t trust characters who proclaim love for one woman in one scene then claim undying devotion to a different lady in the next scene (*cough*Romeo*cough*). In our discussion of Two Gentlemen of Verona, we couldn’t agree on whether or not Proteus actually even loved Silvia, or if he was just overwhelmed by loneliness. What matters is that, whatever the case, he turned on his best friend at a moment’s notice. However, this mutability could also be argued as proof for the genuineness of his repentance. If so little time could change his heart’s allegiance, perhaps the same amount of time could bring about repentance, and even cause him to truly love Julia again.

While I really don’t want to believe Proteus’s repentance is genuine, I think the text supports the idea. In our discussion, one member pointed out that Proteus has suddenly been faced with the horror of what he has done to his best friend. It’s a scary, pivotal moment when a character sees himself as he truly is. What’s to say that his realization doesn’t bring him to a complete change of heart? Valentine completes every line of his accusation, so Proteus could presumably pause as long as needed before his line, “My shame and guilt confounds me.” If the fiend is played by a strong actor, he can, like Posthumus in Cymbeline or a strong Claudio in Much Ado, make us believe his remorse and perhaps even pity him. It all depends on how he’s played.

Another hint that perhaps Proteus is meant to be a regenerate character is the fact that he’s not a villain. He’s not Iago, he’s not Edmund, he’s not John the Bastard. He’s a “gentleman,” according to the title. Unlike real villains, Proteus isn’t assumed to be evil. Also, Valentine, like a gentleman, shows him quick forgiveness, finishing Proteus’s verse with the words, “Then I am paid.” If Valentine doubted Proteus’s sincerity, he could have ordered him taken offstage to serve penance. But he doesn’t, and we see how gentlemen reconcile.

We all want to hold onto our offense toward Proteus, and, as I’ve argued, the text cries mercy. Yet I’ve saved the best argument for compassion for last, a theory brought up by Whitney. While at first glance Launce appears to be the groundlings’ annoying comic relief, we may look deeper at the character and his relationship with his dog. Launce is a steadfast servant and lover, willing to overlook the worst of faults (III.i). He’s strikingly like Valentine, who overlooks Proteus’s vices. What’s more, Launce loves his dog Crab, despite the fact that Crab “is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog” (II.iii). You’d think this was only a silly comment, except for the fact that even the cat is listed as mourning for Launce’s departure. Since when does a cat weep while a dog remains stoic? Something is remiss in this dog’s behavior. Later, Launce talks about all the trouble he’s gone through for his dog. Crab is a terrible cur, always causing mayhem; yet, instead of letting him feel the whip, Launce takes his dog’s punishment (IV.iv). If you’ve ever loved a misbehaved pet, you can understand why Launce would go to such pains for him.

Launce’s Substitute for Proteus’s Dog

We probably feel pity for Crab and are able to overlook his stench, food thievery, and lack of loyalty. We can respect Launce’s choice to forgive the mongrel (especially if played by a cute puppy). Likewise, can we accept Valentine’s choice to love the one who has wronged him? In Launce and Crab we see a reflection of the larger story of Valentine and Proteus.

None of this is perfect. Proteus did do terrible things, and he deserves punishment. His behavior is not excusable at all. Yet, in the end, Shakespeare challenges us to think about our own grudges. We may be completely justified in exacting revenge, but maybe the more gentlemanly response is pure, unwarranted forgiveness.