The Merchant of Venice on paper and in film

Following our discussion of The Merchant of Venice, I borrowed the 2004 movie adaptation, directed by Michael Radford. I saw it several years ago and remembered only a few random scenes as I was reading the play, so it was interesting to revisit it with more educated eyes. (Be warned that there are some spoilers, mostly of the movie, below).

Before we go further, you should know one key fact about me: I love Jews. Religion. Culture. Language. Ritual. Holidays. Humor. Some food. Also, as a history major in college, I chose to do most of my choose-your-own-topic projects on Jewish history, so I know a fair bit about Jews in England at the time of Shakespeare’s writing as well as Jews in Italy at the time of the plot of The Merchant of Venice. Thus I had a difficult time with this play: my first instinct at many points in the text was outrage, but I tried not to let that cloud my interpretation too much. The others and I had argued about prejudice a bit in our discussion last week – with me uncharacteristically taking the role of nonacademic firebrand – and after evaluating our talk and the handful of critical pieces I’ve read, I think that Shylock and any anti-Jewish issues are not actually at the heart of the play. The title “merchant” is Antonio, and the play is ultimately about him and his adaptation to his friend’s new life. Where Shylock does appear, he is overwhelmingly (though not entirely) a villain in stark contrast to the Christian virtue of some of the other lead characters, imperfect as that virtue may be at times.

The film, on the other hand, makes Shylock and his Jewishness much more central and human. An explanatory note about the Jews’ legal and social position in Venice in 1596, interspersed with shots of grave-looking friars and flaming Hebrew manuscripts, precedes the lines that begin Act I, Scene 1.  Both this introduction and choices of costume and setting highlight some of the historical realities of being a Jew in Venice, namely, wearing a red hat and living in the ghetto. To some degree, this drive to be accurate betrays the original text: the red hats and ghetto setting aren’t harmful, but the first scenes suggest that Antonio and his companions are religious fanatics or spies for the Dominicans trying to destroy the Jews out of pure zeal. This motivation neither appears in Shakespeare’s writing nor is substantiated through the rest of the movie.

I do, however, approve of the way that Radford makes Judaism and Jewish identity more essential to Shylock’s character. Aside from a few comments about Father Abraham and “those” Christians, the written Shylock’s Jewishness is evident mainly in his profession and apparel: for the most part, he is a Jew simply because he is a Jew. But on screen, Shylock worships at the synagogue and is seen with fellow Jews on the street, quite a contrast to his isolated original. When the sentence that he must convert to Christianity comes down, he breaks down in the middle of the courtroom. Wealth is still clearly important to Shylock; some words of Shakespeare’s can’t be reinterpreted. Yet Shylock doesn’t seem concerned about money before everything else, and when he speaks of his daughter, the acting suggests that he truly feels robbed of a beloved family member. Even the business with the bond, about which Shylock clearly becomes more upset after Jessica leaves, fits into a perception that Shylock is the victim. Venetian society – which in Radford’s film does not hesitate to show its carefree luxury and decadence – has made him what he is through its consistent discrimination and cruelty towards him and his people. The film doesn’t demonize Portia and the others (as I would be inclined to do), but it doesn’t it exalt them, either.

The final scenes seal this interpretation. As the two newly-wed couples go off to their respective wings of Belmont, Radford presents a series of wordless pictures of where the other characters end up. Antonio seems a little sad and lonely (making it clear that the happy ending belongs to Portia and Bassanio). Shylock, freed from his red hat and its restrictions, looks on mournfully as the other Jews file into the synagogue. And Jessica, who hasn’t seemed very happy since arriving at Belmont, watches two men (one of whom I assume is her husband) fishing near the house. She looks down at her hands and her father’s turquoise ring (which, though unspecified in the text, is a Jewish wedding ring here) as though feeling the sting of something that she has lost, too. That loss, I believe, is her Jewish heritage and family – an ending I personally like more than Shakespeare’s original.

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Oaths and Prejudice

After reading two history plays in a row I think our group was relieved to get our hands on a comedy.  It was Hannah’s turn to choose and she decided we should read and explore The Merchant of Venice. As with most of Shakespeare’s comedies, Merchant is about love and marriage. However, our group soon discovered that those aspects get overshadowed by the strong anti-Judaism which fills the entire play. The blatant prejudice Shylock faces contributed to the discussion we had at length over the theme of oaths and what the consequences are if one is broken.

The oath that gets the most attention in the play is Antonio and Shylock’s.   Antonio is unable to keep his oath; he is the one who breaks the trust underlining their agreement. Yet we are supposed to be outraged when Shylock refuses to take Bassanio’s money in place of the terms of their agreement. Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, Portia, Nerissa, and the court of Venice brutally admonish Shylock for not showing more Christian-like mercy toward Antonio. It becomes clear that they do not allot the oath between the Jew and their friend the same amount of inviolability as they do the oaths made between each other.

Along those lines, when Jessica runs away from home, disowning her father and her religion, she takes along a substantial amount of her father’s wealth, including a turquoise ring. The ring was given to Shylock by his late wife which we are led to believe was a symbol of their engagement.  While I felt pressured to support Jessica leaving her harsh father so she could marry her love, it was made clear how wrong it was of her to take that particular ring. By doing so she completely discredits the marriage oath made between her own father and mother and places her own marriage to a Christian man above it.

I soon understood why Merchant later became categorized by critics as a tragic comedy. While the lovers are left with their happy ending, Shylock is left with nothing. He never gets the money owed to him, loses his entire estate and his daughter, and is forced to give up his religion. As I finished the play, what I was left thinking about was Shylock’s speech from Act 3.1.64-67. Through Shylock’s memorable words, Shakespeare alludes to Euclid’s Common Notion no. 1 which states that things which are equal to the same thing are also equal to one another. By doing so, Shylock is given more credibility for his logical reasoning as he questions Salarino, Solanio, and the audience:

If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.

The play ends with the marriage oaths of Bassanio and Portia, and Gratiano and Nerissa strengthened and further emphasized as the two women give their husbands back their wedding rings and joyfully share their magnificent tale of how they saved Antonio’s life. As Whitney pointed out, there is an obvious double standard on the subject of oaths—ones made with Christians should be held sacred, whereas oaths made with Jews should be easily dissolved.

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Summary of The Merchant of Venice

The play begins with Antonio, a Venetian merchant, who is in a serious state of unease. His best friend, Bassanio, has asked him for money in order to better his chances of attracting his love Portia, an heiress of Belmont. Antonio agrees to the loan but cannot support it in its entirety because his money is invested in trade ships that are still out at sea. Antonio and Bassanio borrow the money from Shylock, a Jewish moneylender.  At the time Shakespeare wrote this play, there was a widespread prejudice against those who practiced Judaism; Antonio, Bassanio, and all the other Christian characters treat Shylock in a contemptible manner.  Shylock reluctantly agrees to the loan but only if Antonio signs a contract which states that if he is unable to repay him, Shylock may take a pound of Antonio’s flesh. But even with that condition, Antonio agrees and is the loan’s guarantor. Bassanio and his friend, Gratiano, then take leave for Belmont.

In Belmont, Portia expresses annoyance over her father’s will which requires any suitor to pass a test. To win her hand in marriage, her suitors must choose correctly among three chests of gold, silver, and lead. If he chooses the right one, he wins Portia’s hand in marriage, which includes her great wealth. Two other suitors fail the test and leave empty-handed. Bassanio arrives and with Portia’s blessing, for she had met him before and liked him, takes the test and chooses the proper casket. Portia and Bassanio are now set to join together in joyous matrimony.

Back in Venice, Antonio discovers his ships have been lost at sea, and he is unable to satisfy the bond between himself and Shylock. Shylock decides to take Antonio to court fueled with extra rage because Jessica, his daughter, has eloped with the Christian, Lorenzo. In her flight she steals a great amount of money from her father and a turquoise ring which had been a gift to Shylock from Jessica’s mother.

Over in Belmont, Bassanio and Gratiano hear of Antonio’s quandary. Bassanio marries Portia, and Gratiano marries Portia’s hand maid, Nerissa. With haste and with money from Portia, Bassanio and Gratiano head to Venice to save their friend.

Bassanio arrives at the court with double the amount that Antonio owes Shylock. Shylock however refuses to accept the amount and demands his pound of Antonio’s flesh. The court is interrupted by a letter brought to the court by a law clerk, Nerissa in disguise. The letter presents a doctor of law named Balthazar who is sent to advise the court in this case. Balthazar, truly Portia in disguise, eloquently asks Shylock to accept their offer and to show mercy upon the merchant. But to everyone’s dismay, Shylock remains adamant that he should have his bond be upheld.

As Shylock prepares his knife, Portia quickly grabs the contract and reiterates that Shylock must obey exactly what the bond requires. He may take neither more nor less of a pound of flesh and may not draw any blood. Feeling cornered, Shylock concedes to accepting Bassanio’s offer, but Portia denies him because he had refused the offer in open court. She then cites a law which states that as a Jew, Shylock has forfeited his property, half to the government and half to Antonio, because he threatened the life of a Christian citizen. The court allots Antonio his share, but he requires Shylock to convert to Christianity and bequeath his estate to Lorenzo and Jessica upon his death.

Neither Bassanio nor Gratiano recognize their wives in disguise. Both women convince their husbands to give them their marriage rings as payment for their help. Both men give them their rings, for it was their duty to repay the clerk and the doctor for saving their friend’s life.

Back in Belmont, Portia and Nerissa taunt their husbands about how quickly they would give up their rings. Eventually, Portia hands Antonio Bassanio’s ring to return to his friend. The women then tell their tale as the couples and Antonio retreat into the palace.

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The Second Part of Falstaff – I mean, Henry IV

One of the first things I and the others noticed about Henry IV, Part 2 is the strange near-absence of not only Henry IV but also Prince Harry. We’re used to the man who shares a name with the play not being around as much as one would expect, of course, but the prince’s tiny role until making up with his father in Act IV threw us off. Harry doesn’t even show up until Act II, Scene 2, and the king not until the beginning of Act III.  Instead, the main character for the vast majority of the Second Part of Henry IV  seems to be Sir John Falstaff! What means Shakespeare by this?

Falstaff und sein Page, Adolf Schrödter, 1867

We debated for a while, and the popularity of Falstaff as a character seems like a good rationale. He’s entertaining, he looks funny, he packs a lot into a scene: he’s a bit like the Woody Allen persona. (Don’t get me wrong – I love Woody Allen – but he uses essentially the same character with different names in 95% of his films.) Katy likened him to Iron Man, or I guess the guy who suits up as Iron Man, who got a second movie devoted to him just because people liked the character. Many action films, I’d argue, exhibit this phenomenon. This is a good possibility and one that I agree with, but there might be a deeper significance here. I don’t know if this is true, as I’ve never met Shakespeare himself, but everyone who has taught me Shakespeare in the classroom claims that even the silly characters and scenes are important. So here’s what I think is going on.

The general direction of both parts of Henry IV is towards Prince Harry becoming the king of England. His transformation from a rebellious, immoral son to a glorious hero is the plot line that audiences wanted to see, a matter of popular folklore, in fact. Given the powers that were at the time, Shakespeare was also probably concerned about making his queen’s dynasty look legitimate. Everything in Part 2, then, points towards this conclusion. The scenes of the rebels – Northumberland’s somewhat cowardly flight, the bloodless yet just resolution with Archbishop Scrope – and their tidy endings bolster the image of a united England under an undisputed king when Henry V emerges, thereby also consolidating the power of the Lancaster house.  In the same way, the prevalence of Falstaff throughout his interactions with the Lord Chief Justice, the Gloucestershire Justices of the Peace, and the Eastcheap crowd serves to give a preview of a world where old Sir John is the king’s most valued adviser. Officials will take bribes every day. Prostitutes and tavern-keepers will brawl in the streets. Commanders will only pretend to fight against the country’s enemies. Even basic communication will break down. Throughout the play, Falstaff is reveling in his position as King John of the Underbelly of England, just as Part 1 chronicled Hal’s sovereignty over Eastcheap and the streets of London; if this is how he behaves as a puffed-up knight under a king who sees right through him, how will he be as the right-hand man of a king he’s had under his thumb for years – as a man with “the laws of England… at [his] commandment” (V.iii.125-126)? In the last scene, when the new king rejects his old companion, we breathe a sigh of relief and feel the rightness of his rule, a much deeper sigh and stronger feeling than we would have experienced had it happened at the end of the first play.

Another particularly interesting point to me is the character of Rumour. Let’s leave aside the painted-with-tongues thing and the bizarre name; that’s strange, certainly, but more importantly, we all felt it was a bit puzzling of Shakespeare to start a play with an introduction that repeats the events of the last and states an intention to confuse the characters of the first scene. But we decided that this, too, might serve a practical or even thematic purpose. First of all, we have the luxury of reading both parts of Henry IV together, but Shakespeare’s immediate audience experienced the plays under quite different circumstances. The two parts were first performed probably about two years apart, and if I can hardly remember the plots of plays that I saw two years ago, what chance did they have? Rumour’s brief summation would have reminded the good people of London where the action had just been.

Secondly, the very concept of rumor plays a subtle role throughout Part 2. The word itself appears again in Act III, Scene 1, as the Earl of Warwick warns the king not to let rumors of his enemies’ numbers scare him, but rumors and rumor-like things fill the play. The Oxford English Dictionary defines rumor as a “statement or report circulating in a community, of the truth of which  there is no clear evidence” (“rumour, sb.,” n.3a). Rumour the character prepares the audience for the abundance of assumptions with no clear evidence that follow: Mistress Quickly’s assumption that Falstaff will pay her, the rebels’ assumption that their deal with Prince John will save their lives, and Falstaff’s assumption that he will be just as good of buddies with the crowned Hal, just to name a few. These “rumors” hurt their originators, although there are also some rumors that are pleasantly proved wrong, such as the rumor circulated among, well, everyone that Harry will be lazy and unjust and play favorites horribly as king. I know that some of these examples aren’t exactly rumors, but what I’m trying to get at is the general sense of false belief going on throughout the play. Some Shakespeare plays have a theme of veiled truth or deceit, but this is different: if several of these characters stopped to think about it, they would realize that their assumptions are ridiculous and have no basis in fact. Falstaff has always tried to get out of paying, so why should Mistress Quickly expect him to do so now? Prince John never says he pardons the rebels, so why should they be surprised when he arrests them? As for Falstaff, Hal has been leaving him hints all over the place that he might not keep him around; recall the ending of the play extempore in Act II, Scene 4, of Henry IV, Part 1. And the dependence on rumors circulated in their social circles and within their own minds is the undoing of each of these characters.

A third possibility about Rumour (though none of these are incompatible with the others) is a simple structural device. Shakespeare opens with this strange speaker; he ends with an unnamed Epilogue speaker. Rumour speaks with authority, eloquence, and great detail, which makes an audience think that the information is trustworthy. Epilogue, on the other hand, is doing his or her best to appease the audience but doesn’t speak much about the play specifically and uses more casual language. Yet Rumour breeds confusion and pain while Epilogue brings in resolution and satisfaction. This reflects the movement of the play, for as the play goes on, confusions are cleared up and uncertainty turns to certainty while the atmosphere becomes more relaxed. Falstaff again is a good example of this; his ending is unpleasant yet disillusioned and certain. We can also look at the Lord Chief Justice, who becomes very nervous when he hears Henry IV has died because he cannot be certain of what to expect from the successor. By the end of the play, however, this confusion has been resolved and the two have a harmonious relationship. Rumour and Epilogue together set up the structure for this progression.

I have a final, more reflective note. This was the first reading of Henry IV, Part 2 for all of us, though I had read Part 1 before. My fellow readers generally concluded that history plays are unpleasant to read (well, except Katy, who had already been excited because of the recent BBC productions, part of the Hollow Crown series). I admit that there is something a bit drier about the history plays, as they have to conform to at least some basic facts (never mind that Shakespeare is well-known for tweaking facts when it suits him), but I like them because they show a particular side of Shakespeare’s culture. In plays like Henry IV, we get a sense of how sixteenth-century English people perceived themselves as part of a group and nation. They saw their history as marked by significant factors, often people, that ushered in either goodness and prosperity or wickedness and struggle. These particular two show a national hero, Henry V, triumphing over no-good friends, disloyal noblemen, and worldly pleasures to the benefit of the English country and people. The person of Hal himself might even be England incarnate, although I may very well be putting modern ideas on him. I’ll be glad to get back to overt fiction for a while, but there is certainly a lot we can get from these “histories.”

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Henry IV, Part 2 Summary

Henry IV, Part 2 essentially begins where Part 1 left off: immediately after the Battle of Shrewsbury. A strange character named Rumour introduces the play, dressed in a costume apparently painted with tongues and providing the audience with a reminder of what happened in the battle. This character, however, mentions that he will circulate false stories – hence the name – and soon Lord Bardolph (not to be confused with Hal and Falstaff’s pal Bardolph) arrives at the gate of the Earl of Northumberland, who has been feigning illness, to deliver the jubilant news that Hotspur, his son, lives and that the rebel cause is thriving. The truth soon comes to light, and as the play goes on, Northumberland fades from the picture as his wife and daughter-in-law convince him not to sacrifice his life for the rebels since he would not do so for his own son. He runs away to Scotland, and that’s the last we hear of him.

The rest of the rebels, however, pursue their cause. Glyndŵr faces the king and Prince Harry, and the news that he has died comes roughly halfway through the play. Meanwhile Archbishop Scroop, accompanied by Lord Mowbray, Lord Hastings, and Lord Bardolph, moves to the forest of Gaultres (or Galtres or Gaultree) to fight against Prince John and the Earl of Westmoreland. There is no battle; the two sides come to an agreement that the king will redress the rebels’ grievances, and the rebels send their men back home. After the rebel army has left, however, Prince John arrests the leaders to be charged with and executed for treason, as the agreement does not include amnesty for them. Thus ends the rebellion.

Throughout this, the redemption that Hal began in Part 1 seems to have stopped abruptly. In Act I, we find out that he is in prison for assaulting the Lord Chief Justice, and later he’s still playing pranks on Falstaff with Poins. Falstaff thrives, though: his elevated position from his recent and continuing military service has provided him with a page boy, possibly some more money, and even some leniency in the legal action that Mistress Quickly brings against him. He enjoys this newfound respect while enlisting men in Gloucestershire and joining Prince John’s forces at Gaultres, but it’s clear that not much else has changed. Falstaff still pretends to be a brave soldier, takes advantage of others, and drinks and eats to his heart’s content. A particular set of scenes with the country Justices of the Peace, so cleverly named Shallow and Silence, illustrate Falstaff’s continued depravity glossed over with status.

Hal, on the other hand, soon begins his journey home. Henry IV is quite ill, and he reunites with his son in a touching last scene (IV.v). Admittedly, there is some awkwardness with Prince Harry taking the crown before his father is technically dead, but they sort it out, and when the new king emerges, he makes it clear that the redemption he promised early in Part 1 has come at last. Harry decides to be a better brother and even makes peace with the Lord Chief Justice. A brief scene in which Mistress Quickly and Doll Tearsheet are arrested emphasizes the triumph of Harry’s new way of life over his old.

When the news of Henry IV’s death comes to Gloucestershire, where Falstaff dines at Shallow’s house, the group immediately picks up and heads for London: Falstaff thinks that he is “now one of the greatest men in this realm” (V.iii.83, in the words of his ensign). He invites Shallow to join them and promises that, in return for a little loan, he will make sure that the king of England honors the lowly  justice. What follows is the climax of the play and perhaps the most famous scene of the Henry IV duology. Falstaff shows up outside Westminster to see the procession of the newly-crowned king and, upon sighting him, starts in with his affectionate familiarity – only to be rebuked by the Lord Chief Justice. The old knight, of course, thinks that the Lord Chief Justice just wants to ruin his fun again and appeals to Hal. King Henry V in all his majesty answers: “I know thee not, old man… Presume not that I am the thing I was” (V.v.45, 54). The Lord Chief Justice bears Falstaff and his companions to prison until they reform their ways. An Epilogue delivers the parting words to the audience, among which is a promise (ultimately unfulfilled) that they will see Sir John again in Henry V.

 

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