Glory, Hallelujah!

Henry V has a reputation for being a pure glorification of its namesake, and upon my initial reading, I had to agree. This point in English history is one that I know only bare facts about, but by the beginning of the second act, I, like the youth of England, was on fire for the cause of his highness. While Shakespeare’s portrayal of Prince Hal in the Henry IV plays artfully demonstrates the flaws and conflicts of the royal person—the humanity behind the palace facade—Henry V shows us a strong, inspiring monarch. Some of Shakespeare’s most famous lines and speeches come from this play, particularly the Chorus’s opening wish for “a Muse of fire” to help the audience see a “kingdom for a stage [and] princes to act” (Prologue.1, 3) and Henry’s rousing words to his “band of brothers”  just before the Battle of Agincourt (IV.iii.60). This poetry at such crucial junctures in not only the action of the play but also the English historical narrative serve to idealize people and events that may not have been so pretty in real life. The presence of the Chorus at all and especially its consistent appearance at the beginning of each act decorates the audience’s view of King Harry just as the royal crown decorates his head; both designate the greatness of their contents. Is it any mystery why I felt a surging desire to emigrate?

We happy few and our dog. I want to be one of that number, ideally the one with full chest armor.

During our discussion, however, my dear reading partners pointed out some of the less-savory bits of the fictional king, parts of which I had hardly taken notice (and I bet the peasant audience didn’t, either). Falstaff’s and Bardolph’s deaths happen somewhat quietly, but there is an equally quiet accusation towards their former friend Hal when Captain Gower insists, “Our king… never killed any of his friends” (IV.vii.34-35). Louder is the scarily sincere address to the governor of Harfleur in Act III, Scene iii. It shows the king’s willingness to do whatever it takes to bring victory and glory to his reign and country, but we should still be a little disconcerted that good old Harry is perfectly fine with spearing babies.

Was he even justified going to war in the first place? From our perspective, of course not: this is greedy imperialism, end of discussion. I tried to look at this from the point of view of an English person living during Shakespeare’s or Henry V’s times, and I saw that perhaps the reasoning is valid. Kingship was thought to be ordained by God, and the hereditary path of France’s monarchy led right to Harry. The initial scenes suggest that Shakespeare didn’t entirely buy this, though. The bishop of Ely and the archbishop of Canterbury, the latter of whom points out the French claim to the king, are worried about a bill to seize their land in Act I, Scene i, giving them a quite selfish motivation to distract Henry’s attention. (I think it worth mentioning that I have seen other texts from this time period in which English writers attribute horrible crimes to Catholic clergy in England before the Reformation, e.g. murdering children. I suspect that this is a similar sort of accusation.) Maybe this was an unjust war in its genesis, then, though not when we speak of it in abstractions? Hannah also brought our attention to something that Henry IV says to his son on his deathbed: “busy giddy minds/With foreign quarrels” (2 Henry IV, IV.iii.341-342, which is Scene v in some editions). Perhaps Henry V is simply following his father’s advice and starting a war to take up any energy that the people could otherwise use for rebellion. I’m not saying this is a bad idea strategically, but it would discredit the just war theory.

In the end, I find these points causes for reflection and not refutations of the greatness of Henry V. While we might look at the king’s decision to take over France with skepticism, it’s clear that Harry thinks he’s doing the right thing. He demands a pure and thorough explanation from the archbishop before his decision, and he frequently voices his thankfulness towards God with every victory and setback. His words at Harfleur could be all bluster, but even if they aren’t, they merely show his dedication to fulfill his duty as the rightful heir of France. The off-color quality of such acts complicates and deepens our understanding of this magical-seeming man on stage, a man full of courage and faith who also places the interests of justice before friendship and feels nervous talking to a pretty French girl. Human he is, but he is a human worthy of a crown.

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Love’s Labour’s Lost: A Bittersweet, Fitting Performance

I had the pleasure recently of seeing Love’s Labour’s Lost performed by Seattle Shakespeare Company. I wasn’t sure what to expect. This play isn’t exactly known for having a great storyline . . . or a plot. Okay, it has a plot. It’s just not very complicated. I was excited, though, because while I was reading the play I had wished I could see actors speak the long, flowery lines in hopes that I’d be able to better understand what the heck was going on.

The performance was everything I had hoped for. The actors speak well enough to make the text meaningful and direct. The director brings interesting spins which add depth to the play. The set is simple yet effective. I was very pleased.

This production set the play in the 1920s. As the audience enter, the main male characters are indulging in alcohol and dancing and frivolity. Once in a while one or two of them come to the audience and offer a drink or start a light conversation. As the play begins with their hungover morning, it seems as though the king’s edict is almost in response to their revelries rather than a result of their already studious behaviors. While I was a little taken aback, I realized that it emphasized the fact that these guys really aren’t going to make it through a vow like this.

The secondary characters are really quite intriguing. For instance, Costard’s character comes out as an abused figure. In reading, I hadn’t seen how much he gets mocked and shafted. He really isn’t a well-loved character. But to keep us from pitying him, he’s played as a perverted, bitter drunkard. Yes, it’s dark, but it somehow works without being too over-the-top for the play itself. He almost makes me consider him justified at the end when he exposes Armado’s sin.

Armado is played very melodramatically. He takes himself so seriously, with dramatic Spanish music playing in the background during his monologues, yet he is obviously not the great man he thinks (or wishes) he is. It’s easy to laugh at him, and at the other minor characters, for that matter.

Yet everything is turned upside down in the second half of the play. And I believe it’s this second half that makes the production as great as it is. Before I go on, if by chance you are from the Seattle area, I’d suggest you go and see this play yourself before reading the rest of this post. If not, read on.

Throughout the first half of the play (up to the lovers declaring their idea of pursuing the women), there is a strange butler standing in the background. He’s in almost every scene, just watching. He never speaks, and his only action is at the beginning of the play when he makes a gesture which brings up the lights and starts the play. He is well-built and powerful in appearance, almost eerie. Yet once everyone returns from intermission, he is gone. I had an inkling of what would happen, but wasn’t sure.

As the play progresses, the four suitors become more and more ridiculous. (Their Russian dancing is hilarious, by the way.) Then, when we see the play-within-a-play, we see the brutal side of their humor. Their wit becomes progressively meaner and meaner; the women grow quieter and quieter. Every secondary character whom you could so easily laugh at before is now an object of pity under the nobles’ cruelty. By the time Costard and Armado are about to duel, everyone is one tangle of bodies and shouting and fighting, except for the four noblewomen. These women are cowering stage left, appalled by what’s happening.

Then, at the height of the chaos, a boom sounds. The blue, flowy fabric of the background falls and hits the floor, revealing blackness and falling snow. The lights dim to shadows and a few spotlights. The ominous butler returns. He is the messenger coming to tell the princess of her father’s death.

You never see the frivolity or lightheartedness of the earlier scenes again. Everything is dark. While each couple has their parting, you can’t get a clear idea of what awaits their future. What’s perhaps saddest is Rosaline and Berowne’s goodbye—no kiss, just one hand clasping the other’s. As the nobles leave, Moth plays a bittersweet parting song while Armado and Jaquenetta and Dull slowly put white sheets over the furniture. We began with revelry, color, light; we leave with darkness, white and black, bitterness.

It all fits.

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