The King’s Evil

There is a school of literary criticism that emphasizes the reader, rather than the author or the text itself, in the meaning of a text. I must admit, when I learned about this along with several other theories as a freshman English major, I thought it was stupid. I still don’t quite see how it qualifies as a method of interpreting literature, but as we went through Macbeth I did find that some bits jumped out at me because of what I had been thinking about recently. I read Macbeth three years ago in my college Shakespeare course, and, although I remember liking it very much (certainly more than any other tragedy I’d encountered), the main theme-related tidbit I remember is how often the word “blood” appears. This time, I found my interpretation colored by another book I had just read, Maus by Art Spiegelman.

Maus is a graphic novel memoir about the writer/artist’s father, a Holocaust survivor. I was supposed to read Maus over a year ago before a course on the theology and history of the Holocaust, but I didn’t get the memo… I’m catching up now, and I highly recommend it. Going through it brought back much of what I learned in that class, especially some of the theological questions. Holocaust theology is, for the most part, theodicy, the study of how we can reconcile God’s goodness with the existence of evil. A statement by Rabbi Irving Greenberg about this conflict as it pertains to the Holocaust—”No statement, theological or otherwise, should be made that would not be credible in the presence of burning children”—came back to me while reading Macbeth. Greenberg means that we should be careful about what we say about God and God’s intentions in light of the mass murder of innocent people, including children and infants; we can’t fall back on platitudes or excuses like “It’s all for the best” or “It must be a punishment.” On a much smaller scale, this is similar to the anguished, puzzled sentiment that Macduff expresses when he finds out that his whole family has been slaughtered: “Did heaven look on and would not take their part?”

I’m not saying that Macbeth even approaches Hitler status; Hitler is in a category if not entirely to himself at least shared by few others. Yet Macbeth and his story struck me with the pervasive atmosphere of evil this time around. I am convinced that this play centers on questions about the nature of evil and how we confront it. Being a blog post, this will not be an exhaustive exploration of the topic, but I’ll try to go over some of the points that I find interesting/that we actually talked about in our group discussion. (Note: there are spoilers here, maybe more than we usually have.)

Witches’ Sabbath, Hans Baldung, 1510

As the play begins, evil incarnate (as most sixteenth-century people would have seen them) walks onstage. The three witches are humans who have not only done evil things but have actively and knowingly chosen to live with evil. To commit witchcraft in the Middle Ages and Renaissance was to commune with the devil: having fun parties known as witches’ sabbaths, cooking up potions that do all sorts of wicked things, and even having sexual relations with Satan. Sinning is one thing; being a witch is quite another.

To make matters worse, witches look like regular people, just kind of old and ill-looking, when they’re not doing witchy things. In our discussion, we talked about how directors have staged the initial scene. Katy told us about a production that began in total darkness, even covering up the exit lights (not safe, children), and used speakers around the theater to make the witches’ voices come from various directions. The goal, obviously, was to make the audience feel the fear that witches ought to inspire. I thought about this after the webcam stopped rolling, though, and I think Shakespeare’s point would be better accomplished by merely having the three witches strolling along the heath and by-and-by running into Macbeth. The really terrifying thing about witches is that they could be you: they were once normal people, if not kind and virtuous at least in that muddled somewhat-good-but-somewhat-sinful category, and they have no qualms about drawing you along the same path they have gone. This is, however, a theoretical kind of terror; meeting a witch in person, with all of her quirks of speech and fashion, produces more of an uneasy feeling than a clear red flag.

Thus, when Macbeth and Banquo first run into these “weird sisters” (first used I.iii.30), it makes sense that they are taken aback but aren’t so frightened as to run away. Although Banquo describes how strange they look and asks a couple of questions with trepidation, the following lines suggest mere curiosity. Macbeth boldly engages them in conversation, and Banquo soon regards them as bearers of good news, asking his friend, “why do you start and seem to fear/Things that do sound so fair?” (I.iii.49-50). This, I think, is Shakespeare’s first statement about the nature of evil: it can sneak in the smallest opening and take advantage of the least hesitation. The two men quickly want to know more. How can the prophecies come true? How do they know? Do they have any other predictions? By engaging in conversation with consorts of the devil, Macbeth and Banquo unintentionally invite an evil presence into their lives. Especially when one of the prophecies almost immediately turns out to be true, the two men banish their reservations and begin to think that there’s nothing to fear from the prophetesses.

Evil spreads like a disease throughout the play after this quiet inoculation. We meet Lady Macbeth as she reads her husband’s letter the evening before Duncan comes to stay—a letter that merely summarizes the conversation that he and Banquo had with the witches. Macbeth doesn’t mention murder or anything about how he would get the throne; the tone is more along the lines of: “Honey, you’ll never believe this! The darnedest thing happened to me today!” Immediately, though, Lady Macbeth begins talking to herself about how her husband will never have the guts to get rid of the sitting king. We know, of course, that Macbeth is also contemplating regicide, but how did this thought get to her? It could be that Macbeth has married a woman like himself and it’s natural that they think the same way, but we also know that Macbeth was a pretty loyal guy before the witches stepped in and ruined everything. He’s on his way home with impressive honors and the king as a guest because of his great devotion and bravery on behalf of Duncan, and the thought to kill the same man “make[s Macbeth’s] seated heart knock at [his] ribs” (I.iii.135), so I don’t think that he would have chosen a thoroughly treacherous woman as his wife. Rather, I suspect that Lady Macbeth has caught something just from the words and spirit from her husband: the desire to do and be evil.

Although we don’t clearly see anyone else contracting evil, there are numerous casualties in a relatively short time. There’s Duncan, of course, and his unfortunate chamberlains. Banquo is next to go (accompanied by his son’s innocence and sense of security), and then Macduff’s family, and finally Siward’s son. A general rule of tragedies is that there must be a bloodbath, but this is a bit different. Typically, the slaughter happens at the end of the play. In Macbeth, the deaths of innocent people, mostly true bystanders, start soon and repeat several times; I mapped it out, and at least one person is killed in every act.

A 1065 silver penny imprinted with the image of King Edward

The presence of the English court strengthens the disease metaphor. Edward the Confessor ruled England at the time of Macbeth, and his epithet denotes his renowned Christian piety. As Shakespeare pointedly illustrates in a conversation between Malcolm and Macduff, he was thought to be able to cure scrofula with his touch. Scrofula, a form of tuberculosis, is the modern name; in the sixteenth and eleventh centuries, they called it “the evil.” King Edward sends his army along with Macduff and Malcolm to defeat Macbeth, which we can see as a sort of touch with the army as the king’s hand. What does Scotland need to be cured of if not its “evil” disease? The interference of King Edward also counteracts the evil introduced at the beginning of the play, for he has “a heavenly gift of prophecy” (IV.iii.158), as opposed to the witches’ “prophetic greeting” delivered on a “blasted heath” (I.iii.76, 75). Evil can be defeated not with mere resistance but rather with pure goodness.

As with several of the plays that we have studied so far—Hamlet especially comes to mind—Macbeth ends with a purifying act of destruction, as all of the characters that participated in the wickedness are dead: Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, and even Banquo. We could say merely that their actions come back on their heads, but it’s a little more complex than that. Remember that the punishment for witchcraft and heresy was burning. Hanging and beheading got the job done for most crimes, but consorting with the devil (purporting heretical ideas was also considered to be the work of hell) required something more complete. Fire not only purifies but also destroys completely: let fire do its work and nothing will remain but a pile of ashes. In the same way, repentance or exile would not do for Macbeth and his co-conspirators. The darkness that he has brought to Scotland is so pervasive and powerful that only an act of destruction puts it right again. There is no cheery ending in a world with evil.

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Wrestling with William

I was the sort of high school student (and college student, too, come to think of it) who became buddies with some of my teachers. As we continue our project, one of these fine people comes to mind: my Spanish teacher, commonly known simply as “Señora.” Most of my friends also took Spanish and therefore also knew Señora, and together we went to visit her in the year or two after we graduated. On one such occasion, she mentioned that she had majored not only in Spanish but also in English in college. At her school, English majors were required to take a full year’s worth of Shakespeare, and she made the unwise decision of putting off all of them until her senior year. I could still see the pained yet numb expression in Señora’s eyes as she told us this. I just laughed, shrugged, and said I imagined a year of Shakespeare, even just a school year, might get tiresome. Little did I know.

Our club is now on our fifteenth play, not quite halfway through the canon. It has been far more of an emotional journey than I thought it would be, not so much in terms of the plays’ themes but in terms of my reading stamina. I won’t say that I have cried trying to finish a play on time, but I won’t say I haven’t, either. Señora’s exasperation and subtle aversion to Shakespeare now makes sense to me: when you spend even seven months reading so many “i’th'”s, you start to long for some text that looks like something a modern human being would say.

Today, however, I had a more encouraging experience with dear William. I began reading Macbeth (you caught me: I’m behind by almost a week), quite prepared to panic over the next two days as I struggle to get it done in time for our meeting. But, miracle of miracles, I got through three acts in little over an hour! I’ve read Macbeth before, but I had read Hamlet twice before, and that didn’t make my latest foray in Denmark any less boggy. What do I draw from this? Pride. Satisfaction. Confidence in my brilliance.

Most of all, though, I felt like I had broken through some sort of barrier. Not only did I read quickly, but I also comprehended the action and appreciated specific speeches and phrases more. The point I want to make here is that reading Shakespeare is like a lot of other difficult activities: it’s annoying, and it makes you want to curl into a little ball sometimes, but if you keep going, there will come a time where it’s as easy as the Berenstein Bears. And I think that reaching that point is worthwhile because we won’t get everything we can get out of these old but poignant works when we’re cursing the day young Bill was born (which happened around this time of year, as a matter of fact). Keep on, brave readers!

As that time approaches, you may also start using sixteenth-century words that have a completely different meaning now… but that’s a thought for another day.

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Cymbeline, Shakespeare’s Epic Fairy Tale

I have to say that Cymbeline is one of my favorites of the Shakespeare plays we have read and studied so far!  I was swept away by this epic tale of love, betrayal, loss, and homecoming.  The characters are passionate and the language is vivid!  Our book club talked at length about this play and we explored a lot, but I would like to highlight what I found to be the 5 most interesting points of our discussion.

1) Should the play really be titled Cymbeline?  This is one of the most common questions asked about the play.  While he does over the course of the play regain his power and it is his family, he doesn’t actually do anything.  I did not find him to be a strong character at all, especially observing the control his crazy, manipulative wife has over him, his family, and his kingdom. There are so many other strong characters who undergo remarkable transformations throughout the play.  Why is the play named after a character we hardly ever see who does not develop much as a character?

And yet that’s what Shakespeare called it. The Bard of Avon—the great dramatist, storyteller, and poet writing one of his last and, in some ways, most mature works—decided to title the play Cymbeline.  There must be a reason.  Looking at it from this perspective, I begin to reflect on how the story is about King Cymbeline’s reunion with his family.  He regains his kingdom as well, but throughout the complex sequence of events, both his daughter and sons find their way home.  The play tells the epic tale of how Cymbeline is reunited with his family.  I suppose that’s worth a title…

2) Innogen is one of the strongest of Shakespeare’s female characters we’ve encountered on our journey through Shakepeare’s plays so far.  Innogen is passionate, loyal, rebellious, clever, brave, and gentle.  She doesn’t waver in her loyalty to Posthumus.  When Iachimo tries to make her believe Posthumus was unfaithful to her, she doesn’t buy it for long.  And she doesn’t just sit in her castle waiting for Posthumus to return, she heads out to find him.

A really interesting theory Hannah found suggested that Innogen is a metaphor for Britain:

In many ways, Imogen personifies the soul of Britain as it fights both to overcome the corruption of Cymbeline’s court and to resist the foreign decadence represented by the Italian Iachimo. The turning-point comes when she finds the ‘good’ Britain personified by Belarius and his adopted sons hidden in the hills of Wales. In the play’s tumultuous final scene, while Shakespeare allows the foreigner Iachimo a fine confession, he gives short shrift to Posthumus’s reunion with Imogen. By giving a reformed Cymbeline the last word, Shakespeare seems eager to demonstrate that, after endless trials and tribulations, the monarchy is secure and the country is at peace.

– “Essential Shakespeare Handbook,” by Leslie Dunton-Downer and Alan Riding, 2004, p. 416

We wondered if maybe the play shouldn’t be titled Innogen in stead of Cymbeline.

3) Or should the play be titled Posthumus?  Posthumus changes so much over the course of the play. While both Innogen and Posthumus are immature at the start of the play—their marriage is rebellious and they don’t fully understand what that commitment means—Posthumus is arguably more immature than Innogen.  He’s quite quick to believe she has been unfaithful to him and his “unfaithful bitches all” response is pretty extreme.  But it was only after watching an interview by the director and cast of Theatrum Elysium’s 2012 production that I understood why I enjoy Posthumus so much.  The actor playing him explained that “Posthumus lives at the tens… he loves at a 10… he grieves at a 10 and then he rages at a 10….”  Posthumus is a very passionate character and that is what makes him exciting for me.

Posthumus in Philadelphia Shakespeare Theatre’s 2012 Production of Cymbeline

In the end, the two lovers mature and are reunited as adults who can truly love each other.  They have learned what it means to trust one another because they have both distrusted each other.  They have learned what it means to love one another because they have lost each other.  We see their immature, rebellious, passionate relationship mature and flourish as they change in response to the journeys they endure separately.  In many ways, they have to be separated (we see them together very little) and mature individually before they can fully love each other.

4) Is it too much plot? Many different critics have fussed over the plot and said it’s too complicated, confusing, or even sloppy.  The many story lines of Cymbeline that weave in and out and finally tie up at the end can be confusing for the reader, difficult for an audience, and challenging for the director.  But I don’t think it’s as challenging as a lot of people think.  The many different plots result in short, fast-moving scenes that give the play a nice epic pace.  Once I got to about halfway through, I couldn’t put the book down.  I found myself staying up late into the night to finish and find out how it all wrapped up.

Another plot-related criticism is that that the final scene, in which all the characters come together and the relationships and plot twists are revealed, is an obnoxious and unnecessary way to recap the play and clear everything up for the audience.  Some directors have cut down the ending feeling it was too tedious.  My view is that if you think the recap ending is too tedious, you’re staging it wrong!  If you are approaching the ending as a review for the audience, you’re approaching it wrong!  I agree that the audience likely does not need this review.  Even with all the twisting plots, the story lays itself out relatively well.  The recap scene is not necessary for the audience, but it is necessary for the characters.  To approach this play truthfully you have to commit to the knowledge that each of these characters does not know entirely what has taken place.  The revelations in this scene are heart-wrenching and extremely important for the emotional journey of each character.  The final act has the potential to be incredibly moving.  The reconciliations and revelations are necessary to attain a satisfactory ending to the epic tale that the audience has just witnessed.  If the last scene is played for the audience and not for the characters and story, then, yes, it will be stupid and obnoxious.

Innogen, the Queen, & Cymbeline in the 2007 Chicago Shakespeare Theater production

5) Part of the fun of Cymbeline is its fairy-tale nature: a princess in love with a poor servant her father doesn’t approve of and an evil step-mother who controls the king and kingdom and wants the princess dead.  How long before the writers of Once Upon a Time weave this storyline in with the other fairy tales?

But what is truly exciting about Cymbeline is that it is not just one genre but rather many rolled in to one.  Royal Shakespeare Company director Dominic Cooke sums it up nicely:

The style of Cymbeline is drawn from the different styles that Shakespeare has used throughout his career.  You get elements of the classic Shakespearean comedy, with girls dressed as boys, mistaken identity, and romance; you get the military conflict of the Roman plays; you get the political intrigue of a history play; you get some of the horror of a play like Titus Andronicus; and you get the sense of loss of tragedy.

Now that’s quite a play!

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The (True) Taming of the Shrew

A few weeks ago I was lucky to get a weekend away in Ashland. While I was there, I was able to see the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s production of Taming of the Shrew.  This hilarious, high-energy play was pure entertainment from the opening rock n’ roll song to its closing ballad. Director David Ivers sets the scene on a boardwalk complete with a roller coaster, Ferris wheel, and a tunnel of love. Petruchio is a rock star, covered in tattoos which suits his haughty and unruly character. He meets his match with Kate, who is outspoken and has a tough-as-nails attitude all the way through.

Nell Geisslinger as Kate

While both strong-headed characters start out clashing, eventually we see their relationship evolve into what can be summed up with some basic math—two negatives make a positive. The production interpreted this controversial play as a true love story. Kate’s long monologue at the end cements the trust that blossomed between the newly-weds. Other interpretations of the play have used the monologue to reveal a woman manipulated and tamed into submission.

Ted Deasy as Petruchio with Geisslinger

But as I mentioned, this play is controversial and the controversy did not go undiscussed by your Bard’s Book Club a week later.

We were split on whether this was a romantic love story or a cruel portrayal of female subjugation. After all, Petruchio drags Kate through the mud, starves her, and deprives her of sleep, seemingly to get her to behave as he wishes. We saw that Kate stops fighting him back and discussed  that textually her lines become shorter and passive.

To add to the debate, Hannah found an article which cites a defense for Petruchio by pointing out the references made by Shakespeare to the practice of falconry. To tame birds of prey, both owner and animal endure the same deprivations. In the text, it fits that Petruchio keeps Kate awake, therefore not sleeping himself, and when she doesn’t eat, he doesn’t either. On the one hand, we can see the falconry analogy as one of equality promoting the strong and intense bond that is created, but on the other hand, we see the obvious problems (if the language of  “owner” and “animal” weren’t bad enough). Kate is his wife, not an animal that needs to be socialized.

The play is ultimately left up to us, the audience (or reader), to decide. The four of us ended up divided on how to interpret the play, especially Kate’s controversial monologue.  I personally believe Kate and Petruchio end up having a strong and loving partnership. Textually, throughout most of the play, Kate’s lines are fairly short. No one, especially her father, gives her the room to truly express herself. The men cut her off or ignore her because of her shrewishness, and this same back and forth continues. It is in her divisive  monologue that she is given the space and time to truly share her feelings, and it is Petruchio who lovingly allows her to do so.

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