A Sad Fairy Tale

“A sad tale’s best for winter,” says the doomed Mamillius. Whether or not he realizes it, the young prince is speaking prophetically. In some ways, The Winter’s Tale is one of Shakespeare’s most aptly named plays; it’s a sad fairy tale, like the one Mamillius promised to tell. Just as most fairy tales, it ends with the hope and miracle of spring. However, not all of winter can be chased away, and we’re left with mixed emotions at the end of this play. 

One thing we commented on in our discussion was the role of fate in this play. Everything seems to be orchestrated meaningfully. For instance, Mamillius dies as a result of the oracle he refuses to heed, and a vision leads Antigonus to leave Perdita where she would one day come in contact with Florizel. While it’s often surprising, we can see the reasoning behind plot turns. The gods are in control of this play.

Yet one thing did seem illogical, at least to me. Why would a king turn from love to hatred without any proof of wrongdoing? Usually we’d pin the blame on our resident Iago—whoever hates most the tragic hero and wants to cause trouble. Other times we’d write the character off as one we’re not meant to like, such as King John.  Yet Leontes’s downfall isn’t so easy to explain. We have no devil whispering in his ear, no innate evil traits to make us abhor him, no dark past to trouble his future.

As we discussed this in book club, we came to the general consensus that King Leontes is jealous of the intimacy between his best friend and his wife. He sees in their laughter and conversation a closeness which he’s not a part of, and it hurts. It’s like when we set up two friends (or lovers), and they hit it off immediately; part of us rejoices that we succeeded, yet there’s a temptation to feel rejected by the inevitable loss of attention to us. Rejection hits us all, king or peasant, and Leontes doesn’t know how to deal with it. Leontes wanted Hermione and Polixenes to be happy, but now that they’re happy together he regrets it. The anger and jealousy which provides the catalyst for the play’s plot is also one of the most human aspects of the play.

So quickly Leontes turns from a loving husband to a tyrant. Part of us wants to hope that he’ll change, that there will be redemption for the downfallen king. We know this isn’t a tragedy, so how can we reconcile the darkness this king has cast over Sicilia? If the darkness caused by Leontes is orchestrated by the gods, the gods must intervene with a miracle.

Everything changes after Shakespeare’s most famous stage direction: “Exit pursued by a bear.” All of us in The Bard’s Book Club knew this line was coming, and still it took us by surprise. As if a visual representation of Leontes’s anger, a bear comes out of nowhere, showing us the last destruction allowed by the gods in the death of Antigonus. It caps off the terror and leaves us yearning for hope. Thankfully, hope is exactly what Shakespeare gives us.

While destruction rules Sicilia, the worst problem Bohemia offers is the rogue Autolycus. Yet even Autolycus can’t do lasting wrong—every attempt at evil turns to good. With the coming of spring we see the gods smile down at the cast of the tormented. Everything moves toward the climactic ending, where we see Shakespeare’s finest attempt at a surprise twist ending. Just like any good fairy tale, out of darkness springs a happy ending.

However, one dark cloud remains at the end of The Winter’s Tale. Hermione is alive, Perdita is reunited with her parents, Florizel can marry the one he loves, and even Paulina is given a new husband. It’s all miraculous, yet we can’t help but remember that some consequences of anger are permanent. Mamillius and Antigonus are still dead. Nothing can bring them back. Perhaps this is what makes The Winter’s Tale more than a simple fairy tale, and ultimately what draws us to its story. Once again Shakespeare has given us hope with a dose of reality. We all need the hope that our relationships can be mended, that we can find reconciliation with the ones we’ve wronged or who have wronged us. At the same time, we will always have sorrows that can’t be erased. It’s the blend of the joyful and the heartbreaking that makes these tales worth hearing.

MAMILLIUS.    A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one
Of sprites and goblins.

HERMIONE.     Let’s have that, good sir.
Come on, sit down:—come on, and do your best
To fright me with your sprites; you’re powerful at it.

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Do You Believe in Miracles?

“The Winter’s Tale is not a problem play. It is a play for people who are brave enough to believe in miracles, and there is more than enough room in the boat to Bohemia.” – Matthew Earnest, taken from director’s notes for his production of The Winter’s Tale at the 2013 Texas Shakespeare Festival

Do you believe in redemption?  In the power of love and loyalty?  In miracles?

These are all questions explored in Shakespeare’s second to last work, one of his five romances, The Winter’s Tale.  And in his preparations for directing a modernized production of The Winter’s Tale for the 2013 Texas Shakespeare Festival, Matthew Earnest questioned whether or not a miracle could happen today.  Shakespeare’s romances are adult fairy tales and not meant to be realistic, though they reveal wonderful truths about our human nature.  The romances are filled with oracles, dreams, coincidences, magic, and miracles.  But can such a story translate in to modern times?  Do we believe such miracles can happen today?  To believe, “It is requir’d You do awake your faith.” (The Winter’s Tale, Act V, Scene 3)

(This should go without saying, but the following does contain spoilers for The Winter’s Tale.)

To test the audience’s faith Shakespeare and the director of this particular production began first by placing the audience in a state of hopelessness.  The first three Acts are serious, dark and cold as you witness a man breaking under the weight of jealousy and a gracious, loyal wife face horrid, false accusations and death.  A son dies.  A baby is abandoned. The first three acts put the winter in The Winter’s Tale and the tragedy in tragicomedy.

Sicilia in the 2013 Texas Shakespeare Festival production of The Winter’s
Photo property of John Dodd and the Texas Shakespeare Festival

In his production, Earnest immediately set the tone for this emotional state by turning the King’s Sicilian castle in to a modern, metal house with glass from floor to ceiling set in a woody winter wilderness.  The sterilized room was strained and cold right from the start of the play.  While I was first taken aback by the modernization, the all-glass house did much to reinforce the tone of the play.  The room was stark white and intensely lit.  The characters where, in effect, put under a microscope for us to observe.  With the characters contained and framed in this setting, we were forced to observe, even scrutinize, Leonates, while Leonates in turn scrutinized Hermione and Polixenes.

Actor Arthur Lazalde, who played Leonates, presented a truthful portrayal of the proud, fiercely jealous man, and his realistic performance helped settle this story into the audience’s real world.  Even more so, the hauntingly beautiful and poignant portrayal of Hermione by actress Bri Sudia compelled us to empathize with the wronged mother and feel the hopelessness of her situation.  Sudia’s performance in Act 3 Scene 2 was heart-wrenching.

Much as one must endure the harsh winter to reach the reviving spring, it is only after Shakespeare leads his audience in to the depths of despair that he begins to give them hope.  After the death of Hermione and Mamillius, and the abandonment of Perdita in the harsh Bohemian wilderness during a tempest, the play reaches it’s lowest point, and it’s turning point: “Exit, pursued by a bear.”  Shakespeare’s most famous stage direction is at the same time terrifying and ridiculous.

Bohemia in the 2013 Texas Shakespeare Festival production of The Winter’s Tale
Photo property of John Dodd and Texas Shakespeare Festival

From that point on, anything goes, and in this production the audience was transported quickly in to the rural country (a.k.a. East Texas) and introduced to the hillbilly Old Shepherd and his Clown son.  In the first few moments the audience spent with the pair, they got enough comic relief to make up for the past three and a half acts with the silly bird calls and enthusiastic expressions.  The audience’s ensuing laughter is much needed as Shakespeare has purposefully not given us a clown character or any comic relief until this point.  As the lights rose to signal Intermission following Act III, Scene 3, the audience at the Texas Shakespeare Festival had hope.  Hope in the hillbillies.

Florizel (Andi Dema) and Perdita (Sarah Laughland)
Photo property of John Dodd and Texas Shakespeare Festival

When the we returned for the second half of the production, the curtain pulled back to reveal a warm stage strewn with hay bales, lawn chairs and hundreds of flower petals.  The young lovers Perdita and Florizel radiate energy and hope.  Even when Perdita fixates on the danger Florizel’s father poses to their status-defying love, the young prince encourages her, “With these forced thoughts, darken not the mirth o’th’feast” (The Winter’s Tale, Act IV, Scene 4) and the celebrations begin!

And if the Old Shepherd and Clown did not provide the play with enough joy to counterbalance Acts I-III, the charming rogue Autolycus will.  His winks at the audience and smooth singing was disarming to both us and the characters on stage.  The whole sheepshearing festival was joyous, and even when King Polixenes threatened to tear the two lovers apart, it was hard to despair (perhaps because he was dressed in overalls when he made his threats).

Hope was never quite lost in the second half of the play, and even when we returned to Sicilia—represented by a dark, bare stage, a ruined arm chair, and snow still falling on the King’s head—we never quite lost that feeling of anticipation.  When I reviewed our discussion of Cymbeline (still my favorite play!), I railed for almost a whole blog post about how much I loved the climatic reunion scene at the end of the play, a scene often criticized for being an “unnecessary summary for the audience.”  I believe the passionate moments of revelation and reconciliation were necessary for the story and characters (forget the audience).  So you can imagine my confusion when the nearly identical reunions were not shown in The Winter’s Tale, but rather described by three random characters in the street.  In this production, the three gentleman spoke at once in unison, which though it was well done, seemed distracting to me.  I’m not sure I would have understood what happened had I not read the play beforehand.  To be honest, I still don’t know what I think of hearing about the reunion instead of seeing it.  I still found great satisfaction in the ending of The Winter’s Tale, and wonder why witnessing those moments maybe aren’t necessary.

Then I remind myself, in Shakespeare’s time, you did not go to see a play, you went to hear a play.  The words were (and still are) what mattered.  After all, aren’t all great tales told at some point?  If the three gentleman commit to the words and tell the story of the final reunion in poetic manner, then perhaps it can be compelling.  But it must be related with as much passion in the retelling as was present in the initial event.

Perhaps the reason the play is so satisfying after all is that we do see one reunion, the most important reunion, the miracle.  But only if you “awake your faith.”  The ending of The Winter’s Tale in text and production is ambiguous.  Did the loyal Paulina hide her mistress for fifteen years?  Or did the statue truly come to life?

Do you believe in redemption?  In the power of love and loyalty?  In miracles?

Every audience member can answer these questions and decide for themselves how The Winter’s Tale ends.  Regardless, it is beautiful,  poignant, and bittersweet when one child is reunited with her parents, but the other child remains lost.  The story is gracefully realistic and truthful.  One must endure winter to witness the coming of spring.  And isn’t that a miracle?

The reunion of Perdita (Sarah Laughland) and Hermione (Bri Sudia)
Photo property of John Dodd and Texas Shakespeare Festival

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Machiavelli, Bismarck… and John

Funny how often I write the posts for the history plays, isn’t it? It’s almost as though my fellow readers don’t like them very much…

It is, though, fitting that I reflect on these plays for public viewing. Whenever I read a history play, as I’ve mentioned before, I tend to get into historian mode (rather, historiographer mode; historiography is the study of how we look at and write about history). Every piece of writing that deals with actual events, whether it merely takes inspiration or claims to be accurate, makes a comment on those events. Shakespeare does this with his history plays, too.

A prime example of modern historiography

I hadn’t read King John before this, and I actually didn’t know anything about it or the real monarch (aside from hazy recollections of Robin Hood tales). I had no idea what to expect. I certainly did not expect to have cartoonish visions going on in my head as I went through it. My fellow club members did not empathize with me on this point, but can’t you see it? The part where John and Philip of France are arguing outside of Angers and this little townsman keeps popping up to say, “We’ll open for the true king as soon as we figure out who he is!”? Admittedly, it’s a rather morbid cartoon. I’m not saying I thoroughly enjoyed or laughed when little Arthur jumps off the wall and is surprised he didn’t make it, but it does have a touch of the absurd to it.

Absurd is a key word in talking about the sort of history Shakespeare encourages here. The other history plays we’ve read so far (and others, or so I’m told) are decidedly not absurd. The plays relating to Henry V point us towards a clear goal: young Prince Hal becomes the beloved, heroic monarch he is destined to be. Henry VIII very obviously glorifies Elizabeth I, and its events likewise map out a logical pathway to her. Usually, Shakespeare views and presents English history as providential and ordered. Battles are won or lost so that a certain monarch or group will rise or fall. Good people do not die in vain; wicked people are put in their places.

Arthur talking with King Philip of France I was unable to find more information about this painting.

King John, on the other hand, is a confusing and disconcerting mess. The town of Angers saves itself by suggesting a marriage to bring about an alliance—that immediately falls apart. France attacks England for the second time because the Church wants to punish John for his disobedience—only to disobey its own ecclesiastical order to declare peace. Arthur is spared from John’s cruel death sentence by Hubert—and then jumps off a building onto solid rock. What’s going on here? Why is any of this happening? In many plays, a disordered plot comes to a satisfactory resolution at the end, but not King John! At the end, the king’s son, soon to be King Henry III, pops in to say good-bye to his father and gives off a faint air that mumbles, “I guess I’ll be king now.” We know nothing about his character and therefore have no clue if he’ll improve on the English experience under John. Unlike our certainty at the end of Henry VIII, we have an uneasy sense that this boy might truly be his father’s son.

This is politics in real life. As modern people, we know that even noble Henry V wasn’t that great of a guy, but Renaissance historians liked to describe past figures with a moral lens and teleological framework. It’s a natural tendency; we want to believe that we’re going somewhere and have a purpose. Shakespeare and his sources worked very hard to impose that thinking on history. King John gives a terrifying yet oddly more familiar story. Its characters are motivated not by some higher calling or internal inclination to be evil but rather by self-interest, raw emotions, and convenience. I see this not only in obviously unlikeable people like John but also in his more ambiguous minions. Hubert spares Arthur because he, like many normal human beings, is moved to pity by a little boy crying not to have his eyes gouged out. He also hides and reveals his disobedience to the king according to whether the situation calls for it.

Cognitive dissonance also takes hold of some of the characters, especially John himself. The opening scene in which the Bastard and Falconbridge fight over their inheritances demonstrates John’s ability to adjust his morals according to his whims. John rules that the Bastard is legally legitimate because he was born within wedlock, though not between his biological parents. Even though the father’s will directed that everything should go to his truly legitimate son, the law holds that the Bastard has the rights of the eldest son. Yet John’s and Arthur’s respective claims to the throne parallel the claims of the two sons. John has the right to rule according to his brother’s will, and Arthur has the right according to the law. In this case, however, John must ignore his once-stated opinion that the law of the land precedes any personal will so that he may keep his throne. This, too, is a critical part of being a successful monarch in this period of history. Man does not rule by right alone, as Queen Eleanor notes to her son: “Your strong possession much more than your right [support us]” (I.i.40).

All of that being said, I do admit that there is a hint of justice in this presentation of The Life and Death of King John. John does die and lose his kingdom, of course, and the way he does is well deserved: having greatly increased the taxes on the monasteries, he receives a fatal dose of poison from a monk. I think that this might also be an instance of self-interest and reality—even monks take revenge—but the fact remains that all tyrants die, allowing a new cycle of history to march forward… or perhaps to just repeat the last.

John’s Great Seal (an etching made in the 18th or 19th century)

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