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!

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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.

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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?

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“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…

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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.”

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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

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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?

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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.

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An eye for an eye—er, two flesh pot pies for three hands, two heads, and a tongue for a human sacrifice—makes the whole word … mostly maimed or dead …

Adam Brock Ciresi’s mural in Portland, Oregon

How’s this for a coincidence? The other weekend, I visited some friends out of town (after finishing reading Titus Andronicus, of course), and we had a lovely brunch at a café within walking distance of their house. As we approached the building, I couldn’t help but notice a large mural painted on the backside: a dismembered man, just barely held together by strings, held out his handless arm towards a bird, which happened to be carrying the missing hand in its beak. How apt for my recent reading! I thought, and how poorly this bodes for our brunch …

None of us wanted to read Titus Andronicus. Hannah, who selected it for us this time, garnered our support by reminding us that we wouldn’t want to end our whole project on this gruesome note. As it turned out, I didn’t hate it, though I suspect I would feel differently at a performance of it. Even the single bloody head at the production of Cymbeline that Hannah and I saw a few months ago made me a little queasy, and Titus is on a whole new level.

Our group discussed how this play might be done as a gruesome comedy, like Shaun of the Dead, if not for the scene of Lavinia’s rape. The same idea had been faintly rattling in the back of my mind, but when my fellow readers pointed out this exception, something didn’t seem right to me. I’m not a fan of rape, but why would we be willing to excuse instances of murder—horrible, gory murder, at that—more than an instance of sexual assault? Both are awful and should make us cringe. But we don’t always. We laughed a little bit at Titus asking his handless daughter to carry his own orphaned hand between her arms. We imagined what Titus might be wearing—a “Kiss the Cook” apron?—when he serves a woman her sons’ flesh. We can distance ourselves from these crimes. It’s not so strange in our society to make light of torture, pain, and death; we make movies that make a game of such things and paint murals with disembodied appendages. I don’t want to get into any modern social commentary here, but how can this give us some insight Titus‘s world?

A similar desensitization is going on in Roman/Gothic culture in this play. I noticed this because I realized that I didn’t particularly like anyone in it, when I usually find at least a couple of characters in Shakespeare’s tragedies for whom to feel sorry. Hamlet: Polonius and Ophelia. Romeo and Juliet: Friar Lawrence and maybe someone’s mother. Macbeth: Macduff and his little boy. Etc. Titus Andronicus, however, presented me with a cast of characters who could not convince me of their total innocence in the course of the play. Even if they commit no overt offenses, wield no weapons, and whisper no intrigues, all are willing and active participants in a culture that encourages and even expects violence and retribution.

The whole course of violence traces back to the sacrifice of Tamora’s son Alarbus by Titus’s sons. (We could go back even further since the sacrifice is a reaction to Roman and Andronici lives lost fighting against the Goths.) Lucius claims that this sacrifice is necessary to put the spirits of Titus’s dead sons to rest, so that “the shadows [spirits] be not unappeased,/Nor we disturbed with prodigies [evil happenings] on earth” (I.i.100-101). As I’ve often found in Shakespearean tragedies, the very thing that the characters are trying to avoid at the beginning becomes the main action of the rest.

Let’s look at some reactions to violence.

A poster for a 2003 production by Le Theâtre Chaillot, by Michal Batory

Titus: “Patient yourself, madam [Tamora] … / … /your son is marked, and die he must” (I.i.121, 125). Human beings are little more than parts in the larger system of society to Titus, and some exist only to be used up.

Lucius: “[I’ll return Lavinia] dead, if you will, but not to be [Saturninus’s] wife” (I.i.293). Lucius and Titus’s other sons think of factional loyalty and marriage customs as more important than preserving life.

Lavinia: “Jove shield your [Tamora’s] husband [Saturninus] from his hounds today—/’Tis pity they should take him for a stag” (II.iii.70-71). This is mostly a shot at Tamora’s infidelity, but I’m also a bit disturbed by so casual a mention, perhaps even a wish, of a man being hunted like an animal.

Demetrius: “She [Lavinia] hath no tongue to call nor hands to wash” (II.iv.7). It’s always heartening to see someone rape and mutilate another person and then mock her for it.

Young Lucius: In response to Titus’s request that he deliver a message to Chiron and Demetrius, “Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire” (IV.i.117). How old is this boy? I was first picturing around eight years, but I certainly hope indoctrination into dagger-play and where to sever arteries waits a few years.

Nurse: “The Empress … / … bids thee christen [the baby] with thy dagger’s point” (IV.ii.69-70). Even a woman in the business of caring for children has no problem delivering a newborn to a very unnatural welcoming rite.

This is a sampling, of course, made up of the speeches that impressed me the most.

What’s wrong with these people? Today, many of our stories about such actions at least involve a perpetrator clearly disturbed, unwell, or evil. In Titus, however, it is not only the bloodthirsty Aaron who considers violence a normal, desirable part of daily life. Everyone, from seasoned generals to kindly nursemaids to young children, wants to participate in blood-feuds and fight for honor unto death. When a Roman lord cries out near the end of the play,

Let Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution unto herself
(V.iii.72-75)

it seems as though there may be a glimmer of hope. Rome is coming to its senses! No more blatant disregard for life! No more dehumanization! No more violence!

This, of course, is not so. Lucius insists on continuing the pattern of retribution as he gives his judgment for Aaron’s prolonged execution and commands Tamora’s body thrown out as carrion. These punishments are justly deserved, but all of the preceding acts of vengeance have a logical justification, too, tracing back through a line of dominoes to Alarbus’s death and a war of domination. I therefore see no hope as the curtain closes on Titus Andronicus. Shakespeare may have known the biblical observation, “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword” (paraphrased from Matthew 26:52), and no one here seems willing to put away his or her weapon anytime soon.

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All the World’s a Stage

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts.”

– As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7

One of Shakespeare’s most famous lines is delivered by Jaques in the comedy As You Like It.  Jaques goes on to describe seven “parts,” each one a stage of life that we experience, but this quote is explored not only in terms of mortality, but also in terms of self-discovery in this folk tale of a story.

I do believe we play different roles for different people at different times in our lives.  At work, I’m a young professional with a customer service orientation and hard-work attitude.  With my closest  friends, I’m an absolute geek obsessing over Shakespeare, Marvel movies, and Doctor Who.  With my family, I’m a little of both.

As You Like It (2006) Movie Poster

What do we learn about ourselves in these roles?  In each role some of our true nature is revealed to others, and to ourselves.  We can mask our true identity but reveal our true self.

We discussed this whole concept of true self a lot in our discussion of Henry IV, Part 1 and Part 2, and Henry V.  Hal was both a young ruffian having a good time and a prince destined to be king.  He would goof off with the lowlifes at the local tavern and then lead an army into battle alongside his kingly father.  Which was his true self, and which was the act?  Or is there truth in both?

And maybe in one of our roles our truth attracts another “player.”  Hopefully the role we are playing at the time is our most sincere part.  When we meet this other player, he or she improvises with us.  Then we stay in these roles and draw it out until we’ve produced a full-length play.  And we stay in that beloved role until the curtain closes, “sans everything.”

In As You Like It, Rosalind plays a role that allows her freedom of speech and opinion.  As Ganymede, she can say what she wants and do what she wants because, for most of he play, her love doesn’t know it’s her.  She can be her true self and in that guise gets the chance to know her love.  She can test him, she can crack wits, and she can broach subjects more directly than she would if her sweetheart knew it was her with whom he was conversing. Her disguise releases her of limitations, and her true self shines.  Ganymede is confident, witty, fun-loving, and very forward.

Ryland Thomas as Orlando and Kalen Harriman as Rosalind in As You Like It. Photo by Bob Goodfellow.

Now one of the difficulties of this role Rosalind has taken on, and one of the difficulties of the play which greatly disturbed some of our book club members, is the slightly perverted idea that a grown man is pretending a young boy is his love and wooing “her.”  I think the awkwardness stemming from a man playing couples with a boy can be reconciled in a few ways if it’s played correctly.  First, their interactions can be cheesed up as true play-acting.  Orlando is playing along with Ganymede the same way an adult might play house with their small niece or nephew to pass the time and spend time with them.  They’re playing around.  Cheese it up!  What else are they going to do in the middle of nowhere?  They improvise to entertain themselves and are goofing around.

I think a remarkable way to play this relationship would be to show a real friendship forming between the two.  Nothing creepy, but a genuine affection.  How often do we hear men or women say that when they find that special someone, they want the other person to be like a best friend?  Or a couple say they are each other’s best friend?  If Orlando and Rosalind (as Ganymede, of course) form a open, honest, and fun friendship, it could be a tremendous way to build the relationship so the union at the end is truly expected and a genuine progression of their friendship into something more lasting.

And what about the small possibility that Orlando knows the whole time who Ganymede really is?  I’m not sure the text really supports this, but it’s an option that might be fun for a production to explore.

All of this is just to demonstrate how Orlando and Ganymede playing acting can be just that: playing.  While there has to be hints of truth, I believe it can be done in a non-creepy way.

As You Like It production at Shakespeare’s Globe (2010) with Jack Laskey as Orlando and Naomi Frederick as Rosalind

In fact, what excites me most about this play is all of the possibilities!  The above is just an example.  In this play, an actor gets to chose when exactly Orlando figures out Ganymede’s true identity.  Is it at the beginning?  Is it in Act IV, Scene 1, as was decided in the 2010 Shakespeare’s Globe production directed by Thea Sharrock?  Or does Orlando learn the truth only after Oliver makes the discovery in Act IV, Scene 3 (“You a man! You lack a man’s heart”)?  Or does he truly not get he hint until the finale in Act V, Scene 4 (“If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind”).

The roles can be played in different ways, as can our own.  While many of Shakespeare’s plays involve disguise and misidentity, none are as performative or explore our everyday acting as explicitly as As You Like It.  The freedom Rosalind finds as Ganymede isn’t beyond our own reach.  We can mask our true identity but reveal our true self.  If all the world’s a stage, we should enjoy trying out different roles, explore who we are and who we can be, and if we’re luck, find another “player” to play along with us.

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