Blog 10: Subconsciously Dramatic

Last week marked the 75^th anniversary of Sigmund Freud’s death, which made me want to ponder the interesting connections between the man, his work, and Shakespeare. Freud was an admirer of the bard’s work, both personally and professionally. Some plays (notably Hamlet) bore considerable influence on his conceptualisation of melancholia, mourning, and narcissism. Though his use of the Danish price remains the benchmark of his involvement with Shakespeare,[1] other plays appear throughout his body of work to a lesser extent (such as The Merchant of Venice, or Julius Cesar), serving to illustrate the various psychological phenomena Freud details. When it came to outlining the intricacies of the human psyche, Freud often looked to Shakespeare’s characters as the ideal touchstone.

I find Freud’s use of Shakespeare compelling, but it can also make for a cavalier type of criticism that dangerously reads “backwards,” from psychoanalytic theory into Shakespearean drama, treating characters such as Hamlet, Portia, or Iago under purely clinical auspices. The practice too often negates the fruitful interplay between the two authors.[2] The clearest example of this critical pitfall remains the uneasy conflation of Hamlet’s melancholy with Freudian notions of melancholia and mourning. Though the play serves as a building block for Freud’s essay, the prince’s stubborn clinging to his grief and Shakespeare’s broader revision of melancholy within the play is an altogether different animal. His with melancholy rallies classical sources such as Galen, Hippocrates an Aristotle, with the contemporary writings of physicians and philosophers such as Timothy Bright and Robert Burton to offer a dramatic synecdoche of a powerful cultural, social, and historical signifier that simultaneously proves physical, psychological, and spiritual. Freud’s exploration of melancholia is an attempt to understand the modern psyche within a (then) novel scientific framework deeply rooted in the process of subjection.  Again, a contrast of both treatments is worthwhile, but reading the correlation counter-currently does a disservice to both ends of the spectrum. The parallel is also complicated by the fact that beyond the scientific revisions that Shakespearean drama undertakes, notions such as melancholy are altered by the playwright‘s own aesthetic and literary sensibilities. Though Shakespeare masters the art of characterization, the state of minds his characters exhibit are always situated within clearly defined dramatic objectives.

Interestingly, Shakespearean comedy seems to provide a more fascinating (and seldom acknowledged) resonance within psychoanalysis. Emancipated from the deadly conventions of the tragic genre, comic explorations of melancholy place a greater focus on ideas of melancholia and narcissism, and what Freud terms the individual’s “satisfaction from self-exposure.” Characters such as the merchant Antonio, Jaques, or Olivia and Orsino not only display an overwhelming sense of melancholy, but make a point of refusing to alter or abandon it, claiming it as their fundamental character trait. Comic characters that manage to transform themselves and integrate the newly form social order at the end of a Shakespearean comedy can be thought to successfully evade the process Freud discusses. Orsino and Olivia are paired off with the twins by the end of Twelfth Night. Fate is not a kind with Antonio or Jaques, and their all-encompassing melancholy is to blame.

This particular connection serves as a great reminder of the powers and limits of literature in the “real” world. Dramatic representations of melancholy can offer great examples or allusions to depression and other mental illnesses, but the link is never straightforward as we would hope. Human behaviour on the stage, on the page, or in our heads engages in a complex dance of cultural, cognitive, and emotional interplay.

Then again, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar …

Excitement:

Fall means freedom from blockbusters, and the arrival of several films I am keen on seeing, such as Fox Catcher with an unrecognizable Steve Carrel,[3] Love is Strange with John Lithgow and Alfred Molina and Jon Stewart’s Rosewater. We are still a few months away from the release of a Cymbeline adaptation with Ethan Hawke[4] and Ed Harris, and I’m not sure what to think of this one.   

Smooshy:

I’m in a good mood, so no smooshy this week. Go out and hug a tree![5]

Shout out:

This blog came out stupidly late, so I actually miss the event I was shouting out to. Yesterday was the first meeting of the season for the Shakespeare Performance and Research team at McGill (also known as the SPRiTE team)[6]. We had a wonderfully challenging discussion and reading of scenes from Cymbeline. There are more meeting coming up until Christmas (and the next one will be a rambly hot mess of a paper on Hamlet by yours truly!). Check out the schedule on the SPRiTE website: http://mcgill-shakespeare.com.

Till next time!

Who goes there?

The Tacos Salesman

…. Thou may enter.

---

[1] Hmmmm danish …

[2] Hmmmm fruit …. Hmm fruit danish.

[3] In a parallel universe where I would cast an adaptation of Othello, I would cast Steve Carrel as Iago. As brilliant of a comic actor as he is, Carrel does underlying darkness really well.

[4] Also, for a little spice in your lives, walk up to a stranger on the street, point to the sky ominously and mutter “any day now…”

[5] Hmmm Sprite. No wait, I actually don’t like soft drinks. Hmmm Perrier.

Blog 9: It Takes a Village...

This week’s blog will seem a little fragmented but for one thing, it’s Friday, and for another, I stayed up late watching Sons of Anarchy last night. More importantly, fragmented or not, this is one I have been meaning to write up for a while. If there is one positive side to the beast known as the Doctoral Comprehensive Examinations, it is the opportunity to read many texts one might not be inclined (or even find the time to do so) otherwise within a packed academic schedule. Though Shakespeare remains my one true academic love (the Boston cream pie to my other desserts, the Chivas Regal to my other scotch and whiskeys, the pants to my non-pants lower body clothing garments[1]) I enjoy the broader scope of early modern drama and I thought I would share some of my thoughts on other dramatists of the period, since they often go neglected in our current cultural landscape …though some clearly should go neglected (I’m looking at you Thomas Dekker!).[2] I wanted to take a break from my rampant case of bardolatry to discuss some of the Renaissance works that struck a chord with me in hopes of perhaps bringing some of you to read new unknown works. So, in no particular order, here goes:

Ben Jonson

I have a love-hate relationship with Jonson’s work. I really enjoyed most of his plays (particularly the two Every Man comedies and The Alchemist), but his cynical attitudes (I think of Jonson as an early modern hipster, but poorer and more jaded) usually spoils them for me. Case in point: Every Man Out of His Humor is a brilliantly savage comedy poking (if not tearing asunder) fun at out of control behaviors, but the cruelty and disdain that the Jonsonian mouthpiece Asper displays throughout goes somewhat overboard. Also, though I am usually one for meta-textual references Jonson’s inner monologue turned outer commentary irks me somewhat. Still, I’ll admit his sense of an urban dramatic space trumps that of Shakespeare and characters such as Volpone are a delight to follow throughout a performance.[3]  

Christopher Marlowe:

I love Marlowe’s bombastic, blockbuster style of theater: Characters committing suicide by braining themselves on the bars of cages, poisoning wells, or making deals with the devil[4] … it’s got everything! Yet, what I truly admire is the underrated emotional complexity that infuses his works, particularly Doctor Faustus. There is a truly masterful slow-building tension in here that sucks you in every time, and release you just in time to witness the inevitable yet harrowing conclusion. Though it certainly disturbs in our current times, the unapologetically-evil characterization of Barabbas in The Jew of Malta, though it does not reach the dazzling humanity of Shylock, is an incredible dramatic feat which leaves you (or is just me), half-rooting for him to succeed in then end.     

John Fletcher

I really enjoy Fletcher’s work, particularly his adaptation of Spanish romances (thanks, Joyce!), and what I call his retro-humoral comedies such as The Woman Hater and The Humorous Lieutenant.[5] Fletcher’s plots are every energetic, his comic timing his impeccable, and his plays make great use of stage space for both comedic instances and more dramatic situations. He also writes more dynamic and fully fleshed out female characters than most of his contemporaries do. Check out The Woman Hater (kind of a reverse Taming of the Shrew, with a hilarious subplot involving whore houses and an exotic fish head dish[6]) if you have a chance.  

John Lyly:

Lyly’s courtly romance style is an acquired taste (in my opinion) that sometimes feels like it drags on the page, but Gallathea, a comedy about two cross-dressing shepherdess falling in love with each other, is a spectacular display of dramatic ingenuity (sea monsters and cross-dressing? What will they think of next?). The ending (no spoilers) is also quite interesting in its straddling of innovation and conventional theatrical wisdom. For the uninitiated, I also find that Lyly’s writing is easily to follow, and his limited cast of characters help to avoid confusion.    

George Peele:

Peele is perhaps not as recognized as some of the others names here (Harold Bloom calls him a “lesser dramatist,” which I guess is a compliment since it’s coming from Bloom?) Still, there is a child-like revel in The Old Wives Tales that makes it one of my favorite works of the period to read. As the title suggests, it feels like a bedtime fable; Old Madge’s Tale engrosses you from the start and really does drive away the time. I would love to see it staged someday (or even better, see a movie version by Julie Taymor).

Then there are dramatists I would not necessarily include in my favourites, but whose works contains little tidbits that I particularly enjoyed, remembered, or thought of after the facts. The Inn scenes in George Chapman’s A Humorous Days’ Mirth are extremely funny, the final act of John Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi is tragically mesmerizing. I am much more a fan of Robert Greene’s non-dramatic work than I am of his state plays, but I will admit that he gave the world one of the best titles for a work of literature ever in Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay).[7]

How do these works stack up against Shakespeare’s? I am obviously one of the bard’s convert, but the breadth of drama in the period is fascinating and I have found that, despite initial reticence, some of these plays actually pass the float test in a classroom. Most of these were, after all, popular works (as in for the larger public) and they usually manage to push some buttons for modern audiences. Furthermore, considering how organic (if not symbiotic) early modern theater was (dramaturges responding, to one another’s works, collaborating with each other, or attacking one another on stage) reading a wide range of plays help put in perspective the magnitude and dynamism of the theater industry in early modern England; playwriting was a business, and business was booming.  

Excitement:

The Washington Nationals clinched the Eastern division in the National League and did so without a sure-fire closer or a ,300 hitter. Well done. They are a fun team to watch and I hope they go deep into the playoffs. Looks like Strasburg and Harper are finally hitting their strides, and it should make for exciting October baseball.

Smooshy:

The Nationals clinched their division … I miss the Expos. L

                                                                                                                                

Shout out:

Emily attended Comiccon last week and brought back a wonderful video of Patrick Stewart reciting Puck’s closing soliloquy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream to end his panel. You don’t need me to tell you how awesome Patrick Stewart is, but it reminded me of the great series “Playing Shakespeare” with John Barton and the RSC, in which actors (Stewart, Ian McKellen and Judi Dench to name a few) discuss and demonstrate how they act Shakespeare. Most of it is available on YouTube and yes, it is filmed in glorious 80's vision, but it is simply awesome to watch. The episodes on speech and rehearsing the text are particularly worth watching. Give it a shot.    

Till next time….

My salad days,

When I was green in judgement, filled with vegetables

Drenched in ranch dressing and sprinkled with bacon bits

I miss college…  

---

[1] The exception to this last one being a grocery bag, should I ever misplace said pants.

[2] No, I kid, I kid… Tommie, love you baby. My mother was a shoemaker… Try the veal! I’m here all week!

[3][3] I enjoy Jonson’s poetry quite a bit, but this is a blog about early modern theater and damn it, rules are there to be followed, so forget about poetry!

[4] Though I cannot prove it, I am fairly certain there is currently a reality show in development somewhere with the previous sentence as its exact premise. And Gordon Ramsay is attached to hosts too!

[5] Fletcher’s life is also fascinating, particularly the thought that he shared a house (and a woman) with writing partner Francis Beaumont. In one word” Sitcom. Make it happen.  

[6] Let’s add this to the ever growing list of “sentence which could lead me in legal trouble if taken out of context.”  

[7] My other favorite includes Jonson’s The Devil’s an Ass, Nicholas Udall’s Ralph Roister Doister (say that five times fast) and Thomas Dekker’s Satiromastix (a play and a device that helps you make perfect scramble eggs every time!).     

Blog 8: The Shakespeare Paradox

No, it’s not a fan fiction attempt at continuing the Dan Brown line of historical fiction/conspiracy theory genre. I’m referring here to a problematic stance towards the writings of Shakespeare I often come across both in and out of academia. I decided to write about it this week mainly after reading an article on an upcoming BBC television show. Simon Russell Beale, coming off a run as the Lear in a National Theater production directed by Sam Mendes, suggested that King Lear, in conjunction with Timon of Athens, are indicative of Shakespeare being himself depressed and unable to stop writing gloomy and “savage” (Beale’s word) material.[1] 

Now, a few disclaimers:

-I am not an actor, and know little of the work involved with preparing for any role, as opposed to Mr. Beale.

-The interview was used as bait for Beale’s upcoming participation in the BBC show The Secret Life of Books, in which he focuses on Shakespeare’s state of mind. The idea being phrased in the interrogative alludes to its ambiguous answer.

-King Lear is a sad, tragic play filled with violence, the viewing or reading of which requires a fully equipped satchel with tissue, chocolate, and a puppy.[2]

That being said, Beale’s casual comment as to Shakespeare’s depression points to a larger systemic problem in assessing the bard’s work, one that proves fundamentally paradoxical to me. Leaving the authorship controversy aside,[3] I always find it puzzling that people could, on one hand, celebrate the plays as some of the finest works of literature ever produced and, on the other, somehow think of Shakespeare as a prisoner of his own life, destined to write whatever tragic or troubling events plaguing him into his plays. Undoubtedly, writers inspire themselves from their surroundings. Yet, the idea that Shakespeare’s personal turmoil is the primary root for the play’s spectacular emotional and artistic complexity strikes me as a silly one. Yes, there exists exciting (though flimsy at best) parallels between Shakespeare’s plays and his life:

He lost a son, named Hamnet, his mother’s maiden name was Arden, to name a few, etc. One could certainly read personal nudges into such references, but I cannot conceive of a grief-stricken or depressed Shakespeare unable to put down his quill until he finishes the cathartic experience of writing Hamlet, Lear, or Timon.[4]

Yes, the pairing of Lear and Timon (and I would throw in Othello and Cymbeline in there as well) is a starkly dire one that leaves little room for enchanting or heart-warming moments. The plays are gritty and relentlessly tragic. Shakespeare the playwright loved to mingle genres however, and if you are to posit that he was going through a “bad patch” (Beale’s words) when writing these plays, does the opposite hold true? Was he giddy when he wrote The Comedy of Errors, baked out of his mind when composing Midsummer? Feeling “frisky” when writing Romeo and Juliet? The tragic spectrum of his canon somehow captures the imagination a bit more firmly, but does not allow for such a jump in my opinion.      

There are definite stylistic and generic shifts in his career: he never goes back to “pure” comedy after Twelfth Night in 1599 and subsequently produces his greatest most tragic works in a span of roughly 5 years. His career culminates with very “weird” hybrids, sometimes known as romances (The Winter’s Tale, The Tempest) that defy generic, stylistic, and theatrical conventions. To me, this process looks like a playwright (and owner of a popular theater company) trying to adapt to changing popular tastes and remain relevant more than it does an author being enslaved by his emotions. More likely, the plays bear witness truly gifted writer challenging himself to renew and innovate.[5] The reason why plays like Lear are not only tragic but strikes us so vividly as so (as opposed to say, Titus Andronicus)[6] is because Shakespeare’s reaches the pinnacle of his artistic mastery at the time he writes it. The playwright has matured and, even if he was to draw from his own sombre feelings, and is in complete control of his art. To reduce Lear to a therapy session is to overlook the incredible dramatic and literary craftsmanship found at the core of the play.

     

What is it about Shakespeare that makes us celebrate his prose yet doubt his power of imagination? We do not generally hold other writers accountable on a similar level. No one asks how Charles Dickens was feeling when he wrote Oliver Twist, or whether Jane Austen was both sensory and sensible when she wrote Emma.[7] Hopeless Shakespearean fanboy that I am, I like to think it’s because most of the plays blows us away emotionally, and we can only reconcile our feelings upon when seeing them with the writer who produced them by humanizing him in this manner; Shakespeare must have been sad when he wrote Lear, otherwise how could he (why would he) write such a play? Most if not all of his plots were borrowed from other works (as was the norm) and tragedies were a very popular form of entertainment at the time. The personal inflection theory simply does not hold water. Maybe the paradox takes us back to the authorship question (to which, again, I’ll give a thorough smackdown in a later blog) and whether he really did write the plays. Maybe those of the opinion of Mr. Beale are more perceptive than I in determining factors of influence in Shakespeare’s works. Does it truly matter? Does knowing Shakespeare was depressed, four centuries after the fact, really make it easier to stomach the fall of Lear and Cordelia? We are, after all, the stuff dreams are made of, and so are his plays …

Smooshy:

Not really a smooshy-worthy offense this week, other than perhaps the coming of cold weather. It’s a shame that the days enjoying our front balcony are dwindling, but then again, our landlord has yet to fix a leak in our ceiling and has left a ladder on it, which makes playing Scrabble there with Emily quite difficult (Chutes and Ladders on the other hand…).    

Excitement:

Investigating BBC’s The Secret Life of Books (not really worth it) made me yearn to re-watching PBS’s Shakespeare Uncovered, a great documentary series detailing the history of a certain plays and their performances. Each episode is filled with interviews with scholars, actors, and dramaturges, and is hosted by an actor with a certain Shakespearean pedigree. David Tennant’s Hamlet episode was particularly fascinating (as was the one with Joely Richardson and Vanessa Redgrave). Someone behind the curtain? Allons-y!

Shout out:

The MLA job list came out this Friday. To all of those, like my, gearing up for the pains and frustrations of the job market season: Good luck! It’s a truly stressful ordeal with regrettably very little payoff in most cases. Hang in tough and be spectacular. When in doubt… Boston cream pie!!! 

Till next time….

Out damn spot.

‘Tis the last time I go to Rib Fest…

---

[1] Here is the interview http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2733810/Was-Shakespeare-depressed-wrote-King-Lear-Top-actor-claims-play-s-bile-result-personal-woes.html.

[2] For God’s sake don’t let the puppy get into the chocolate!

[3] That’s for another blog, or more likely, given my passion for destroying such opinions, a twelve-part podcast call “Vent-asia 2014.” 

[4] I can see him swearing every time the quill tickles his nose, or when his pet monkey, Sir Bananashire (history often forgets him) jumps on the table and knocks over the pot of ink. Mr. Bananashire, will you ever learn? 

[5] Must… resist…. Winter’s Tale pun…. Get it together JF!

[6] Though it’s sometimes dismissed as gory sensationalism and an attempt at imitating Marlow’s bombastic style, Titus, complete with rape, mutilation and interfamilial cannibalism, is no walk in the park in terms of presenting savage tragedy.  

[7] Ha! You thought I was going for Sense and Sensibility. In the immortal words of Rick Moranis in Spaceballs … Fooled you!

Blog 7: La Tempeste de Guillaume Shakespeare

How much does language affect one appreciation of a work of literature? Can a translation/adaptation ever capture the original’s linguistic prowess and emotional charge? That questions ends up on my mind often as when it comes to Shakespeare’s works. I came to Shakespeare in a second-language context, first seeing and reading the works in French before turning over to English during my undergraduate degree.[1] Quebec has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to playwrights and dramaturges who tackle the bard and  “la langue de Shakespeare,” but when so much is made of Shakespeare’s poetical skills and the mellifluous sounds of his plays utter, the idea of presenting it in another language seems counter intuitive at first glance.

And yet… There exists a universal quality in these works that allows it to easily (not to say effortlessly) permeate language barriers. These are, after all, works that have been around and performed for over four centuries. Whether you have seen or read them, names like Hamlet, Juliet,[2] or Shylock conjure some sort of reference in our cultural psyche. Even better if you are new to Shakeapeare, as hearing them in a different language would not pose that much of an issue. My “curse” as a Shakespeare scholar, if you could call it that, is that I know some of the play virtually by hart in English, or at least parts of them, which makes it difficult sometimes to appreciate a translation since I anticipate verses or soliloquies.

And yet… The plays themselves were a mix of languages. Shakespeare loved to throw in some Latin, French, Greek, Spanish, Italian, or regional/national dialects such as Welsh and Irish. Early modern audiences would have been pleased when hearing the shifts from verse to prose on a purely auditory level as well. Sound sometimes takes precedence over language. One of my high school teachers directed a French version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream where names were changed to their French equivalent: Helena became Hélène, Hermia became Hermione, Titania became Titane… all except for Bottom. When I asked why he did not switch his name, he replied that it was funnier in its original format, particular when said in a French accent. (Try it at home! Fun for the whole family). There is a similar forethought in characters like Don Armado and Fluellen.  

Do you even need language? One of the most arrestingly beautiful adaptations of Midsummer that I have ever seen was a Japanese performance a teacher showed me during my undergraduate studies (and it is a criminal offense that I do not remember its director at this present moment, but in my defense, this was the class during which Emily and I started dating). While I could not make out a single word, the visuality of the play was stunning: The stage was a giant, empty sandbox, with bags full of sand hanging from the rafters. When the four lovers enter the woods, the bags started releasing sand in long strands that were made to look like trees. The lovers chased each other around them. When Puck puts them to sleep, they fell to the ground until they were completely covered. A similar effect can be achieved with paintings, sculptures, even internet gifs, where language is not required to enjoy Shakespeare.                 

   

A different language can even add to the plays as it has in a place like Quebec, which regularly looks back to its colonial and multi-linguistic history in its artistic creations. In the end, it speaks to the versatility of Shakespeare’s drama, and just how well the plays have integrated fields of cultural production over the years. To each his own: I will always prefer hearing “foolery doth walk the orb like the sun, it shines everywhere” to any permutation, but I am confident that the essence of the line will carry over no matter what the context. “Tout est well, qui ends bien,” as they say!

Also: in a baseball context, this little blog post would be a minor league pitcher in comparison to the Sandy Koufax that is Jennifer Drouin’s book Shakespeare in Québec: Nation, Gender, and Adaptation. A really fun and clever read. Check it out.      

Random excitement of the week:

If you have never seen Chimes at Midnight do so before finishing this sentence.[3] Orson Wells’ ode to Falstaff is everything that a celebration of such a splendid character should be, without any of the pomposity and fetishism that Harold Bloom usually brings to the table.[4] Wells was very passionate about this project but also struggling to garner the necessary funds, so legend has it he lied to producers in saying he was making Treasure Island, shooting his Shakespearean creation in Spain instead. Well done, old boy.

      

Smooshy:

A television-centric smooshy this time: as much as I was a fan of Breaking Bad and think that their Emmy wins this year were well-deserved, it pained me a bit to see True Detective go home broke in the acting department.  McConaughey, Harrelson, and Monaghan delivered amazing, original performances. It would have been nice to see some of them recognized.

 A quick additional smooshy to the American Broadchurch coming to Fox: I refuse to watch your show as long as you call it Gracepoint and David Tennant does not get rid of that awful hair. Just air the British version and earn your place in heaven!

   

Random Shout out:

Do you like opera sang by a beautiful barista that makes a killer espresso? Good. Are you also a fan of Doctor Who and of witty blogs? Even better! Check out Erica Martin’s “The Singing Nerdess” blog at http://singingnerdess.blogspot.ca. Erica is not only a good friend of Emily and me, but her blogs are really funny, insightful, and creative.  

Till next time!

-My kingdom for a horse

-Sure thing… in 3 to 5 business days. And you must give us at least two pieces of ID

And you! Yeah you…. Come here… leave a comment now and then. It’s always appreciated. Good. Now call your mother.

---

[1] First play I ever read in English: Twelfth Night. I did not understand half of it, and instantly fell in love, wondering how a comedy could make me this sad. It remains my favourite play.  

[2] In today’s pop culture obsessed world, Romeo and Juliet would be known as “Julio, Hamlet and Ophelia as “Hamelia,” and Macbeth and Lady Macbeth as “Lady Macbeth” (she really wears the pants in this couple).  

[3] I mean it, I’ll wait ...  

[4] Fun fact, Harold Bloom does not bring anything to the table, he has graduate students show up instead. Ha!

Blog 6: Late Shakespeare and Dramatic Impressionism

I’m back!

As a merciless January winds down,[1] the whirligig blog returns with a vengeance (not really a vengeance, more like an uncontrollable craving to babble to who might listen). The New Year has kept me busy with its share of good and bad news, but my feeble attempts to make sense of what my brain conceives of as Shakespeare resurfaces, breaking the ice that formed around, on, and even inside my car.[2] Anyways, without further rambling:

 

Late Shakespeare and Dramatic Impressionism

 

 

The picture above is not only a very nice distraction from winter, it offers an analogy to help me  express my perception of Shakespeare’s final set of plays. From circa 1607 on, Shakespearean drama takes on a more complex and often puzzling form that marks a strong departure from anything he had previously written. Even iconic works such as Hamlet or Twelfth Night remain, in some sense, anchored in the overarching structures of the meta-genres of comedy and tragedy. Yet, with works such as Pericles, The Winter’s Tale, and The Tempest, Shakespeare seems to purposely muddy the tracks as it were, in offering plays that mesh comic and tragic with dizzying mastery and swaggering theatrical ambition.

 

This mysterious quality has long intrigued scholars, who have sought to demystify most if not every facet of Shakespeare’s late plays, from their romantic overtones to the arduousness of their syntactical underpinnings. It’s hard to pinpoint the reason for such a change in Shakespeare’s style. Most likely, it stems from the combination of several factors (shifts in popular theatrical tastes, an accrued interest in old narratives and romances, and an urge to explore parent-child relations, among others). On a purely idealistic level, I tend to attribute it in parts at least to my understanding of Shakespeare as an artistic and creative genius who, like most genius, eventually gets bored with the work he has produced, and seeks to challenge if not defeat himself in writing more ambitious, elaborate stories that would not necessarily be suited to the early modern stage.[3] The result was works that confuse, maybe trouble audiences, but leave them with an indelible emotional imprint. 

 

Which brings me back to Monet’s painting. As I wrote my dissertation on comic melancholy in Shakespeare, I found myself at a loss trying to describe the emotional tenor of such works. My contention ended up being that, in his final burst of creativity, Shakespeare strove to move completely away from conventional dramatic representation of emotion by distilling them in their purest form.

Wow, is that a pompous sentence or what?

 

 It’s an idea frankly, that I’ve struggled to properly express to colleagues and friends (even to myself)[4] because it deals so much in intangibles. That is why the parallel with impressionist painting lends itself in conceiving of a willing relinquishing of details in order to create an impression that, though unrefined, is unmistakably present. A similar phenomenon transpires in late Shakespeare, where the plays, though they resist conventional classification, they nevertheless usher in vivid emotional responses that come that revolve around the ubiquitous notion of melancholy. Plays like The Winter’s Tale and Cymbeline, are many things, but above all, they willingly obfuscate their emotional and generic make-ups so as to offer a stronger, lasting emotional footprint. This is particularly true the endings of such works, where Shakespeare deftly straddles the raw bliss of unexpected reunions with the lingering wistfulness of past trauma. Mind you, this is difficult to state and support in an academic discussion.[5] But there is an undeniable attempt in late Shakespeare to eliciting emotional responses that go way beyond the traditional theatrical spectrum. In his final creations, Shakespeare manages to reach the audience’s instinct, to communicate to them on an almost spiritual level.    

 

And that’s probably why I think of impressionist painting when I’m pausing over late Shakespearean drama. On first look, I’m not always sure of what’s there or to what end it’s being depicted. But what I see, I feel.

 

And I love it.        

 

Random excitement of the week:

The academy awards nominations came out a short while ago (always a popular time in our household). There were expected successes (the incredible Twelve years a Slave, Dallas Buyers’ Club, and American Hustle), and nice surprises (best picture nod for Nebraska, acting nods for Barkhad Abdi and Jonah Hill). It promises to be a nice month of movie watching and smart discussion with Emily (a.k.a. the guru of answering questions such as “who’s in that thing?” and “where do I know this schmuck from?”)[6]

Smooshy:

Continuing on the topic of academy awards nominations, there was really only one major snub: out of three films on the ten-slot short list, the Academy chose to completely ignore the National Film Board of Canada’s efforts in the animated short category. In relation to that gross oversight, I have prepared a cogent and moving rebuttal…. Instead I’ll just express this sentiment to the voters:

 

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Random Shout out:

There have been a couple of newborns recently in my personal circle who hold ties to Shakespeare and Renaissance literature and I wish to salute them on this cold winter day. My friends Jennifer and Travis welcomed a beautiful baby girl in 2013 named Elizabeth (the baby queen!), while my friend Étienne also welcomed a daughter late in December named Ophélie (all of the cuteness, none of the craziness). Well done folks! For the record, if and when I have children, their names will undoubtedly bear some Shakespearean connection. For a girl, I’m leaning towards Olivia or Katherine. For a boy, there is only one suitable choice: Second Clown.

  

Till next time!

 

Some are born great

Some achieve greatness

And some slice their fingers with a cheese mandolin        

 

And you! Yeah you…. Come here… leave a comment now and then. It’s always appreciated. Good. Now call your mother.

 

---

[1] Get it? Winds down! Ha! I kill me! This winter-themed pun brought you by sleep deprivation. Sleep Deprivation: because feeling great is just overrated. 

[2] It was so cold, my hood actually refused to open this week. It wrote a very cogent argument as to its stubbornness, but in the end, my rubber hammer was more persuasive.

[3] I refer here to elements such as the lengthy time gaps found in the plays, illusory devices such as a statue coming to life or a bear chasing off characters, and the magical realm of Prospero’s island.

[4] …made for awkward metro rides for my fellow public transit adventurers.

[5] If I pull it off, my book should make a strong impact in the discipline, if I don’t pull it off, there’s always Plumber school.

[6] I know I am getting older when I ask Emily questions such as “did I see this film?” and more importantly, follow up such as “did I like it?”