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…
[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!
