“Othello, car crashes, and Puppet Theater”
I caught the Segal Center’s production of Othello last Thursday.
It was, ultimately, an uneven effort that left me slightly disappointed. Highlights
included performances by Amanda Lisman (Desdemona) and Maurice Podbrey (an
endearingly befuddled Brabantio), the long white curtain that came down from
the rafters onto Desdemona’s bed, and running into my good friend Jean-Marc
whom I had not seen in ages. I will not subject readers to the many objections
of an obsessed Shakespearean, but will say that I was most intrigued by reactions
from audience members, who laughed a great deal more than I did throughout.
Admittedly, this is a common occurrence when I venture out of my
hermit state and attend movies or plays. I am bemused by what people find
funny. In this particular situation, the audience at the Segal laughed at obviously
ironic lines (“Honest Iago”) but also at moments where Othello proves too
trusting, or Iago is at his most cunning and manipulative in spinning his
multiple webs of deceit and moral annihilation. Of course, we are meant to
delight, in some way, at Iago’s masterful display of Machiavellian puppetry,
particularly if we’ve already seen or read the play.[1] Iago
acts as our guide through the tragedy, signposting his plan and teasing out its
unfolding with verve and charm. Yet this idea points to a larger source of
unease for me when dealing with the play: we also laugh because Shakespeare
designed the play so as to make us identify with Iago, by being “in the know,”
as opposed to most of the other characters. The audience is rendered thus complicit
of Iago’s actions. By informing us of his intentions and providing a running
commentary of it through asides, Iago transforms the audience into the dramatic
equivalent of accessory to murder.
Mind you, that is probably one of the play’s strongest features,
once that certainly grants its access into the conversation revolving around
Shakespeare’s greatest dramatic achievement. Othello is an extraordinary
tragedy and does exactly what a tragedy should: it moves and disturbs us. I
always found the play to be far more efficient on this level than any other of
Shakespeare’s dramatic works. The complete unravelling of a man in love, the
systematic breakdown of Othello’s fragile self-esteem, of his very humanity, plunges
me into more discomfort than Lear’s plight, the fall of the Macbeths or the horrendous
fate of Titus and his family. Yet, I can’t look away, close the book, or turn
off the film adaptation. The play is poetry in motion, but that motion is that
of a car accident scene, where the passing by audience marvels at the sublime catastrophe
that stands before them.
My relationship with Othello is a love/hate one that
dovetails with the fascination that Iago often elicits as a character. He is
the villain we love to hate, and the play itself is one of my favourite, both
as a scholar and a lover of Shakespeare, but I cannot help but feel troubled
whenever I read or watch it. Beyond the malice of Iago’s plot, the ease with
which he achieves it and the crushing feeling of powerlessness that rushes
through you as an audience member proves quite disconcerting. Ensnaring various
characters in different sections of his web, Iago weaves his way through Venice
and Cyprus, until everyone—audience included—tangles in his grip. Like a
contagious disease, Iago’s success depends on the speed and the efficiency with
which he can feed lies to an array of unsuspecting characters. Iago preys on
immediate, emotional visceral reactions, preventing a more thoughtful
cogitation that would perhaps raise suspicions upon the dealings of “Honest
Iago.” One gets the sense that Othello’s tragedy, unlike others, could have
been easily avoided, which only reinforces the “ickiness” it creates.
In the end, far from me to criticize the people that laughed and
revelled in Iago’s treachery (see my smooshy for that). I think Shakespeare
thought of the play in those exact paradoxical terms. It is a tragedy, but it
is also a chef d’oeuvre of villainy and characterization that, like Iago
himself, raises more questions, dreams, and nightmares than it does answers.
RANDOM EXCITEMENT OF THE WEEK:
The 2014 Baseball Hall of Fame Ballots[2]
were released this week and it’s a crowded field, with at least 3 players who
could and should go in on their first try, Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine, and Frank
Thomas, as well as a few more that should improve on last year’s results, Craig
Biggio first amongst them (how a guy with 3000 hits and over 600 doubles did
not get in on his first try is beyond me). I cannot quite narrow my mock ballot
to ten choices yet, and navigating the PED question is no easy task, not to mention
my profound hatred of sabremetrics (more on that another time). The Hall of
Fame debate always make me think of Shakespeare, mainly because of the
character-arch arguments that are made for or against certain players (as Emily
suggested, this will be the subject of a blog soon). For now, let’s just hope
that Maddux can become the first player ever to get in with a 100% of the votes
(probably won’t happen, but a blogger can dream.)[3]
RANDOM SMOOSHY FACE OF THE WEEK:
To the woman sitting in my row at the Segal center who decided to
film the last scene of Othello with her phone:
Hi, how are you? Some weather we’re having, huh?
Anyway, about your little cinematic project: Well, it bothered me
on several levels. For one thing the glare was distracting, as it felt like the
spaceship from Close Encounter of the Third Kind decided to kick it old-school
and attend a Shakespeare play. For another—and I get that you probably wanted
to capture to flowing white curtain that came down on Desdemona’s bed—yes that
was indeed a gorgeous effect—but it falls on me to point out the obvious here: you
filmed a murder. A staged murder, yes. A fictitious murder, yes. But a
murder nonetheless. Perhaps it is my curmudgeon composure erupting once again,
but the image of you passively staring into your phone while a man overrun with
jealousy strangles the love of his life was as comically absurd as it was
angering. The capper though, is the fact that after an usher came over and
asked you to stop filming, though you did (props to you),[4] you
then looked at what you had just filmed on your phone instead of watching the
end of the play… Good God woman! Goats and monkeys!
Anyway, thanks for listening. Remember to spray your winter boots
to prevent corrosion.
Best,
J.F.
RANDOM SHOUT OUT:
Another You Tube shoutout this week: this hilarious skit, entitled
“A Small Rewrite,” in which Shakespeare (Hugh Laurie) meets with his editor (Rowan
Atkinson) to discuss changes to Hamlet. Both witty and accurate in its opinions
on the play (“It’s four hours long, Bill!”), it makes me yearn for a TV series
about Shakespeare starring Hugh Laurie. Make it happen, HBO.
That’s it for now. Hope you enjoyed!
Once more, try with some bleach, damn stain, once more!
[1] Michael Bristol presented a paper at the Shakespeare
Association of America conference a few years ago on the practice of “naïve
reading” in Othello, arguing that the repeated experiencing of the play
seriously hinders its enjoyment due to its emotionally levelling payoff. I
would not necessarily go that far, but I do agree that the play always causes
me a certain degree of discomfort, even after countless readings.
[2] I
told you there would be baseball tangents! Look for a Springsteen reference
next week.
[3] I
have many baseball and Greg Maddux-related stories, available for free when
coupled with an invitation for coffee… anyone? Coffee? I’ll pay… Maddux? Ah
man…
[4]
Mainly, though, props to the usher. I did not ask him name, so I shall call him
Marcus the usher and say: thank you, Marcus!
No comments:
Post a Comment