Friday, October 24, 2014

Blog 12: Is it Shakespeare?



The image above this sentence would (and does) make a Shakespeare scholar cringe, since it erroneously yokes Hamlet’s “To be or not to be speech” with the scene in which he picks up the jester’s skull and reminisces upon Poor Yorick. In actuality the speech and the skull happen nearly two acts apart in the play. Yet, I suspect that this image or its description would look (or sound) accurate to most people mainly familiar with Hamlet (or Shakespeare) as a cultural icon from a distant past. Similarly, you are likely to find a plethora of images depicting Shakespeare himself holding the skull, perhaps even reciting the mislocated lines. It is perhaps the clearest example in all of Shakespeare of the process by which a collective intellectual psyche amalgamates Shakespearean tropes to form a skewed visual emblem that subsequently gains cultural significance.




But is it wrong?

As mentioned above, there is no scene in Hamlet in which the melancholic prince holds up a skull and delivers his most famous lines. Yet, all of its elements do come into play. The image somehow manages to map out the intricate ballet of death, theatricality, existentialism and tragedy that stand at the core of Shakespeare’s play. The example speaks to the unbelievable power of adaptation (indeed, of mutation) that Shakespearean drama displays in remaining in a state of constant cultural production. The works, their actors, and themes, manage to connect and stay with us, even for those not familiar with Shakespeare from a literary standpoint. My father has never read Shakespeare, but when I mentioned that I was writing on The Merchant of Venice,[1] he instantly referred to Shylock asking for a pound of Antonio’s flesh.[2] A similar channelling occurs (to different degrees) with Romeo and Juliet’s balcony scene, Macbeth’s witches, or even the fairies, Bottom and the Ass head in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. To go back to Hamlet’s example, nothing stops a director adapting ther play to ask his or her Hamlet to hold a skull while delivering the speech. If the image already holds cultural significance, why discredit it?

But is it Shakespeare? The world of adaption, revision, reappropriation, hinges on a precarious balance between fidelity to a given work and the innovative spirit to take it into new and previously unimagined directions. Kurosawa’s The Bad Sleep, Sons of Anarchy, and the Simpsons’ Hamlet all perform that balance astoundingly well and indeed, can be enjoyed without any prior of Shakespeare or his plays.[3] Even Julie Taymor’s The Tempest, which flips the script considerably by having a female Prospera, still manages to capture the character dynamics and power relations of the original playtext. Where I am inclined to protest too much is when adaptations seemingly veer away from a character for the purpose of shock value and creative revisionism (wouldn’t it be even cooler if…). I was at a conference in the spring where colleagues were discussing a Titus Andronicus adaptation in which Tamora, upon being informed of the content of the meat pies served to her by Titus, stares at him and takes another bite. Yes, that probably made for a surprising, gasp inducing moment, but it seems to go against the play in several aspects, devaluing her initial plea to Titus to save family members at the start of the play while also downplaying Titus’ breakdown dur9ing the climax.[4]             

Then again, four centuries after Shakespeare’s death, I suppose people are free to do what they wish with the works when adapting them. Hamlet can hold the skull, Romeo can find Juliet on Tinder, and I can groan and shake my fist and tell those kids to get off my lawn and that this is not Shakespeare. Then again, I am basing my critique of them on what I think is Shakespeare, and how am I to know that I’m right?[5] Maybe I should relish in the fact that, four hundred years later, people who have never read the works still know about Hamlet, a skull, and theatrical gravitas. Perhaps, when it comes to Shakespeare, there are actually more things in our dreams, than in heaven and earth.    

Excitement:
Halloween is fast approaching and Emily and I are gearing up for our horror movie marathon (complete with candy and Schwartz’s smoke meat… don’t judge!) I love this time of year, and we have a nice line-up of films (and Doctor Who episodes!) ready to go. I look forward to crossing off Ringu from my personal horror film bucket list (I’ve only seen the American remake). Above all else though, as we do every year, it will probably end with Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were Rabbit. Fabulous animation film. Get yourself a kid and see it![6]
What about Shakespeare in this time of terror and monstrosities? Well tune in next week…

Smooshy:
This is random, specific, and perhaps pointless, but as a teacher, I am tired of seeing this sequence play out in any movie, TV show, or sketch that contains a classroom scene: the class is listening (or not) to a teacher lecturing on who knows what, the bell cuts him or her off and students rush out as the teacher yells outs reading assignments and reminds them to learn a life lesson or two along the way.[7] Do these teachers never plan a lecture/lesson? You know how much time you have and even if a class is spirited and gets off track, you still take a couple minutes at the end to cool things down, recap, and deliver assignments! Smooshy to you media representation of unprepared professors!   

Shout out:
Shout outs all around:
Shout out to friends Frederik Byrn Køhlert for nearing the end of the dissertation marathon (submitted his intro this week!), Stephen Wittek for securing a book contract for his study of early modern news circulation (can’t wait to read it!) and to Susan Harlan for braving the streets of New Orleans while attending the 16th Century Society Conference and flooding my Facebook with amazing pictures. For those of you unfamiliar with Susan remember one thing: she has style to burn!


Till next time!


If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickled us---stop it that tickles
hihihihih.





[1] There is a wonderfully understated reference to such a process in The Sopranos, where Tony makes a comment to his friend (and moneylender) Hesch that suggests that without any knowledge of Shakespeare’s play, he somehow associates Jewish, moneylending, and performance. It’s as brilliant as it is offensive.      
[2] Joe Bidden’s recent blunder regarding his use of “shylock” reminds us of the dangers of this cultural reappropriation,
[3] There are, of course millions of other examples. The most rudimentary Google search for “Hamlet” returns nearly 8 million examples of images, videos, articles ready to assault our senses with Shakespeare’s story. To be fair, the most rudimentary Google search for “Yorkshire pudding” yields almost 2 million hits, while looking up “beanie hats” floods the curious researcher with 43 million web links. A search engine alone cannot act as an accurate barometer to gage the power of Hamlet’s virality.
[4] What really works well in that scene is that Titus never waits for Tamora to react to the news he delivers, killing her instantly. It is one of many scenes in Shakespeare where he purposely frustrates the audience.  
[5] Although, to be fair, it is my blog, so I guess I’m right. You don’t like it? Go away! Scratch that, I need the readership. Please stick around.
[6] Upon advice from my legal team, I must make it clear that The Virtual Whirligig Blog does not endorse the kidnapping of random children simply to watch a Claymation motion picture.
[7] Degrassi style!

Friday, October 10, 2014

Blog 11: How Violent is Shakespeare?



It is question I have brushed up against frequently in my engagement with Shakespeare, as a teacher, scholar, or in general conversations at parties, in cabs, or waiting for a tow truck after a car crash.[1] Though my answer generally stays the same, I have heard a spectrum of opinions about it ranging from “the plays are crude and flashy, akin to Hollywood blockbusters” to “the plays are not violent but our contemporary sensibilities make them so.” I remember once in a masters class at Concordia, while discussing Edward Bond’s Lear,[2] a student made the remark that he found the play’s excessive violence absurd and unnecessary because it went further than what (he felt) Shakespeare intended in the original.[3]

Violence is as much a part of Shakespearean drama as it is of our lives, cultures, and arts. It is once arena where Shakespeare’s theatre proves the norm rather than the exception within early modernity. Yet what I found the most interesting about the question is that everyone comes to it with a different conception of what constitutes “violence.” The student I mentioned in the opening paragraph referred to the explicitly physical violence that Bonds’ play stages. Yet, King Lear offers several types of violent acts, emotional, physical, or psychological that hint at the inherent subjectivity of the matter. A more overt (probably the most overt) example in Shakespeare would be Titus Andronicus, which offers murders, acts of cannibalism, rape, and mutilation as part of its playbill. Yet Shakespeare often manages to strike a balance between showing on stage and reporting off stage that further complicate the issue. For all the action found on stage in Macbeth, there is also considerable violence in lines that inform us of how much the King bled when murdered in his bed, or the reporting of Lady Macbeth’s demise.

Then, there are moments of ambiguous violence or rather, violence bred by ambiguity. Isabella’s silence in at the end of Measure for Measure, the murkiness surrounding Caliban’s interaction with Miranda in The Tempest, or even the recurring device of the bed trick all carry a certain understated tone of violence that reinforce the idea that, although violence is found in most plays, we chose (or we recognize) certain types more than others. As a popular dramatist, Shakespeare certainly drew on the incredible selling power that violence has always enjoyed,[4] but he usually makes a point of complicating it or, at the very least, developing it within a denser philosophical interrogation: Iago and Richard make us complicit through asides, we both champion Hamlet and come to expect his tragic demise, etc.

The better question than how violent was Shakespeare would perhaps be why is violence (or the threat of it) in Shakespeare so fascinating? There is no easy answer, but it makes for an original ice breaker at parties when standing by the dip.

Excitement:

Tom Hiddleston.
Hugh Laurie.
John LeCarre.
Nachos.

Those are things I enjoy, and (at least?) the first three will unite in a BBC production of The Night Manager. That has brilliance written all over it and I cannot wait to see it. I am less excited about the inevitable US reboot on Fox, starring David Tennant and stupid hair.[5]
  
Smooshy:
Smooshy goes out to Bell Media for pulling Pardon the Interruption from TSN 1 and 2 and putting them on their new, paying channels (TSN 3,4, and 5).[6]  I have been watching PTI for over ten years and I am sorry to see that streak come to end. Michael Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser (an English major who frequently quotes Shakespeare on the program, by the way) will be missed. It’s a dream of mine to get Kornheiser (and Bob Ryan) on a panel somewhere to discuss Shakespeare and American sports writing. Booooo TSN!  

Shout out:
Last week’s blog on Freud reignited an research interest of mine on the putative correlation between mental illness and creative or artistic genius. This potent association has been around for a while dating back to Aristotle, and it will likely be the subject of an upcoming blog.[7] Here, I just want to use it as a segue into a shou tout to the AMI-Quebec organisation, which raises awareness and helps families cope with mental illness. They do an amazing job doing so (in addition to counting my sister-in-law and proof reader extraordinaire as an invaluable employee). They rocked last week’s Walk for Mental Health downtown, where yours truly rocked a neon pink t-shirt that made me look like plump, county fair cotton candy J. Check out their website and donate if you’re inclined to do so. http://amiquebec.org/


Till next time!


Some are born great,
Some achieve greatness,
And some have greatness thrust upon them.
Others run into a parking meter while texting.




[1] Actually a true story, I went off the road while coming back from teaching in Huntington, and a man helped me out of the vehicle and waited with me. After asking what I did for a living, he (a fellow English teacher) explained to me how he once wrote a paper explaining how the show Hogan’s Heroes was built on the principles of Renaissance stage comedy. It was a weird afternoon.
[2] The name is Bond, Edward Bond. I like my comma shaken not spliced.
[3] I’m now going to deftly move on from the notion that Shakespeare’s plays are “original” in any ways, since I do not currently own the necessary amounts of buckets to house all the worms that would inevitably crawl out of that can. 
[4] If it bleeds, if leads, or its early modern equivalent: “when blood was shed, to the printing house did thou sped.”
[5] Still not over that one!
[6] A whopping D- for originality on the names here!
[7] Spoiler alert! Also, Hamlet dies at the end of Hamlet. 

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Blog 10: Subconsciously Dramatic


Last week marked the 75th 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.