Shakespeare and Cricket

There have been no posts here for a while, due to the advent of the cricket season.  But while thinking of cricket, I started reflecting on the very Englishness of Shakespeare – something that does not always get mentioned when it should.

Take the notion, which seems important to those who reject Shakespeare as the writer of his plays, that if he never travelled out of the country (and the traditional grammar-school boy story would seem to deny this) how did he write so well about foreign lands and foreign people?

Well… the simple answer is… he didn’t.

Anyone who thinks Friar Lawrence is a genuine Italian friar needs their head looking at; he is an English country friar of the noblest stock.

What about Mercutio?  Really Italian?  Not on your nelly!

What about Othello and the Venetians?  Shylock or Bassanio or Portia (from Belmont)?  These are all characters who originate in English towns and villages and who belong entirely in that country.  They are transported to foreign lands only in the imagination of a playwright and his audience – ‘when we talk of horses, think that you see them’. 

Outside of the British Isles, only the French come close to getting a proper presentation – and even that is caricatured.

And what about the lands depicted in these plays?

The Tempest is supposedly set on an island in the Bermudas.  Only it isn’t.

It’s set on a stage which carries the very faintest of distant traces of some exotic land…. described as if by someone who has never been there… if ‘there’ exists at all in reality.

And the Merchant of Venice might just as well do his trading from the square mile.  Even the [Goodwin] sands on which his boats perish is just off the South Coast.

The fact is that when people talk of Shakespeare they want to make him seem so much more worldly than he actually was.  It seems to justify their lifelong study of him.  It makes them feel good.

What makes ME feel good is knowing that he was as limited by his real life experience of the world around him as I am; he wrote about Englishmen and Englishwomen, and about English towns, cities and landscapes… because they are the people and the places he knew.

In short, Shakespeare was an English writer writing for the English stage.

I doubt he ever ventured off our shores.

I certainly see no reason to question the validity of his authorship on the basis of ‘the author’s extensive knowledge of other people and cultures’.

It’s insane.

 

Banquo's Ambition

Whoever first suggested that Banquo is a ‘Good’ man obviously did not engage with this speech:

Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all,
As the weird women promised, and, I fear,
Thou play'dst most foully for't: yet it was said
It should not stand in thy posterity,
But that myself should be the root and father
Of many kings. If there come truth from them--
As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine--
Why, by the verities on thee made good,
May they not be my oracles as well,
And set me up in hope? But hush! no more.

Now let’s be clear that, just like Macbeth, Banquo has selfish ambition: he wants to believe that the witches might truly be able to ‘set [him] up in hope’.

The energy of the openly ambitious thought which starts in line three ('yet it was said...') - and runs through to the final line ('...in hope?') - is akin to anything that Macbeth experiences when under the witches spell.  And then there is the urgent need for secrecy which follows; Banquo is as ensnared as Macbeth ever was.

 

And look at the use of rhythm:

• in line seven the iambic rhythm offers a natural focus on the syllable 'up' of 'upon' - almost splitting the sound into two words where the first one ('up') is all about Macbeth's higher status (indicative of Banquo's jealousy?);
• in the final line the rhythm of 'up on' is echoed in the words 'up in' - and draws a direct auditory parallel between Macbeth and Banquo;
• And then, again in the final line, there is the iambic rhythm which leads to emphasis on the word ‘hope’ – a positive, almost religious, concept which is here inspired by the machinations of the evil witches. The irony highlights Banquo's darker side.

And, if you return to consider his intended meanings, it becomes very clear that Banquo is absolutely not a religious goodie-goodie who believes that evil must be rejected per se; this is a man who – despite his words on the heath – is quite prepared to accept anything the forces of Evil put his way.  In short, he is as unscrupulous as Macbeth and – arguably – no more trustworthy.

For we are obliged to note that Banquo clearly has strong suspicions concerning Macbeth’s actions but he has so far done – and will henceforth do – nothing about them.

The strength of his suspicions can surely be in no doubt - he has, after all, been given all the pieces of the puzzle that are needed to know Macbeth’s guilt:

·         He knows Macbeth well,

·         He is the only one who met the witches with Macbeth,

·         He is aware of something of Macbeth’s mood in the moments before the murder, and,

·         On the morning after the murder, he was there to witness all Macbeth’s dubious ‘innocent’ acting. 

So when exactly did Banquo decide that Macbeth might have played ‘most foully’?  Unless you think he has only just put two and two together in this speech (which I don’t) then it has to have been some time before he speaks these words. Before the coronation, in other words.

So why has Banquo not spilled the beans?  Because he is too cowardly to speak up?  Or perhaps because he is secretly keen to see if Macbeth will become King because – if he does – that increases the likelihood of Banquo becoming father to a line of kings.

In other words, it is quite possible that Banquo says nothing because of his own secret ambition - ambition which Shakespeare allows because he has no thought in his head that Banquo is intrinsically ‘Good’.

And let’s face it – is Banquo’s secrecy any better than Macbeth’s who, at least, shares his darker thoughts with the audience the minute he has them?

The fact is that we are not meant to mourn for Banquo.  He is not a ‘Good’ man. He is a soldier, like Macbeth, and – like Macbeth – he carries human ambitions and desires in his soul.

This is not to say he is a ‘bad’ man either.  He is simply human.  And this is why – when he dies (as die he must) – he is condemned to walk the world again in purgatory.  If he was in any way a ‘saint’, this fate would not befall him.

In summary, it is easy to see how appealing the argument must be that says ‘Banquo was an ancestor of James I - who was effectively one of Shakespeare’s patrons when the play was written - so therefore Banquo must be presented as a Goodie’. But this is quite simply a fallacy and no-one should be misled into thinking it has any relevance to Shakespeare’s play.

Banquo is not the Good man in this play.  (Macduff, incidentally, is).

Banquo is just a man, with his own ambitions and desires and faults (and strengths) – who gets caught in the wrong place at the wrong time… outdone by one of his peers in the battle for survival.

He is an interesting character.  He has some intriguing features.

But Banquo is categorically not ‘Good’.

One Love versus Two Households

Consider what we can learn by simply comparing two ‘prologues’ to Romeo and Juliet: Shakespeare’s prologue to his play, and Arthur Brooke’s Argument for his poem (The Tragedie of Romeus and Juliet):

 

Arthur Brooke:

Love hath inflaméd twain by sudden sight,

And both do grant the thing that both desire

They wed in shrift by counsel of a friar.

Young Romeus climbs fair Juliet's bower by night.

Three months he doth enjoy his chief delight.

By Tybalt's rage provokéd unto ire,

He payeth death to Tybalt for his hire.

A banished man he 'scapes by secret flight.

New marriage is offered to his wife.

She drinks a drink that seems to reave her breath:

They bury her that sleeping yet hath life.

Her husband hears the tidings of her death.

He drinks his bane. And she with Romeus' knife,

When she awakes, herself, alas! she slay'th.

 

William Shakespeare:

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.


1.  Note how Brooke’s poem is a list, while Shakespeare’s offers a structured idea.

 

2.  Note how Brooke’s begins with the emphasis on 'Love', whereas Shakespeare very firmly places the emphasis on ‘Two households’ (something to remember as we read the play in its entirety).

 

3.  Note how Brooke’s lines are largely end-stopped with a full stop, where Shakespeare’s thoughts flow not only through the ends of lines but across whole ‘paragraphs'.

4.  Note that where Brooke’s mind sees simple physical steps in the plot, Shakespeare sees concepts unravelling and forces colliding in ways that are both complex and, in all senses of the word, dramatic.

 

5.  Note how much more dynamic, imaginative and - yes! - personal are Shakespeare's words.

 

Put it all together and it would be hard to dispute that in this one - comparatively youthful - prologue, we have more than enough evidence of Shakespeare's genius.

Macbeth's Secret

When Macbeth is in discussion with the murderers, he explains why he cannot kill Banquo himself.

... though I could

With barefaced power sweep him from my sight
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,
For certain friends that are both his and mine,
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall
Who I myself struck down; and thence it is,
That I to your assistance do make love,
Masking the business from the common eye
For sundry weighty reasons.

It is a paltry explanation, based on no more than ‘sundry weighty reasons’.  But at its heart is an implicit belief that the act must be kept secret.  Secrecy is vital in Macbeth’s mind.

But why?

We know that in Duncan’s Scotland there was a constant threat to all kings and leaders from those who would-be king.  These threats – as in the start of the play – were effected and acted out through combat and a physical fight for supremacy.

Macbeth, it would seem, is fantastic at fights for supremacy – he is fearless and strong; a fantastic soldier and fighter.

So what’s with the secrecy?

Perhaps Lady Macbeth encourages secrecy because she understands that her husband is not going to have enough popular support if he tries to make himself King by open means.  Perhaps she believes that no-one will accept him as king unless he appears to be crowned by divine providence and that, since this is a lie, he must keep the truth secret.

But for Macbeth to give in to fear is a flaw; as a soldier, he should stand up for what he believes in.  And he says as much when he recognises that ‘against the murderer I should bar the door, not bear the knife myself.  Yet still he goes ahead with a secretive murder instead of either an honest defence of the king or an open coup d’etat.

Macbeth WANTS to be king.  But he is afraid of doing the necessary thing to make him King.  He is afraid of taking control and challenging the status quo as a soldier and a leader.  So he tries to avoid conflict by taking the crown secretly so that no-one realises he has taken it.

It is not only foolish, it is the act of a coward; Macbeth, the Thane of Cawdor, is a coward.  The anagram fits, and it fits because - ironically - the soldier has sought to avoid the battlefield.

Left to his own devices Macbeth would have to decide whether to overthrow Duncan in battle or stay loyal to him in peace; either would be courageous for a soldier.

His wife, however, presents him with a third way.  A doomed way.  A way that destroys him.

The path of secrecy is not one that comes naturally to Macbeth, the great soldier; it is a path that he is not comfortable with – at any stage.  However great he might be as King - and there is much evidence that he might not be too poor in the role if he stood up and claimed it openly - it is the secrecy which destroys him, not the crown.

By taking the path of secrecy he undermines everything he is.  And only in the final moments of the play does he reclaim his proper self by throwing his armour on and standing up to be counted on the battlefield.  Only in the final moments of the play does he eschew secrecy and walk out into the light.

There are many keys to understanding The Tragedy of Macbeth.  Secrecy is one of them.

 

The Miracle of Pericles

Pericles' wife, Thaisa, dies in childbirth - as their daughter Marina is born.

The birth/death takes place on a ship at sea and the sailors know they must cast the mother's body overboard if they are to survive the storm, for their 'superstition' says that dead people can not be carried on the boat without bringing bad luck.

Pericles agrees.  Thaisa's body is cast overboard in a make-shift coffin.  And Pericles mourns her.

As the ship sails off towards Tharsus, we know that his wife is dead and that she has been buried at sea.  This birth/death has proven to be the next episode in Pericles' life-journey.

When, the next morning, the coffin is washed up on the shores of an island, it is discovered by natives.  There is no immediate interest from them, since they believe it is just debris from the storm.  Eventually they approach it, open it and discover the corpse.  It soon becomes clear that one of them - Cerimon, a student of physic - believes the woman in the coffin may still be alive.

Steps are taken to revive her and - astonishingly - she revives.

So... the question is...

Is this a case of a poor diagnosis on the boat?  Was a simple error made in proclaiming Thaisa dead?  Or is this something else?  A miracle?

Be in no doubt: this is a miracle.

Thaisa dies.  She is dead.  And then she is not.

'But she never actually dies,' says an actor, 'People just think she has'.

Wrong.

Thaisa dies because the audience, without the benefit of hindsight, knows she is dead.  And Shakespeare makes sure that we know this.  Indeed his whole play depends on us knowing this.  Arguably it is our own act of 'knowing' this which actually renders her dead: we lay her to rest in our minds as we anticipate Pericles' next adventure - and it does not involve Thaisa. We, like Pericles, leave her out of our expectations.  For she is dead - and Marina lives.

As a result, when the coffin is opened on the shore, we are more interested in what will be found in it than we are in any idea that Thaisa might be about to revive.

But then she wakes.

It is an astonishing moment.  It seems absurd.  Magical, but without magic.

Because Shakespeare is exploring the impossible: he is seeing if a playwright can overcome that final obstacle - death itself.  Yet, being a Shakespeare play, there is more to it even than this. 

For when Thaisa returns to life, the door is opened to a once-impossible reunion between her, the husband who buried her and the daughter who herself was once condemned to die.

Thus the miracle of Thaisa's awakening engenders the miracle of a family being reunited in life, after death.

It is a staggering concept and it could only be attempted and successfully achieved by a playwright at the peak of his powers.

How Shakespeare guides us to the most complex of human experiences through the strangest of tales is worthy of a lifetime's study.

Put simply, relatively unknown though it is, Pericles is Shakespeare's greatest play.

Music and Meaning in the Tempest

When Prospero puts on his magic robes to address the spirits of the island, at the start of Act 5 of The Tempest, he is not - contrary to popular opinion - making much sense.

This is deliberate.

For the real meaning of this speech lies not in the words themselves but in the music of the language.

Consider the first few lines:

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be...

Little sense here unless you want to spend some time – longer than any audience in a theatre has – breaking down the structure into phrases and then trying to link the phrases back together again in a syntactical infusion which reveals a modicum of meaning under a microscope.

But I am playing.

As Shakespeare is in this speech.

Forget the meaning and listen to the sound.  Listen, particularly, to the rise and fall and changes of pace.

Notice the extremely long opening note running through the words from ‘Ye elves ‘(line 1) to ‘ye be‘ (line 9).  No breath.  No end of a sentence.  No break.  Just one long note.

Then it changes.

We move fluidly from ‘Ye’ to ‘I’.

And the energy rises noticeably.

Now the language expresses power and achievement.  Still no concrete meaning, but an impression of something omnipotent doing powerful things:

... I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art.

The meaning here lies not in prosaic logic, but in the artistic images evoked by the sounds.

The abrupt intrusion of the word ‘graves’ – caused in part, paradoxically, by the appearance of a regular iambic rhythm in a highly irregular rhythmic structure – injects strident new energy.

Omnipotence.  Destructive power.  A force greater than nature.

And the music has risen from quiet elves of brooks and streams, through a crescendo of violence and raw power, to a climactic declaration of ‘Potent Art’.  A climax signalled by the assonance of ‘By my’ and ‘So Po', which majestically slows the beat and creates natural emphasis and focus on the word 'Art'.

It continues...

But this rough magic
I here abjure

And, as he does so, the power wanes.  Triggered by the suggestion of a logical argument contained in the word ‘but’.

Now the tempo slows.  The music lowers in pitch and volume.  And now the music in the language needs heavenly music to accompany it and even the very act of calling for this heavenly music is magically incoherent and yet completely comprehensible:

... and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for,

See how there is no end in sight to the sentence; no logic in the verb tenses; no definition of subject and object; no clarity of meaning.  And yet we know something is ending.  And we know this is about ‘senses’ and something ‘airy’ and magical.

And then we are hit with reality; a functioning, physical reality:

I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.

These final lines make sense.  They are relatively logical and syntactically simple.  They seem to end with a full stop.

But more important than any of that, they complete the music of the whole speech.

For they carry a natural downward inflection.  The lower notes of the spectrum.  The bass sounds which you feel in your bones even more than you hear them in your ear.

And the final line is only a half-line.

It does not end with a full stop.

It ends with half a line of silence.

In one monologue – at the focal point of the whole play – Shakespeare provides Prospero with a speech which stretches language to the limit.  It communicates through image, rhythm and sound, rather than through logical meaning.  And yet it all leads to a single logical statement which establishes the impending end of Prospero’s reign; the end of Shakespeare’s Art.

On an island full of magic and music, built on a structure which mirrors the advent and passing of a storm, this speech is the epitome of The Tempest.

A Hero and A Villain in Much Ado About Nothing

If you review online attitudes to Hero in Much Ado About Nothing, you might assume that she is merely a weak woman who highlights the sexist attitudes of Elizabethan society.

Indeed I seem to recall that a made-for-TV update of the story a few years back, featuring Billy Piper, actually played around with the ending of the story.  It sought to make Hero appear stronger and less willing to forgive Claudio for his uncompromising  words at the altar.  As if no self-respecting woman could possibly forgive and forget such slander without a long period of grace.

Not only does this overlook Claudio’s repentance at Hero's tomb, but it misses the point of Hero altogether.

Claudio’s repentance matters because it is an overt reference to the Christian tradition: repent and you shall be saved.  He has been duped by the Devil (Don John) and he has seen the error of his ways.  Now he must, and does, repent.  And his repentance allows both him and the play to resume movement towards a happy outcome.

But who will forgive him his sins?

Hero, of course.

Hero is the only one who can forgive him because she is the one who is falsely accused, dies and then - shortly afterwards - rises from the dead.

Remind you of anyone?

It's quite deliberate.

Hero is the sacrificial lamb in this story and, just like her counterpart in the bible, she suffers for the good of others and still finds it in herself to forgive - selflessly. 

Without her death this play could not end as a comedy; without her selflessness this play could not conclude with a happy-ever-after; without her unconditional forgiveness of Claudio, no-one else could forget and move on.

In short, Hero is the epitome of a true Christian.  She is essentially the saviour, to Don John’s Devil.

One might almost imagine her saying of her accusers in the church ‘forgive them father for they know not what they do’.  While, in counterpoint, Don John revels in everyone’s distress for no better reason than he enjoys spreading torment. 

And this is the crux of the issue. 

Because, contrary to appearances, Don John and Hero are the true protagonists of this drama: Don John is the personification of Evil, and Hero is the personification of Good; Don John is the Villain of the piece and she is, unequivocally, the Hero.

For the record, the rest is largely much ado about nothing.