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.

Twins and Trickery in Twelfth Night

No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a
touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me
what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges
me in manners the rather to express myself. You
must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,
which I called Roderigo. My father was that
Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard
of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both
born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased,
would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;
for some hour before you took me from the breach of
the sea was my sister drowned.

The first few lines of this speech, spoken by Sebastian at the start of Act 2 Scene i of Twelfth Night, are frequently cut.  In the Trevor Nunn screen play for Renaissance Films, for example, the speech starts with the words ‘You must know of me then, Antonio…’

There is, of course, nothing wrong with such editing – unless it is done without due diligence.

So what is ‘due diligence’ when it comes to reviewing a Shakespeare text for performance?

Primarily you must seek to understand why the text exists in the first place.  But the answer to this question might require some thinking ‘outside the box’ – depending on how immersed you are in the text to begin with.

So, taking the Sebastian example above, you might wonder why he needs to talk about his father and his family history in this way.  You might also question why the preamble exists.  After all, Trevor Nunn’s edited version is perfectly sufficient to get the main point across.

At this point, you might be tempted to dismiss the extra material as ‘Shakespeare’; it’s what he does, after all – “use ten words where one would do”.

This would be folly on your part, not his.

For Shakespeare understands Theatre and, in this play, he has a very clear idea of how and why the text needs to unfold in the way it does.

So, if you are tempted to think that these lines are superfluous, take yourself to an imaginary space where you are about to watch this play for the first time…

You do not know the story and you certainly do not know the characters and their relationship to each other.  You do not even know their names.

Have you noticed that Viola is not named correctly in Act 1? She appears and she dresses as a man but she is only ever referred to under her pseudonym of Cesario.

This means the audience do not know her real name.  Only what she looks like.

Then, at the start of Act 2, she comes onstage talking of leaving.

Except, with hindsight, we know it is not her who enters in Act 2 scene i; it is her brother, Sebastian.

But the audience watching this for the first time, seeing an identical twin appear at the start of Act 2 scene 1, has no idea that they can be watching anyone other than Viola/Cesario.  After all, there has not even been a mention yet that Viola’s brother is her twin – let alone identical.

And so Shakespeare is playing with us.  He brings a character on stage that we presume to be Viola and he sustains the illusion by ensuring that some dialogue takes place which is sufficiently abstract to be spoken, potentially, by Viola.

This is why the first few lines of the scene exist: to set-up a joke.  The joke requires them to be a meaningless preamble that could be spoken by anyone, to allow the audience to presume that they know who is talking.  Their very value lies in their vagueness.

And then the joke gets a head of steam: in a change of tone and clarity we are told that this is ‘Sebastian’ who was formerly known as ‘Roderigo’.

What’s that about?

Why throw in another pseudonym, when we already have the Cesario name in the frame?

For one reason only: to confuse the audience further.  For momentarily we find ourselves disorientated.  Who is this before us?  Surely it is that girl from the first Act, who dressed as a man?  But she wasn’t called Roderigo, was she?  And why is she now saying she is called Sebastian, after Sebastian of Messaline?

And then it dawns on us: this is NOT the girl dressed as a man; this is a man who looks just like her… and who had a twin sister who was identical to him... and who was also the offspring of Sebastian of Messaline.  This is a play about identical twins!

Now, having deduced this today, imagine the added level of confusion in Shakespeare’s theatre when both parts are played by a male actor.  And you might also notice the mention of a brother’s death in Act 1 scene 3, and the mourning there.  Another brother dead?  It’s madness. 

And that is the point: it is all designed to disorientate and confuse the audience.  And it makes us see, eventually, that if we can confuse Viola and Sebastian as being the same person… then how easy for the people on this island to do the same.

And thus it sets up the whole of the rest of the play.  And it demonstrates how vital it is for a faithful production to make sure the twins in the lead roles are IDENTICAL.  And it casts a whole new gloss on the reaction to Sebastian of Olivia, Feste, Antonio, Sir Andrew and Sir Toby in Acts 4 and 5. And, if we can see it, this one seemingly abstract scene transforms – and uplifts - our experience of the whole play.

But what does all this also say about the tenour of Act 2 scene i?

Far from being the atmospheric, melancholy, storm-tossed sequence of the Trevor Nunn film, this scene is essentially comic at heart.

It is entirely unexpected that it should be so.  For it even ends with some words of reflection on the sister who has apparently died in the storm (‘She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more’).

But this is Shakespeare and, like the best pantomime writers, he knows he can move an audience from laughter to sadness in an instant.  It is all play.

So the words of Sebastian and Antonio, in Act 2 scene i, serve to ensure that the audience is firstly tricked… and then let in on the deceit.  The audience, in turn, laugh uproariously as they realise this is all a confusion spun for them to enjoy.  Then they gasp - as they realise the potential for other characters within the play to be deceived just as they have been.  Oh what a clever writer Mr Shakespeare is! 

And then, so that the story can move forward, we are all brought back on task by some faux seriousness which serves to remind us all of where we were in the story before this little sideshow.  Talk of salt tears here is not an indication of genuine weeping on the part of the actor; it is simply a signpost to the audience that directs them back to the main ‘shipwrecked’ thread.

By all means cut Sebastian’s lines - as Trevor Nunn chose to do in his film.  But make sure you know what you are cutting out.

And please acknowledge that you are horribly distorting Shakespeare’s vision when you do.

 

Shakespeare, Stanislavski and This Blog

Reviewing my blog to date has made me aware of a glaring omission in my explanations of Shakespeare as I understand him.

 

The problem is to do with contemporary theatre productions.  How they are rehearsed, constructed and performed.

 

It matters not whether the subject is Shakespeare, Chekhov or Ayckbourn, the approach of contemporary practitioners is largely underpinned by Stanislavskian concepts of what theatre is and should be.

 

So prevalent is the Stanislavskian vision that we sometimes may not even notice his influence at work…

 

Blacked out auditoria? Stanislavski.  No latecomers admitted?  Stanislavski.  Rehearse in a room for an extended period prior to performance?  Stanislavski.  Look for the character’s motivation or objectives?  Stanislavski.  Provide a complete three dimensional stage picture which is lit three-dimensionally? Stanislavski.  Make the staging look and feel ‘natural’? Stanislavski.  Focus on the emotion of the actor/character? Stanislavski.

 

But, without doubt, the most insidious of all Stanislavski’s concepts – which has somehow been adopted so completely that we view absence of it as somehow ‘strange’ or ‘unique’ – is the fourth wall.

 

The fourth wall – only possible because of advances in lighting and theatre design – was seen by Stanislavski as the fundamental tool of the actor working towards a great performance.  For it is the way in which the actor separates him or herself from the distraction of the audience and immerses their attention in the world of the play.  Worse even than this, the fourth wall – for Stanislavski – represents the route to the highest forms of audience experience.  This, in his mind, is theatre where the audience can become so absorbed in the ‘real’ world of the stage before them, that they forget who they are and simply experience another life.

 

This sounds wonderful but it is nonsense.

 

Theatre is not, and – until Stanislavski came along – never was, about the divide between actor and audience.  It is and was about the complete connection and communication between them.

 

And this connection is so much deeper and more fundamental than simply ‘breaking the fourth wall’ can ever allow.

 

When a speaker goes onto a platform to address a crowd, he or she should – if they are doing their job properly – focus on ensuring that the crowd see, hear, understand and ultimately connect with what they are saying.  This involves continual assessment of the crowd from before the speech, through the speech and, finally, after the speech.

 

Failure to assess the crowd means that the speaker cannot possibly know if their speech is being heard, making sense, being accepted or rejected.  In an extreme situation, failure to assess the crowd could mean the crowd walking away disinterested and having heard nothing, without the speaker even realising.  At the other extreme the crowd could be getting so angry with the speaker that they advance on the stage ready to lynch the speaker… again without him/her noticing.

 

Clearly neither of these alternatives is likely to happen in real life – certainly not if the speaker has even a modicum of common sense.  But what about in the theatre?

 

In the contemporary theatre the audience is not only put into darkness (little hope of the actor assessing this crowd directly then!) but it is taught that it must be quiet and respectful of the actors, even if it does not understand what they are saying or doing.  Darkness and quiet are both Stanislavskian constructs.

 

In other words, our modern theatre demands the very things that are, in reality, anti-theatre: lack of real-time assessment of the audience by the actors and lack of real-time feedback from the audience to the cast.  Add in the ‘fourth wall’ and you have a situation where ‘the highest order of acting’ is one in which actors deliberately focus not on the audience but on the stage.  Add the importance of ‘true-seeming emotion’ [in the actor, of course!] and you even relieve the cast of responsibility for generating true emotion in the audience.

 

You see, Stanislavski has infected every level of our contemporary theatre performance.  So much so that Brechtian ‘Epic Theatre’ ideas are seen by many as ‘weird’ and ‘unconventional’, whereas they are, in fact, the traditional and timeless features of theatre which our post-Stanislavski theatre community has failed, on the whole, to grasp.

 

And so back to Shakespeare and contemporary productions…

 

As the modern theatre is founded upon Stanislavskian principles, so it cannot do Shakespeare justice.

 

I frequently hear of Shakespeare productions that transcend the Stanislavski boundaries and become brilliant pieces of theatre.  But on the nights I visit, it seems, this freedom to act is temporarily mislaid.  And I end up seeing yet another example of actors believing that there is immense value in their ability to create a role, build a character and prepare a performance in the Stanislavski mould.  Yes, they throw down the fourth wall occasionally.  But no, they do not transcend the Stanislavski ethos.

 

That modern actors might be blinded by Stanislavski has  – thankfully - been picked up by David Mamet, among others.  But against this common sense there remains a tremendous amount of folly.  Like the actor who refused to even audition for my 2010 production of Macbeth because ‘I only do quality work and you can’t produce a quality performance in a week of rehearsals – especially with Shakespeare’.

 

Within a week my actors on that production were informing me that they knew and understood the play better than any play they had previously worked on.  But how can this be with only a week’s rehearsal?  Because, as we all know, it’s not how long you spend trying to solve a problem; it’s how effectively you tackle the problem in the first place.

 

Stanislavski does not tackle the problem of theatre.  Shakespeare does.

 

Modern theatre adheres, ultimately, to too many principles of Stanislavski’s for it to be able to decipher and present Shakespeare appropriately.  And yet it claims, and - in its own context – appears, to do just that.

 

It takes a certain perspective to understand that you are on a stationary train when the train on the next track passes you.  And it takes a certain perspective to see that the modern theatre is so intrinsically Stanislavskian that it is distorting Shakespeare.

 

It is why some of the content of this blog may, alas, not make its full sense unless – and until – the reader sees what I mean in practice.

Two Daggers - One Macbeth

There are two ways of playing the dagger scene in Macbeth - Stanislavskian and non-Stanislavskian.

In the Stanislavski version, of course, the actor is absorbed in the world of the play and really only sees the dagger and the space around him.  He literally 'speaks his thoughts aloud' and the audience overhears them from outside the scene.

This is the way this scene has been played in every production I have seen of the play.

But there is an alternative mode of playing the scene.  In this non-Stanislavki version, the actor asks the audience a direct question: 'Is this a dagger I see before me?'  Of course it is not necessary for the actor to be looking directly at the audience as he says this specific set of words, for he can quite naturally speak to the audience while still looking at the dagger.  But at some point he will definitely break his eye contact with the dagger to look out into the audience to see/hear their reaction to his question.  And this is how the scene develops: the actor explores the issue of the dagger's appearance in full sight of the audience and with a clear line of communication between him and them.

Perhaps the skill of the actor and the choices made in terms of focus/eye level - more so than in the Stanislavski version - will determine the tone of this speech, but the effect will be quite different to that other version.  For now the audience is not overhearing from outside; now the audience is INSIDE the scene with the actor.  Now the audience have an immediate presence which - strikingly - makes them complicit in the drama.

When we tested these two modes of playing - in schools - by offering up the soliloquy performed in both styles, we found interesting results.  Firstly, there was a predictable reaction based on which version the (inexperienced) students saw first.  For, whichever order we played them in, the "first seen" was invariably the one judged to be most effective by the students (generally GCSE) - as if they could not adapt to the second once they had seen the effectiveness of the first.  But there was a different response among their more experienced teachers: here the clear favourite was the non-Stanislavskian version.  And the accompanying comments were common:

 

'I have not seen it played like that before'

'It was so much more immediate'

'It was more emotional'

'It was more effective as drama'.

 

 

The trouble is that we have become so used to seeing Stanislavskian acting in our theatres that we appear to have almost forgotten that there really is another form of acting - and one which predates Stanislavski by millennia.  Confronting modern audiences with both forms demonstrated that Stanislavski is definitely not the only way and, quite probably, is not even the best way.

 

But which of these two versions was best for the actor?  I can answer that from personal experience as I was, on many occasions, the actor in question...

 

Firstly, I found that the Stanislavskian version was tremendously technical - for I had to maintain a wholly unnatural thread of emotional angst across a whole speech - but it allowed me to make all the decisions myself.  In other words I was the boss of the speech and could decide where to go next and then fly there (e.g. I often felt the emotion driving me towards smashing my fist on a table at a climactic moment, so I would give in to that urge and enjoy the emotional intensity which followed). 

 

But the non-Stanislavski version was entirely different.  For now I was NOT the boss of the speech; the situation was.  And the situation involved the audience, the dagger, the other people off-stage at the 'feast', and more.  Now I never felt an emotional urge to bang my fist on a table, but I often did still bang my fist on the table!  Why?  Because the action of banging the fist was now an attempt to change the situation; to shake off the madness which was clearly in danger of envelopping me.

 

Two versions, of one speech, in which I would usually bang my fist on a table.  But this action in each version - from its cause to its execution to its aftermath - was wholly distinct.  In the first, it was driven by emotion, shaped by my embrace of that emotion and expressed that emotion; in the other, it was driven by a situation, shaped by my attitude to the situation and it changed the situation... however briefly.

 

And there were other differences too.  But none more unexpected than my discovery of a simple, theatrical, truth: moving round the stage, in the Stanislavski version, as I worked to communicate to the audience my state of emotional angst (and, by their reactions, my work was pretty convincing) seemed somehow unclean; a petty lie.  But moving round the stage exploring the immediate current situation - a situation in which we all knew the audience existed as much as I did - seemed not only pure but a play in which all the roles offered cathartic opportunity.

 

For we were collectively journeying through a shared experience and my contribution as the actor was far more open, generous and imaginative than Stanislavski allowed me to be.