(7) The Merchant of Venice

My seventh play so far read. A good one for sure, and one containing a truly unforgettable character: Shylock, the Jewish moneylender bent on exacting a pound of flesh from the loan-defaulting Antonio. Much has been said over the ages about this one, but instead of adding my two cents into the fray (actually more like half cent), I thought I would try something else and comment on the commentary related to this character (which is pretty much the same as adding my two cents, isn’t it?). In researching some of this criticism, I was struck by the many, many levels of complexity afforded this character by most anyone who has studied/played him and the seemingly endless possibilities for interpretation. Take this passage, from Anne Barton’s preface to the play in the Riverside Edition:

“In the theater, the part [of Shylock] has always attracted actors, and it has been played in a variety of ways. Shylock has sometimes been presented as the devil incarnate, sometimes as a comic villain gabbling absurdly about ducats and daughters. He has also been sentimentalized as a wronged and suffering father nobler by far than the people that triumph over him. Roughly the same range of interpretation can be found in the criticism on the play. Shakespeare’s text suggests a truth more complex than any of these extremes.”

Indeed. Barton intimates that there is a lot going on here, and there is. The interesting part is the degree to which the character Shylock invites, in fact demands, such strong elucidation. This is of course standard territory for Shakespeare and clearly another hallmark of his great genius, that is, his ability to create characters of such depth and believability across the widest array of possibilities (oftentimes quite opposite). For me, that’s easily one of the most attractive bits motivating my desire to read all of his plays.

This may thus beg the following question: Is this wide ocean of meaning, as promulgated throughout the ages, an artifact of the deep genius of the writer or simply a product of time and the unceasing scrutiny afforded The Bard? Or, put otherwise, is Shakespeare’s genius innate or bestowed by us, his ever-appreciative audience? Probably both, for what is the artist without the audience?