A Shakespeare Lecture – Part 2

The lecture I attended the other day ended with a bit on Christopher Marlowe, the greatest and most interesting Shakespearean influence out there. Basically, you can argue that if Marlowe was not stabbed in the eye and killed over a bar tab back in 1593 (right when Shakespeare was getting started), we would be discussing him as much, if not more, as Shakespeare. There would be Marlowe festivals, tee shirts, symposiums, and coffee mugs all over the place, without question, because the guy was doing exactly what Shakespeare did, only slightly earlier, and with shortened duration (that kind of thing tends to happen when you die).

Marlow was apparently the theater rock star in his day, well-regarded and idolized because of his popular and oft-performed plays. Like Shakespeare, he took what was before him and transformed it into something new and better. For example, he either invented or popularized blank verse, which was a giant step forward in that it created plays using language that sounded like we sound, that felt natural and “right” as opposed to stilted and false. Blank verse was a new tool, one of many, crafted and used by Marlowe (and subsequently, Shakespeare), fueling the fire that was the Golden Age of English Theater.

But…the lecture wasn’t just a huge love-fest for Marlowe and company. It was noted that for all of Marlow’s greatness, he was in a way one-dimensional and not nearly as varied as our favorite Bard or, as the lecturer said, not quite as flexible. You don’t see the range and variety of voice in his works (for example, Marlowe’s lead character in his Jew of Malta as compared to Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. The former is simply an evil dude, through and through, while the later is something so much more nuanced).

However, as mentioned earlier, Marlowe was just getting started so who’s to say that he wouldn't hone his art like Shakespeare did? Why wouldn’t he develop and evolve? Given his great start, to what heights could this development have reached? Also, to wonder out loud some more, it’s impossible not to consider that if Marlow had lived and prospered then we would have had two great writers, writing contemporarily, perhaps in competition even, like a Lennon-and-McCartney sort of thing, an idea which is almost too awesome to consider (As a side note here, please don’t say that these two people were the same, i.e., that Marlowe wrote Shakespeare’s plays. He didn’t, or rather, there is absolutely no evidence whatsoever that he did. You might as well say Queen Elizabeth wrote Shakespeare's plays. There’s as much evidence there as in the Marlowe case).

A Shakespeare Lecture

I attended an interesting lecture the other night sponsored by the Philadelphia Shakespeare Theater called What Shakespeare Watched. It was an excellent exploration of the theater and the dramatic forms active before Shakespeare began his epic career. It is almost certain that the plays performed during this era (essentially several centuries leading up to the 1590’s) would have informed and shaped Shakespeare’s works. Of course, as we have seen before, we have no direct evidence that Shakespeare saw these plays, or any plays for that matter, but it seems logical, especially when you see how elements from these plays found their way into the plays of the Bard.

The lecture proved out that there is nothing new under the sun in that our favorite Bard most certainly absorbed and used, sometimes in entirety, the ideas of many of those that came before him. The genius of it, of course, is that he absorbed it and then extended it into something cool, different, and exciting (so I guess I should say there’s nothing entirely new under the sun). He took the ball and ran with it, so to speak, but that ball had to be there to take. That pretty much captures what the talk was about.

The entertaining and highly-informed lecturer (so important, by the way, this entertaining and informed duality in the sometimes stodgy and exclusive academic space that can be Shakespeare) started out with a survey of the drama in the centuries prior to Shakespeare’s day. There were three main types of plays during this period: Religious, Folk, and something known as “Interludes” (see below).

The religious plays are typically subdivided into three groups: Mystery plays (dramatic episodes from the Bible), Miracle plays (more Bible stuff, mainly episodes from the lives of the Saints), and Morality plays (where allegory was used to teach a lesson, such as the medieval Everyman play, as a familiar example). The folk plays are the second main type. These were more dancing celebrations than dramas (the lecturer likened them to modern day “flash mobs” or, even better for her Philadelphia audience, the Mummers) and were informal, improvised things where the action was the main focus, at the expense of plot or character development.

Finally, there were Interludes, the most interesting category (in my humblest of opinions), in that in these we start to see something approaching modern drama. Performed at court and in aristocratic houses, these were “interludes” performed in between courses of a long meal (hence the name). They focused on entertainment using many of the same devices and constructs seen in later drama, for example, scenes based on mistaken identity, lots of sexual innuendo, and a devilish character known as the “Vice” that causes heaps of trouble and mayhem (though often in a non-threatening, comic way).

So, you can see the variety in place, the diversity, an active and vibrant culture of theater, all within view of Shakespeare’s most inquisitive eye. Watching all these different plays must have added greatly to the deep, fomenting caldron of Shakespeare’s developing creative genius. This cauldron was set to boil over in the coming years of course, with drama markedly different and intense, yet still based on and harkening back to, in a very real way, these dramatic seeds planted and cultivated in earlier years.

The lecturer described all this and then, in a great show-don’t-tell way (it’s always better that way, right?), scenes from some of these protean plays were presented live, using real live actors, enabling us to see, first hand, specific scenes from specific plays that may have shaped Shakespeare’s artistic mind. My favorite example was the play Gallathea, by John Lyly, a play containing many obvious and typical Shakespearean hallmarks. For example, Gallathea includes themes of the forest retreat (see As You Like It), gender ambiguity (see Twelfth Night), and magic as a matter of course (see A Midsummer Night’s Dream). This is all familiar stuff in the Shakespeare universe.

You have to love the ending to Gallathea too (spoiler alert), an ending that has the god Neptune fixing the “problem” of two women in love by giving one of them a sex change, right there, on the spot, using his god magic. Man/woman, problem solved. As you may imagine, much confusion ensues from this, which is the point I guess. It’s a kind of funny scene (especially when the parents of the newly-minted son start complaining about the lost inheritance of the now not-so-oldest son in the family) but, for Shakespeare, this type of contrivance would be a definite nonstarter. Instead, through the best sort of poetry, he might first disguise theses characters in a cross-gender way, and then switch them back (but only for one character perhaps), and then switch them back again, after having them all fall in love. Standard Bard moves. More layers, more art.

American Shakespeare Center

I just got back from a visit to the American Shakespeare Center in Staunton, Virginia to see a very interesting and unusual production of Timon of Athens. The visit included an hour long behind-the-scenes tour of the playhouse followed by the aforementioned play. In short, it was great, but you probably knew I would say that (I sometimes think that I like things too much, or rather see the merit in things too easily. Oh well. It makes for an entertained life).

The American Shakespeare Center is a playhouse that is an as-faithful-as-possible reproduction of the Blackfriar’s Playhouse active during Shakespeare’s time. It is the only one around today. Some pictures:

First, comments on the tour: It was great (there I go again!), a really first rate affair, mainly because the tour guide was so damn good. She made me realize, moments in, that all tour guides should be working actors. Entertaining, energetic, and informative, it was cool. Trust me.

The tour focused, at points, on the playhouse itself and the life and times of all things Shakespeare: the actors (both historically and in modern times), the facts and figures, the history, and the drama were all covered with equal aplomb. Most intriguingly, the guide described the details involved in staging real, live plays for real, live audiences, in real, live theaters. I found it fascinating, but, as you may have noticed, I’m a bit of a nerd for such things (and definately an outsider to that world). Some specific tour highlights, you ask? Here:

• Shakespeare was a member of the Lord’s Chamberlain’s Men, as you probably know, and by all accounts these guys were the team to beat back in the day. They kicked ass and took names, and when you visit a place such as the Blackfriar’s, you can really feel how amazing and great it must have been (and still is) to see great performances in great spaces.

• A focus at Blackfriar’s is to mimic the staging conditions of the original place so, as such, the productions have no directors, or rather, have lots of directors (everyone kind of directs themselves). This is apparently historically accurate (the concept of a director is only about 100 years old) and, contrary to what you might think, it works, at least in the example I saw. I find this interesting and wonder about its implications in terms of what impact this had on Shakespeare as a writer/actor/director. Again (we have seen this before), the actor seems to reign supreme in Shakespeare’s world.

• A decent bit of time was spent discussing the craft of acting and the life of a modern-day Shakespearean actor. This is no small thing. So much goes into it (not surprising, right?) and the tour guide did a great job describing all of the gory details around this interesting and complex life, from contracts to cue sheets and residencies to troupes, I didn’t expect to get such a comprehensive and informative “inside look." Needless to say, the dedication and work involved in being successful at this is mind boggling (at least to me) and, although I don’t know for sure, I’m going to guess that the pay is not in any way commensurate with the effort involved. Welcome to the Arts.

• The original Blackfriar’s was a Dominican monastery, which explains the “friar” part of the name. Additionally, the original Blackfriar’s was the first indoor theater and a revolution in its day. However, it was a very different experience from the Globe, the other, more familiar theater of Shakespeare’s time. It was a more upscale experience apparently (for example, the Blackfriar’s had no place for Groundlings). It was a place to see a play and to be seen seeing a play (there are seats behind and above the stage, terrible seats to see the action of the play but perfect seats for showing yourself off to the audience).

• The lighting was, in its day, also revolutionary. It consisted of multitudes of candle chandeliers, faithfully copied here using softly glowing electric bulbs (Interestingly, the five act play was integral to these contraptions in that the candles needed to be trimmed periodically. The ideal timing to do this, it turns out, is about five times, i.e., at the end of each act. This fact, as much as any other, contributed to the five act construction so prevalent in Shakespeare’s plays):

So, that’s Blackfriar’s. A great place to see and be. There’s no doubt I’ll be back some day. Concerning the actual play I saw there (this is a blog about plays, not places, after all), I’ll be posting that soon.

Anthony and Cleopatra - A Review

Here's a review of the Anthony and Cleopatra production I saw in New York. Apparently, it was a steaming pile of crap. Fortunately, I didn't notice (some critic I am). Oh well. I liked it. So sue me.

(30) Anthony and Cleopatra

Well, that break from this blog ended up lasting way longer that I had hoped. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective), life intervened (in a good way), and I was too busy to get anything together. But alack! No more neglect! I am back and ready to roll on Anthony and Cleopatra, another great one, perhaps one of my favorites, which was a bit of a surprise (again, in a good way), because I had not yet come across this one in any context (aside from the historical), so all was fresh and new (again, with the exception of the history of it. I was familiar with the relationship between these two and the part they played in Augustus’ rise to power, just not familiar with any artistic interpretation of it…until now).

As in the past, I was able to read the play and then see a live performance. As usual, they complemented each other perfectly.  For the words, I used the Applause version of this play and found it laugh-out-loud great in the scene-by-scene commentary provided by the actress Janet Suzman. Her wry, enlightened, and thoroughly real comments were instrumental in comprehending and more importantly, enjoying, the play (Suzman was a great actress in her time and, in reading her comments, I really think there’s something to the theory that Shakespeare really wrote for actors and actresses. That was his true audience (don’t forget, he was one of them). Suzman’s wonderful comments clearly show, at every turn, that she “gets” the Bard, really gets him, and it makes you think that this may only be possible as a player in the play, not as a simple reader or viewer…but I digress).

Her commentary runs throughout the play, but I wanted to mention one comment in particular, towards the very end, where the action is proceeding to its violent and tragic conclusion. In describing Cleopatra’s end (spoiler alert), she points out that Shakespeare uses copious alliteration around the sound of the letter “S.” Sirrah, see thusly for yourself:

Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep?

As Cleopatra commits suicide by subjecting herself to a venomous snake bite (death by asp, can it get any worse?), Suzman notes this alteration, and I could have easily missed it. On top of the poetry, plot, character development, and theme, the text gives the impression of a hissing snake. Reread the above quotation again out loud. See what I mean? I found more of this elsewhere (you’ll have to trust me) and found it fascinating in every case, the deliberate emulation of the snake’s hiss to deepen the horror for poor Cleopatra (and for voyeuristic us). It’s brilliant, another carefully crafted detail so deftly put forth that it heightens the experience and deepens the art at a level which registers viscerally (if not subconsciously) for reader.

Concerning the live version (I saw it performed live in New York last week), details abounded as well, but of a different sort. In one scene (I could look up exactly which one but I’m feeling a little lazy, and it really doesn’t matter), the three leaders of the Roman republic stand conversing in opposite corners of the stage, the great Triumvirate of Rome: Caesar, Anthony, and Lepidus. I noticed the care and deliberateness of their positions and the preciseness in the placement of their feet, a placement in complete accordance with their individual demeanors.

Caesar, a cool, calculating, political machine, stood firmly on the stage, feet aligned exactly adjacent, like a soldier at attention. Anthony, a blood-lusty, passionate, and wildly tragic hero, stood like a caged tiger, feet out of alignment, one foot stepped in front of the other, as if ready to leap up and eviscerate the enemy at any moment. And finally Lepidus, forever the awkward and bumbling odd-man-out, standing flatfooted and loose, duck-footed, almost comic, clearly doomed.

The stage direction here worked so well to forward the meaning of the play, in all its complexity, and again, like the alliteration mentioned earlier, is so subtle and, as such, so brilliant. And everything rests in these subtle details, doesn’t it? Therein lies the Great Art. The performer and the writer, in doing their jobs right, put forth their high-minded visions through a sort of deft and implicit layering, a layering that deepens the whole in the context of (and in differentiation from) The Whole, for the sake of Grandeur and Greatness, on the page as well as on the stage. I love it when that happens.