Further to yesterday's post on Gary Taylor's introduction to the Oxford Henry V, one of his most compelling arguments (which happens to fit into my theory regarding this play being Shakespeare's epic) is the description by which he shows the large-scale organization of the work. I'll give you the quote in full, which I believe is accurate, but it is from my notes, so I apologize in advance for any discrepancy. Taylor writes that the play "advances dialectically: no sooner is a unity established than we are made aware of what that unity excludes, until that too can be contained. After the divisions of the first two scenes, Henry and his court are by the end of act one united in their common purpose - and immediately we are shown Eastcheap brawling. After Southampton, Henry can leave behind an undivided England - and we are reminded, through Falstaff, and those who have loved him, of an entire world Henry has excluded. So the process continues until, after the achievement of Agincourt, in the consummation of the dialect, Burgundy insists that the harmony must include France as well as England."

My contention is that Shakespeare was writing an epic not only for the people of England, but for all people who want to live in a civilized and just manner. He used the very symbol of patriotism and empire-building to subvert those ideals, and to show us a way of thinking that we must aspire to if we are to have a peaceful future. The play shows us that differences of opinion (as are written into the role of the protagonist and the fact that he is shown having to accept views opposed to his own, even those of common soldiers such as Williams) are not a nuisance, they are a necessity. Only in tyrannies are opposing views silenced, and only in tyrannies is no thought given to the effects our actions might have on those not, at first glance, on our side.

The most concise and accurate way of defining "epic" is to consider it as a literary work designed to teach a people its own traditions. In the Shakespeare canon, the play that best suits this definition is Henry V. And over the next couple of posts, I'm going to try to explain my reasons for thinking this.

First of all, in the Oxford edition, edited by Gary Taylor, it's explained that there is no evidence that Henry V was a popular success in 1599 (a date for its completion that can be given with relative certainty, due to the fact that the still-in-progress Irish expedition of the Earl of Essex is mentioned in the Chorus to act five - the only reference to what we would call a current event in Shakespeare). And among the many possible reasons for this is the fact that the play is built on the dialectic concept, and thus the character of Henry V is much more complex than the rally-round-the-flag figure that they might have been expecting. This is still the case today, in fact, and the essay (which I've mentioned before) that comes the closest to delineating Shakespeare's method in the play is "Rabbits, Ducks and Henry V" by Norman Rabkin, which posits the idea that the author meant to show two equally compelling views of Henry (patriotic hero or Machiavellian war criminal) and force the audience member to choose between them. This would have thwarted expectations, and still does, I think it's fair to say. And the entire play is built on variations of this approach. More on all of this tomorrow.

In Roger Warren's very interesting introduction to his Oxford edition of Henry VI, Part Two (2003), he delineates the surprising complexity involved in working with a play that has only two early versions. In this case, there is the Quarto edition (Q) of 1594 that was given the title The First Part of the Contention Betwixt the two Famous Houses of York and Lancaster as well as the one found in the First Folio of the plays of Shakespeare (F), published in 1623, where it's titled Henry VI, Part Two. The difficulties begin with the fact that "Q is roughly a third shorter than F, and differs from it in most of its readings, even though the basic material of each scene is the same. Only a handful of passages are identical in the two texts." As a result, there are two opposing positions regarding the relationship of the two versions. The first is the belief that the Quarto version is a "reported" text, i.e. one that was put together by people involved with the production, most likely some of the actors, and with very little involvement from Shakespeare himself. The other is that both versions were written by Shakespeare, with the Folio being the result of more time and a good deal of authorial revision. Warren's findings on the subject are surprising: he finds some evidence for both sides. From this, we might perhaps conjecture that Shakespeare may have used a reported version of his own work as the basis for the finished version - a fascinating hypothesis, with many implications for understanding Shakespeare's working methods and motivations. I recommend Warren's introduction very highly, particularly since my summary is, inevitably, an over-simplification of his thoughts on the subject.

One of the important areas of contention among editors of Shakespeare plays is explained very well in the introduction to the chapter entitled, Textual Criticism and Bibliography from Shakespeare: An Anthology of Criticism and Theory 1945-2000, edited by Russ McDonald. In it, he summarizes the issue as follows: In the past the assumption was that "a skilled editorial weaving of folio and quarto readings will give us an authentic record of Shakespeare's original intentions..." But now there is a growing movement toward looking at the many quartos and the Folio in a very different way, that being that "the multiple versions in which the plays exist represent different, authorially created texts of these plays", and therefore the belief underlying the old attitude is a mistaken one, and there is no ideal, perfect version that editors should be trying to re-create. It's a very interesting field of study, certainly, and one with big implications for everyone interested in Shakespeare. And I mention all of this today for two reasons: first, to try to balance out yesterday's post in which I went off a bit regarding what I feel is a wrong direction in Shakespeare scholarship (i.e. appropriating his writing for ideological purposes). In other words, I think the opposite about this field of study - this one is a right direction for it. The second reason is that it relates to some interesting things that I learned about the different versions of 2 Henry VI, which I'll be writing about tomorrow.

Another musical analogy to Shakespeare's career occurred to me yesterday, this one from an anecdote I once heard about the great Hungarian composer, Bela Bartok. Apparently, a young music student once asked him, "How do you become a composer?" and got the reply, "I have no idea." The student then said, "But you became a composer", to which Bartok said, "But I didn't have to ask". This came to mind as I was thinking of Shakespeare's lost years, which were most probably either spent in an acting company (perhaps Lord Strange's Men) or teaching in a grammar school, but were definitely not spent at a university. It's obvious now that his independent course of study was the right answer for his work, particularly if the higher learning institutions of his time were anything like the ones in ours, i.e. overrun with ideologies and the co-opting of literature for agenda-driven purposes. I find it ironic (and disturbing, to be honest) that the study of Shakespeare, a writer who made it his mission to transcend petty thought, is now used in such ways. But there is some consolation: the people who do so, unlike their subject, won't be remembered in four hundred years.

Some of my favourite moments in Shakespeare fall into the category of hyperbole, which could be defined as exaggeration for descriptive purposes. And often there's a touch of humour involved as a bonus. A wonderful example occurs in act four, scene one of Henry VIII, as two gentlemen standing on a street in Westminster, having just watched the passing of the procession after the coronation of Anne Bullen (as she's called in the play), are joined by a third, who was inside the Abbey for the event. The first gentleman greets him with: "God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling?" He then receives the reply: "Among the crowd i' the Abbey; where a finger/ Could not be wedged in more..." That says it all, doesn't it?

I can't find the precise quotation at the moment, and when I do I'll post it, but the great poet and Shakespeare commentator Samuel Coleridge once wrote something about the goal of poetry being to turn the reader into an active creative agent. The thought not only goes a long way toward explaining why poetry is often considered difficult, but also why, paradoxically, the longest-lasting of the arts is usually the least regarded (or popular) in its own time: it requires a great deal from its audience. Of course the enduring and ever-increasing nature of poetry is one of Shakespeare's great themes, mentioned most frequently in the sonnets, but put into practice most fully in the plays, where it is virtually impossible to read more than a page or two without encountering an astonishing poetic image. One example that I came across recently is found in the opening lines of the first scene from act four of Henry VI, Part Two, wherein the captain of a ship carrying prisoners, including the disguised Earl of Suffolk (who is soon to discovered and beheaded), gives this grisly description of nightfall, which he personifies as being drawn in a chariot by "jades", which in this case seems to refer not to overworked horses (as is usually the case), but to low-flying dragons:

The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the sea;

And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades

That drag the tragic melancholy night;

Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings,

Clip dead men's graves and from their misty jaws

Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.

The very early history plays known as the three parts of Henry VI are the subject of my next lecture at the Atwater library (Tuesday, March 1 at 11 am or Wednesday, March 2 at 7 pm), and they have been unfortunately overlooked for the better part of 400 years. In fact, it was only in the 1960's that they began to be performed again, albeit sporadically. There were a number of reasons for this, including the undeniable fact that they compare poorly to the Henriad (i.e. Richard II, the two parts of Henry IV and Henry V), but in comparison with these, what plays don't? Compared to the work of any other playwright, in other words, these plays stand up very well. Also, we have to keep in mind that these works were necessary to Shakespeare's development. Through them he learned more about his dual crafts of drama and poetry, while sharpening his philosophical and psychological insights, and, in my opinion, coming to a realization about the use to which he was going to put his incomparable talents. My contention here is that because the content of these plays is so relentlessly dark, treacherous and violent, they created a need for him to try to understand human motivations and to help his audience do so as well. If Harold Goddard is right in saying that the over-arching theme of Shakespeare's work is the futility and evil of war, then it was with these plays that it became apparent to him.

Further to yesterday's post regarding editors, I must mention Gary Taylor's splendid job in editing and commenting on Henry V for the 1998 Oxford edition. I highly recommend it for anyone who would like to gain insight into this astonishing play. Taylor's contention that Shakespeare's interest in the character may have been a result of his identifying with the experiences of a historical figure who had to choose between his perceived mission and the perception of his humanity by others is compelling. And while there can be no comparison made between the accomplishments of the two (Shakespeare's being infinitely more contributive and important), there are perhaps parallels that could be drawn regarding their philosophical and psychological development. And the thought that Shakespeare may have seen another point of comparison in his theatre company vis a vis Henry's happy few is a fascinating one. It's one of many in Taylor's excellent edition.

The work of editors is of vital importance to readers of Shakespeare. Their role is complex and demanding. It's their task to use the various existing versions of the particular play with which they're working to put together its clearest and most accurate version. Every word, every mark of punctuation requires a choice and sometimes several. They must then supply footnotes and introductory material to explain these decisions and to improve accessibility of the play's contents for the average reader. In fact, some of the most interesting and up-to-date Shakespeare scholarship can be found in these introductions. One reason for this fact is the sheer amount of time that an editor must spend with the play in question. And it seems like it never fails to be mentioned how that effort has led them to an increased appreciation and affection for it. The more time one spends with a Shakespeare play, in other words, the more one likes it. Thanks to the efforts of Shakespeare editors, the rest of us also have that opportunity.

I've spent a lot of time reading about and trying to imagine performances in Shakespeare's time recently and I keep coming back to a comment that I received regarding my December 20 post of last year. The gist of it was that Shakespeare may have incorporated comic characters into even his most intense tragedies, the Porter in Macbeth for example, to keep his great comic actors, such as Will Kempe and Robert Armin, in work. This strikes me as very likely indeed, and it has led me back to another comparison with Duke Ellington, who wrote parts with the specific personalities and talents of his leading instrumentalists in mind. It seems logical to assume that Shakespeare must have done the same. And like Ellington, who collaborated not only with his players, but with Billy Strayhorn and others throughout his career, the most important thing was always to get the work in front of audiences. I remain convinced that Ellington's career is the career that most closely resembles Shakespeare's in terms of working methods and results.

The Oxford edition of Henry V features an excellent introduction by its editor, Gary Taylor. Among its many interesting points is a discussion of the significance of the play's minor characters, and particularly the Eastcheap crew left behind by Falstaff (who dies offstage during the play): Mistress Quickly, Bardolph, Pistol, the Boy (a.k.a Falstaff's page) and Corporal Nym. One of Taylor's really interesting contentions is that each of them have specific verbal and behavioural characteristics that have inspired many twentieth century playwrights, more specifically Pistol's mixture of high language and low deeds influencing Steven Berkoff's play, East (1975) and the fact that "Nym's whole style anticipates to a remarkable degree the repetitiveness, understatement, incoherence, and menace now regarded as the unique preserve of the plays of Harold Pinter." Since I'm one of those who has always advised young people interested in writing to try to learn everything they can from Shakespeare, reading of this was an affirming moment.

Many current critical approaches to Shakespeare seek to place his work firmly in his time period, the product of the social and political forces of his day. But I'm rarely convinced that they're onto anything. Yes, it must be granted that these things were factors in his output (as was food to eat and air to breathe), but they were transcended by a superior power: the force of his mind. To not understand this is to not understand Falstaff or Hamlet or the history plays. In fact, it is the history plays that are often brought up in these contexts, and having spent quite a bit of time with them recently, I'm even more convinced than I was before: Any attempt to diminish Shakespeare's work, to consider it dated or of decreasing relevance is to bring these results upon one's own. Think about it: how could the creator of Falstaff, a character who easily slips out of any attempt at ideological restraint, allow it to happen to himself?

It's very interesting to think of the influence that the theaters used by his company during Shakespeare's career may have had on his writing. Apparently, the reconstructed Globe in London gives a unique sense of what it would have been like to attend an Elizabethan era play: one big difference, according to those who've been, is the visibility of the other members of the audience. This brings me back to a point I tried to make in a recent post about how much Shakespeare must have learned from his audiences. And it's interesting to consider that his plays did become more experimental when the company moved to the Blackfriars (and its picture or proscenium stage, rather than the thrust-stages of the earlier ones) in later years. By the way, if you haven't visited the Globe's website, here's the link: http://www.shakespeares-globe.org/.

Laurence Olivier's 1944 film version of Henry V is remarkable for many reasons. First among them is the framing device of beginning at the Globe, with a performance in front of an unruly crowd. Then, following the Chorus' exhortations to use imagination to "piece out" the story, the film becomes astonishingly panoramic, particularly in the Agincourt scenes, and just when the sheer size of the spectacle has made the viewer forget the opening, it returns to the "wooden O" for the conclusion. Like Shakespeare's plays, it is best consumed whole, not piecemeal (I think it was Samuel Johnson who said that those who try to convert people to Shakespeare by quoting passages are doing no better than someone who would try to sell a house by pulling out a piece of its brick from their pocket. There's some truth in that, but I would have to admit that I'd certainly be one of the targets of the comment), and, if at all possible, on a big screen.

I'll be writing more about this version, and Branagh's, later this week.

I think I would argue that Falstaff is to comedy what Hamlet is to tragedy: a character who embodies virtually every element of his genre, and more. And just as Hamlet's role, somewhat ironically, contains a lot of humour, so does Falstaff's in terms of sadness. Also, both characters are given great soliloquies that can be appreciated outside of the action. Falstaff's great aria on honour in 1 Henry IV, although perhaps not quoted as often as any of Hamlet's, strikes me as one of the most influential ever written. Not only did it supply Charlie Chaplin, and thousands of other comedians, with the subversive tone at the heart of their work, but it seems to be much closer to a twenty-first century mindset toward war and violence than anything written recently. Here's a link to the scene (http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/plays/play_view.php?WorkID=henry4p1&Act=5&Scene=1&Scope=scene). The excerpt I'm referring to is found at the end, and is the result of Prince Hal responding to Falstaff's request (to be defended if he's found on the ground) with a joke.

Normally I would write about Sonny Rollins on my other blog, but it occurred to me today that something that he said about his career might shed some light on one of the factors that helped Shakespeare to the heights of his particular profession. Rollins, now eighty years of age, said that he continues to travel and tour at an impressive rate for one primary reason: for how much he learns about his craft from audiences. He feels that the interaction, the feedback, the input to his thought process that is given to him by an audience is crucial to his continued development. This made me think of Shakespeare and the many performances in which he participated as both actor and playwright in front of crowds that, by all the accounts that I've read, were not afraid to hide their feelings. I don't know, but I don't think that there have been many writers that have had the opportunity for that much interaction with audiences. The poetry, the history, the philosophy, all of that can be learned from intensive reading, and was in his case, but the unparalleled dramaturgical skills would have required practice in the real world.

Having written recently about Orson Welles' Chimes at Midnight (1965), it occurred to me that I may not have ever mentioned his powerful 1952 film version of Othello, which is a must-see for every Shakespeare fan. It's also a must-see for movie fans: It's simply amazing visually - in fact, its opening scenes (showing events that occur after the play's action) seem to me an obvious precursor and influence to such acknowledged masterpieces as Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957) and several others. Like the play itself, the film takes many liberties with the order of events and the normal unfolding of time. But it's all done (in both cases) with a purpose: the portrayal of a mind in psychological torment. Welles, like Shakespeare, would never sacrifice the revelation of human truth for the sake of such relatively trivial matters as temporal accuracy.

In preparing for my Henry V lectures next week (email the address above, or see the January 5, 2011 post for more information), I've been re-viewing both Branagh's and Olivier's film versions, and I'll be writing a post comparing and contrasting the two within a few days. Today, I'd like to mention a character from the Second Part of Henry IV that keeps entering my mind, Justice Robert Shallow, and in particular the way Shakespeare brilliantly uses him as an alter ego to Falstaff. The latter treats him as a rube throughout, and does little but try to think of ways that he can bilk him and his position out of money. Falstaff's self-confidence and sense of superiority rest largely on his relationship with Prince Hal, of course, and it's an astonishing turnabout for the character as he becomes little more than Shallow, an insignificant man living in the past, by the end. And the comments that Falstaff had made regarding Shallow and his servants (in 5.1) take on an astonishing irony:

They, by observing of him, do bear

like foolish justices: he, by conversing with them, is turned

into a justice-like serving-man. Their spirits are so married

in conjunction with the participation of society that they flock

together in consent, like so many wild geese. If I had a suit

to Master Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of

being near their master; if to his men, I would curry with

Shallow that no man could better command his servants. It is

certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is

caught as men take diseases, one of another; therefore let men take

heed of their company.

Another memorable moment in Antony and Cleopatra may have provided us with the nounal form of the word "haunt", as in "a place habitually frequented" (Merriam-Webster). It occurs when Antony, mistakenly believing that Cleopatra is dead, resolves himself to suicide and imagines an afterlife where only the surface details of existence will change, and that he and his queen will go on being the centers of attention that they were in this world. And perhaps even more famous than they were, because they will then be able to challenge all the lovers in history. (By the way, W.H. Auden in the 2002 publication of his Lectures on Shakespeare makes the interesting observation that this play is the only one of the major tragedies that is never struck with inclement weather. His reasoning is that we're meant to consider the world in all its beauty and splendour to better realize what the protagonists lose for love.) Here's the passage in question:

Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,

And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze:

Dido and her AEneas shall want troops,

And all the haunt be ours.

Shakespeare is a writer who becomes more interesting with re-reading. There is always more to find in terms of detail, content, technical skill; it's endless. In fact, what Enobarbus says about Cleopatra, about her having "infinite variety", is even more appropriate for the writer who gave him the line. And the section that leads up to that moment, the famous description of Cleopatra on the Cydnus River, which begins, "The barge she sat in...", has a less well-known, but equally wonderful description of Antony's reaction when she finally arrives and makes the first moves toward "purs[ing] up his heart". Behold and see:

Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,

Invited her to supper: she replied,

It should be better he became her guest;

Which she entreated: our courteous Antony,

Whom ne'er the word of 'No' woman heard speak,

Being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast,

And for his ordinary pays his heart

For what his eyes eat only.

The National Theater Live King Lear, presented on February 3 from London's Donmar Theater, which I saw on February 3 was apparently not live after all. It was a tape delay version rather (and of course If I'd thought about it for a moment it would've been obvious - a 7 pm start here would've meant a midnight one in London), because apparently there was a technical difficulty that resulted in a hold-up of seven minutes, of which we, in Montreal, were unaware. Finding out about it only increased my admiration for the splendid cast - they certainly didn't let it throw them off. Among the many terrific performances, one that stands out in my memory was Ashley Zhangazha as the King of France. It's a small part (he only appears in the first scene), but a very important one thematically, and the young actor delivered his lines with great power (Zhangazha also doubled in the role of the captain who is given the directive to hang Cordelia by Edmund in the final scene - which created an interesting juxtaposition). In fact, one of the character's statements not only strikes one of the central chords in the complex symphony of themes that make up the play, but is to me one of the most profound moments in all of Shakespeare. It comes as a consequence of his discovering that Cordelia, having offended Lear through a perceived slight in not answering his question in concert with her older sisters, has fallen in Lear's estimation from the heights to the depths in a matter of moments. The Duke of Burgundy, Cordelia's other suitor, is equally astonished by the developments, and the King of France asks him the following (and the middle sentence is the one that I was referring to above):

My Lord of Burgundy,

What say you to the lady? Love's not love

When it is mingled with regards that stands

Aloof from th'entire point. Will you have her?

She is herself a dowry.

After spending the day in the library of one of our downtown universities yesterday, and having a look at some books that intend to summarize what is current in Shakespeare criticism at the collegiate level, with two of the most common approaches being new historicism and cultural materialism (here's the Wikipedia link to the latter: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cultural_materialism_(cultural_studies), from which you can reach the former), I just want to say the following: I would be more impressed if the contentions showed a greater knowledge of Shakespeare. For one thing, it seems like it's the same handful of plays that keep getting discussed (Othello, Measure for Measure, Henry V, and a few others). I'm not even convinced that the writers have read them all. So here's my statement on the matter: Shakespeare scholarship must be based on the study and elucidation of Shakespeare, not on anyone or anything else. And the first step is to read and understand his works in their entirety.

I've had the good fortune of seeing some excellent performances of King Lear over the years, but the best was the most recent: the National Theatre Live production from the Donmar theater in London starring the great Derek Jacobi, which I saw on Thursday. And I must admit that it was the first time that I had seen a live broadcast of a play from another location in a movie theater, though I know that they've become very popular. And it certainly won't be the last. Nearly all the excitement felt in attending an in-person performance was there. In fact, I was surprised.

Of course, it helped that the production was superb: it emphasized the action in the story through swift pacing and intense, physically active performances. I'm going to write another post on it this week, at which point I'll go into a little more detail, but for today, I just want to discuss the astonishing performance given by Jacobi in the title role. Even by his standards, it's a tour de force. When I think of him, the first things that come to mind are his great performances in the BBC Richard II, the BBC Hamlet, and Branagh's Henry V. But this performance displayed abilities that I hadn't seen from him before, largely due to the performance's aforementioned physicality. Not only was he at home in it, he seemed to be leading the way. Apparently, this production may be coming to Broadway (after a short tour of England, if I'm not mistaken): If you have any chance of seeing it, do so. It's the greatest version I've seen of the world's greatest play.

In response to the eloquent comment that my February 1 post received, I would posit the following in support of its position: Falstaff's self-interest grows relentlessly throughout the two plays, until there is virtually not a moral fiber left in him. It's all very funny, but equally disturbing. The trajectory finally reaches a crescendo in the Gloucerstershire scene in Shallow's orchard, when Pistol comes to tell the news of the death of Henry IV and the impending coronation of Prince Hal as Henry V. Falstaff, who has no other intention than to leverage his friendship with the young king toward all kinds of profiteering, reaches his apex of anarchy by saying: "I know the young king is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses: the laws of England are at my commandment." Looking at the statement objectively, it seems clear that his thinking couldn't be allowed to continue. And it isn't.

I'm always interested in thinking about the forces that drove Shakespeare to accomplish what he did. Clearly, there would have to have been several of them. First, it's obvious that he was endowed with the entrepreneurial spirit and was not averse to earning money. It's also clear that he was a believer in the powers of drama and poetry (not necessarily in that order, in my opinion), and that he wrote in such a way as to propagate thought in as many ways as possible. But it's starting to occur to me more and more that one of his great motivators was a desire to learn. His reading, research and use of sources indicate a strong belief in scholarship, certainly, but it's not often stated as one of the primary objectives of his writing. The meticulousness of detail in his work shows it. And even though it's impossible to prove anything of this nature, the evidence certainly points that way. I also believe that his career is unmatched as a success story, and we should be influenced by his entrepreneurial spirit, his altruism, his thirst for knowledge, and the use he made of them through his creativity. I don't think it's an overstatement to say that his example is the best one we have.

February 2 is James Joyce's birthday. So as a tribute to the great writer (one of the few who can keep the field with Shakespeare, in my opinion), I'll mention the fascinating episode of Ulysses that has come to be known as "Scylla and Charibdis", which deals with Stephen Dedalus (Joyce's alter ego) presenting his theories on the influence of Shakespeare's family life, along with some other factors, on his creative process and output. It begins in medea res, as they say, and is written in the stream-of-consciousness style for which the writer became famous, even though it was only one of his many innovations. It also employs two Shakespearean attributes, wordplay and dialectic, to great effect: A Shakespeare fan can have a lot of fun finding the numerous allusions. It also stands very well on its own, and can be read that way (http://www.columbia.edu/~fms5/ulys.htm), not that I would ever want to dissuade anyone from reading the whole thing.

I have mixed feelings about Chimes at Midnight (a.k.a. Falstaff), Orson Welles' cinematic re-assembling of the story of Sir John from 1965, which uses lines from no less than five Shakespeare plays (Richard II, Henry IV, Parts One and Two, Henry V and The Merry Wives of Windsor), as well as Holinshed's Chronicles to do so. I would certainly recommend it, but with some reservations regarding decisions made in terms of story-telling and interpretation. As you may know from previous posts, I'm not a fan of productions that make cuts in Shakespeare texts, and this movie partakes of that approach in an extreme way. Also Welles' portrayal of Falstaff is odd, in that he looks for pathos rather than humour at every turn. That being said, the movie has many strengths. It is amazing visually, for one thing. The camera work, the lighting and the use of the sets, in particular, are dazzling, despite the fact that the dialogue, recorded separately from the filming, doesn't sync up very well with the actors' speeches. (The same was done in his version of Othello, by the way, which I'll write about on another occasion.)

But what I most admire is the stand that Welles takes in defense of Falstaff (which goes a long way toward explaining his decisions in regard to his own performance). And though the knight does have many defenders (Harold Bloom is a mighty one, for example), I had never seen it put quite the way Welles did when he called Falstaff "the greatest conception of a good man, the most completely good man, in all drama". This might seem like a shocking statement at first, considering the common view of Falstaff as a completely amoral character who is only redeemed by his incomparable wit, but what I think Welles was getting at is that before making such a judgement, we must consider the medieval mind-set of gloryfying injustice, brutality and war that Falstaff opposes with any means he can find.