James Shapiro's 2010 book, Contested Will, is a very good summary of all of the theories that together comprise what's known as the "authorship question", or the belief that someone other than Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. (You'll notice that I've written that the book summarizes the theories - summarizing the evidence in favour of the position is much easier. In fact, I'll do it here: There isn't any.) In April of last year, Shapiro also wrote an article for the Los Angeles Times about the forthcoming movie entitled, Anonymous, which according to its director, Roland Emmerich, will tell "how the plays written by the Earl of Oxford ended up labelled 'William Shakespeare'." In the article (http://articles.latimes.com/2010/apr/11/opinion/la-oe-shapiro11-2010apr11), Shapiro devastates this statement, along with a couple of others made by Mr. Emmerich, including this one about what is, for me, at any rate, the crux of the issue: Why on earth would someone not take credit for creating the most astonishing body of art (literary or otherwise) the world has ever seen? "And the explanation as to why Shakespeare would have gotten credit for plays and poems the Earl of Oxford wrote? The 'real facts' had to be hushed up because a Tudor prince could never be seen to stoop to the lowly business of playwriting."

If the earl in question (Edward de Vere) had the talent to write the plays, would he not have also had the talent to persuade others of the importance of his work? Would he not have made mincemeat of any argument against "lowly" playwrights? Would a playwright, of "noble" birth, allow his life's mission to be openly derided without rebuttal, and then write these lines for Henry V (who says them in reply to his future wife Katherine informing him that it is not customary for unmarried couples of France to kiss before the wedding): "O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion: we are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults..."

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.

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.

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 want to try to learn a bit more about what Shakespeare's thought process might have been in terms of diction. And for that purpose, I'm going to refer (again) to John Ciardi's highly useful handbook entitled How Does a Poem Mean? (1959). In Chapter Four, "The Words of Poetry", he points out that words have four qualities and that they should all be considered when making a decision regarding their use. I'm going to summarize Ciardi's points and give Shakespearean examples of each over the next few posts, but for now these are the headings unadorned:

1. A word is a feeling.

2. A word involves the whole body.

3. A word is a history.

4. A word is a picture.

And here, as an example of Shakespeare's diction, is a passage from act three of Henry V, in which the chorus asks us to imagine the English Navy's voyage to France:

CHORUS

Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies

In motion of no less celerity

Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen

The well-appointed king at Hampton pier

Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet

With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning:

Play with your fancies, and in them behold

Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;

Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give

To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea,

Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think

You stand upon the ravage and behold

A city on the inconstant billows dancing;

For so appears this fleet majestical,

Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,

And leave your England, as dead midnight still,

Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,

Either past or not arrived to pith and puissance;

For who is he, whose chin is but enrich'd

With one appearing hair, that will not follow

These cull'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?

One of the most interesting critical comments that I've read recently comes from the book that I mentioned in last Tuesday's post: Shakespeare: An Anthology of Criticism and Theory 1945-2000, edited by Russ McDonald, and more specifically the essay entitled Rabbits, Ducks and Henry V by Norman Rabkin. The puzzling title is entwined with its premise, as it refers to a piece of op-art which "we can see as either a rabbit or a duck". Rabkin argues that the two possible interpretations of the character of Henry V (either as a great leader and king or as a vicious war criminal) are almost impossible to mentally compromise, and that this was done intentionally. Here is how he puts it: "I am going to argue that in Henry V Shakespeare creates a work whose ultimate power is precisely the fact that it points in two opposite directions, virtually daring us to choose one of the two opposed interpretations it requires of us." This strikes me as being both revolutionary and accurate, and it brings me back to a point I argued in an earlier post - that Shakespeare's primary interest was not the characters in his plays, but rather the people in the audience. The spectator (or reader) is the true protagonist of a Shakespeare play. She or he is the only real battleground.

I'm very much looking forward to the upcoming Henry V, which is being put on by Persephone Productions, and in particular to what their interpretation of the title character will be. He's been staged as everything from a hero to a war criminal - and there's support for both positions in the text - even by Shakespeare standards, he's incredibly complex. Take for example, the scene where he stands outside the gates of Harfleur and warns the governor and the people of the town of what could happen if they don't surrender. It could be read as him trying to prevent the horrors that he's describing, or using them as threats if he doesn't get the capitulation he wants. Here's a link to the entire scene: http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/plays/play_view.php?WorkID=henry5&Act=3&Scene=3&Scope=scene, courtesy of the excellent Open Source Shakespeare website, and here's a link to the information regarding the production described above: http://www.persephoneproductions.org/. Check out the video at the bottom of the page, where what looks like the entire cast perform the opening prologue.

If you read commentary on Othello, you won't get far without running into a discussion of Shakespeare's handling of the passing of time. In this play (which uses the famous "double time" effect) and elsewhere, it is one of the aspects of his work that remains an area of study and contention. (By the way, I'm very glad that Shakespeare never wrote any how-to books for budding dramatists - not that they wouldn't have been useful, but I find his work retains its mystery more effectively with our continuing efforts to try to understand the principles and methods that he employed.) It is an area that interests me a great deal, and over the next little while I'll be reporting on some of my findings - including an explanation of the technique referred to above.

Here's another thought to consider: in Antony and Cleopatra, the action portrayed takes place over approximately twelve years, whereas a performance of the play takes approximately three hours. And each moment seems to flow convincingly from the last. How is this (what the Chorus in Henry V calls "turning the accomplishment of many years into an hour-glass") achieved? As I mentioned above, I'm going to see what I can learn about it. Stay tuned.

I'm currently re-reading the three plays that are going to be performed in Montreal this November (links below), and it occurred to me that perhaps I've found the answer (for me, anyway) to the age-old question regarding Shakespeare: Is it better to read, or to see, one of his plays? Answer: It's better to read it. Why? Because it requires more from us. I often think back to an insight from one of Marshall McLuhan's essays, wherein he contrasted "hot" and "cool" media as follows: the more that a medium demands from the participant, the "hotter" it is. One of the brilliant aspects of Shakespeare (or any great drama, in fact) is that it opens up so many possible ways of interacting and being creative. Actors, directors, set designers, composers, teachers, critics - anyone who has spent time working with Shakespeare - will often consider it a highlight of their career, a point where their creativity was at its peak. That is very hot media. And reading the play gives our creativity and imaginations the greatest possible challenge. All of this being said, don't get the idea that I would dissuade anyone from seeing the plays live. I can't wait to see them myself. Once again, here are the links:

Measure for Measure - http://www.mcgill.ca/english/moyse/

Love's Labour's Lost - http://www.dawsoncollege.qc.ca/theatre-box-office/performances

Henry V - http://www.persephoneproductions.org/

The three previous posts of this young blog can be summarized thus: 1. It is very important for the reader to make his or her own judgements, and not to be overly influenced by those of others. 2. Making cuts in a Shakespeare play is not a good idea. (By the way, one of the few filmed Shakespeares that includes a complete text is Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet from 1996. It's great to watch with a copy of the play in hand.) Now, for the next few posts, I'm going to focus on some of the things that I've learned regarding the reading of Shakespeare. At the top of the list is the importance of the imagination.

Ideally, the words in a text can be combined into appropriate groups that create images and arguments. It's a challenge to do this with writing as poetic and sophisticated as Shakespeare's. But, that's what makes it fun. There's a lot to be learned about this idea in the prologue to Henry V:

Essentially, the playwright is speaking through a narrator (called a chorus, in those days) who comes out on the stage and apologizes to the audience for the very existence of the play. He says that he wishes that materials appropriate to the subject matter were available, and that a small troupe in a small theatre ("this wooden O") cannot possibly stage a story that treats a war between France and England. Unless the audience uses their imaginations. Then, everything is possible (on the stage and elsewhere):

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention,

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,

Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,

Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire

Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,

The flat unraised spirits that have dared

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth

So great an object: can this cockpit hold

The vasty fields of France? or may we cram

Within this wooden O the very casques

That did affright the air at Agincourt?

O, pardon! since a crooked figure may

Attest in little place a million;

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose within the girdle of these walls

Are now confined two mighty monarchies,

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;

Into a thousand parts divide one man,

And make imaginary puissance;

Think when we talk of horses, that you see them

Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;

For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,

Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times,

Turning the accomplishment of many years

Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,

Admit me Chorus to this history;

Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,

Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

As a reading (or listening) lesson, I've never come across its equal.

Further to yesterday, another section cut from Kenneth Branagh's film version of Henry V, although shorter than yesterday's example, is just as painful to think about. Later in the same scene (4.1), the king is visiting his soldiers the night before the battle, but he's doing it disguised with the help of a hooded cloak. At one point he enters into a lengthy debate with two soldiers regarding the moral issues involved with a king asking his subjects to fight for his cause. Now in medieval warfare, the capture of highly ranked prisoners was considered much more desirable than killing them, because they could then be ransomed back to their people for huge sums. (I suppose this is where checkmate in chess comes from.) If the battle were to go badly, therefore, an unscrupulous leader could save his own life by allowing himself to be captured and ransomed. The disguised king, in trying to pick up the spirits of the two (Bates and Williams), begins the exchange by saying the following:

I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.

WILLIAMS

Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully: but

when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we

ne'er the wiser.

KING HENRY V

If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.

WILLIAMS

You pay him then. That's a perilous shot out of an

elder-gun, that a poor and private displeasure can

do against a monarch! you may as well go about to

turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a

peacock's feather. You'll never trust his word

after! come, 'tis a foolish saying.

The italics are mine. What a wonderful illustration of futility - an individual getting angry at a monarch is the equivalent of trying to "turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather". It may be the best example of hyperbole I've ever come across, and it was cut from the movie! Here's my suggestion for those directing Shakespeare: Don't cut anything. (That being said, I do want to mention that this version of Henry V is my favourite movie. I recommend it without reservation, cuts and all.)

In the first scene of act four of Henry V, the English army face a near-impossible situation: They're sick, outnumbered, and isolated. And they face a battle against the entire army of France. The king greets two of his advisors, Gloucester and Bedford, with the following:

Gloucester, 'tis true that we are in great danger;

The greater therefore should our courage be.

Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty!

There is some soul of goodness in things evil,

Would men observingly distil it out.

For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,

Which is both healthful and good husbandry:

Besides, they are our outward consciences,

And preachers to us all, admonishing

That we should dress us fairly for our end.

Thus may we gather honey from the weed,

And make a moral of the devil himself.

The character of Henry V is a matter of considerable contention, and I myself have had conflicting opinions about him. (I'll be writing about some of them soon.) But these matters are beside today's point. It is the words and ideas that must be thought about, and the ones above are remarkable. At the center of the king's argument is an astonishing idea - that people and situations that we dislike are not only to be endured, they are necessary. The Beatles may have been partially wrong: We need love, certainly, but we may need its opposite as well, because many undertakings and accomplishments arise from what we normally term the negative emotions. What a thought is contained in lines 8 to 10! Our enemies function as "our outward consciences" and we make decisions to do our best in order to prove them wrong. Perhaps this concept can help to explain why people will divide themselves into factions for almost any reason. (Kurt Vonnegut once said that if religion, race and nationality weren't available, people would divide into groups based on the first letters in their names.) But seeing the biggest picture possible - which the greatest writers can help us to do - perhaps these divisions have "a soul of goodness" in them.