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.