Shakespeare's culture in modern performance

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Shakespeare’s Culture in Modern Performance Maria Jones

Copyright material from www.palgraveconnect.com - licensed to Universitetsbiblioteket i Tromso - PalgraveConnect - 2011-03-25

Shakespeare’s Culture in Modern Performance

10.1057/9780230597167 - Shakespeare's Culture in Modern Performance, Maria Jones



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Maria Jones



Shakespeare’s Culture in Modern Performance

© Maria Jones 2003

No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted her right to be identiﬁed as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2003 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 0–333–97169–8 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jones, Maria, 1950– Shakespeare’s culture in modern performance/ Maria Jones. p. cm. Filmography: p. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–333–97169–8 1. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616–Stage history–1950– 2. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616–Criticism and interpretation–History–20th century. 3. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616–Film and video adaptations. 4. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616–Dramatic production. I. Title. PR3100.J66 2003 792.9’5–dc21 10 12

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne



All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.


This book is in memory of my mother who encouraged me to write – Winifred Joan Griffiths





List of Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgements

xi

Abbreviations 1.

xii

Introduction: Performing Shakespeare’s Culture

1

Part I: Word

17

2.

Producing Consent in The Taming of the Shrew Subverted consent Forced consent Coaxed consent

19 27 36 46

3.

Defining the Alien in The Merchant of Venice Comic and tragi-comic aliens Aliens in Venice English aliens

57 67 77 86

Part II: Prop

101

4.

Ophelia’s Flowers Green girls Convening for song

103 115 127

5.

Richard’s Crown The regal throne The hollow crown Afterword Conclusion: Prop and Word

137 148 159 168 174

6.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Introduction: performing Shakespeare’s culture Producing consent in The Taming of the Shrew Defining the alien in The Merchant of Venice Ophelia’s flowers Richard’s crown Conclusion: prop and word vii


178 178 180 184 190 192 195


Contents

Bibliography

197

Filmography

206

Theatre Company Credits

207

Index

209



viii Contents

1. Dorothy Massingham as Katharina in W. Bridges-Adams’s The Taming of the Shrew in a revival (1931). Courtesy of The Shakespeare Centre Library, The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, Stratford-upon-Avon. 2. Petruchio (Stuart McQuarrie) restrains Kate (Monica Dolan) in Lindsay Posner’s The Taming of the Shrew (1999). Photograph: Malcolm Davies. Courtesy of The Shakespeare Centre Library, The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, Stratford-upon-Avon. 3. ‘I never saw a better-fashioned gown.’ Kate (Charlotte Rogers) and Petruchio (Paul Garnault) in Wales Actors’ Company’s The Taming of the Shrew (2002). Photograph: Maria Jones. By kind permission of Wales Actors’ Company. 4. ‘By this scimitar.’ The Prince of Morocco (Paul Hardwick) and Portia (Dorothy Tutin) in Michael Langham’s The Merchant of Venice (1960). Photograph: Joe Cocks Studio Collection. The Shakespeare Centre Library (Courtesy of the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald), The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, Stratford-upon-Avon. 5. Antony Sher as Shylock in Bill Alexander’s The Merchant of Venice (1987). Photograph: Joe Cocks Studio Collection. Courtesy of The Shakespeare Centre Library, The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, Stratford-upon-Avon. 6. Portia (Hermione Gulliford) and the Prince of Morocco (Chris Jarman) in Loveday Ingram’s The Merchant of Venice (2001). Photograph: Hugo Glendinning. Reproduced with the permission of the Governors of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Copyright RSC. 7. The woodcut ‘Aprill’ from Edmund Spenser’s The Shepheardes Calendar, 1579. This item is reproduced by permission of The Huntington Library, San Marino, California. 8. ‘I would give you some violets.’ Ophelia (Anastasia Vertinskaya) and Laertes (C. Oleksenko) ix


31

45

55

76

83

98

106

132


List of Illustrations

x List of Illustrations


154

162

166


in Grigori Kozintsev’s Hamlet (Lenfilm, USSR, 1964). Courtesy of the British Film Institute and Novosti Photo Library. 9. Fiona Shaw as King Richard in Deborah Warner’s Richard II (1995). Photograph: Neil Libbert. Courtesy of The Royal National Theatre and Network Photographers. 10. Northumberland (Paul Jesson), King Richard (Alex Jennings) and Bolingbroke (Anton Lesser) in the deposition scene from Ron Daniels’s Richard II (1990). Photograph: John Bunting. Courtesy of The Shakespeare Centre Library, The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, Stratford-upon-Avon. 11. ‘Ay, no. No, ay.’ King Richard (Samuel West) and Bolingbroke (David Troughton) in the deposition scene from Steven Pimlott’s Richard II (2000). Photograph: Manuel Harlan. Reproduced with the permission of the Governors of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Copyright RSC.

I would like to thank the University of Wolverhampton for two periods of research leave and support associated with this project. Russell Jackson assisted my efforts at the ‘thesis’ stage, and Peter Holland offered his help and encouragement. I must thank The British Academy and The International Shakespeare Association with Fundación Shakespeare de España for funds that allowed me to attend the Seventh World Shakespeare Congress in Valencia (2001). I am grateful to the seminar organizers and participants for helping me to refine my ideas on adaptation, and would like to thank Sonia Massai for her continued interest and enthusiasm. I would like to thank the editors of Shakespeare Bulletin who have kindly granted permission for me to include work previously published as articles. Heather Davies at the Royal Shakespeare Company, Paul Garnault of Wales Actors’ Company and Dovo from Loveace Company (Japan Experience) took time to answer my questions. Jennifer McGowan has given research assistance and Sue Niebrzydowski has helped with aspects of marriage practice in the late Middle Ages. I would like to thank Palgrave Macmillan for their patience and the anonymous readers for comments that helped me to clarify my aims. I have had wonderful help from staff at the Shakespeare Institute Library, The Shakespeare Centre Library, Birmingham Central Library, the Victoria and Albert Museum, The Royal National Theatre Archive, and Information Services and Stills departments at the British Film Institute. Pamela Morris at my own university library has always been generous with her help. I would like to thank The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust for an award from the Jubilee Education Fund towards the cost of illustrations. I would like to thank colleagues for their support, particularly Josie, Debbie, Jackie, Jan and my students for their interest. Finally, friends and family have helped me to keep going. I would like to thank Sandra and Michael for their continued support, Hilda and my family, Andy, Laura, Grandma and, always, Steve.

xi



Acknowledgements

ELH ELR ESC PMLA RSC

English Literary History English Literary Renaissance English Shakespeare Company Publications of the Modern Language Association of America Royal Shakespeare Company

xii



Abbreviations

Introduction: Performing Shakespeare’s Culture

On 15 July 2002, I stayed behind with members of the audience at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, for a ‘question and answer’ session with the actors. They had just performed John Fletcher’s The Island Princess (1621), directed by Gregory Doran, the first full professional production of the original play since the seventeenth century.1 The relevance of Fletcher’s play about colonial encounters between the Portuguese and Indonesian islanders with its emphasis on a struggle between faiths (Christianity and Islam) was not lost on contemporary playgoers. One audience member (obviously thinking of global politics after 11 September 2001) remarked that Fletcher had penned ‘prophetic’ lines in a speech by the play’s villain, the Governor of Ternata, to the island princess, Quisara: The Portugals like sharp thorns (mark me Lady) Stick in our sides; like razors, wound religion, Draw deep, they wound, till the life blood follows, Our gods they spurn at, and their worships scorn, A mighty hand they bear upon our government. (4.3) The associate director, Heather Davies, took up the point, observing that, strictly speaking, Fletcher was not writing with prophetic insight. He had culled his information from the travel narratives of the period, (then) current issues of interest to his audiences. Her observation suggests how readily we assimilate the period to speak to our own concerns when in fact the play pulls back to its own history (indeed, it was noted that our preference for Shakespeare had contributed to the lack of interest in Fletcher’s play). 1



1

My book is about this dynamic: the pull of history on contemporary performance of Shakespeare. I am attempting a systematic study; that is to say, I will take four plays in modern productions on stage and screen and will consider some ways in which ‘Shakespeare’s culture’ is performed. As soon as I use the term ‘Shakespeare’s culture’, I place myself in a relation with history as both the events of 400 years ago and as my own point on a time continuum in relation to Shakespeare studies. Currently my project is at the interface of a historicizing literary criticism and the study of performance; the first, a practice that is concerned with texts and textuality, the second in some ways antithetical because the activity of performance needs no scripted text at all. Therefore, I am mindful that Shakespeare is being treated as a special case because, in view of the cultural weight attached to the playwright’s writing, we cannot escape the idea of an original text. Obviously, I must explain the thinking behind my book and, of course, my study has its own history. I will start with that history, review recent critical practice, outline and debate issues within performance criticism, and set out my aims and method. For some time now, I have observed the dialectical current of contemporary Shakespeare studies. At the very moment when literary criticism pulled back the drama to its founding moment (through new historicist and cultural materialist analysis from 1980) another parallel impulse propelled performance criticism further and further away from the idea of origins. In her work on adaptations, Imelda Whelehan seeks a debate ‘which further destabilizes the tendency to believe that the origin text is of primary importance’.2 In the case of Shakespeare on screen, it has been argued that somehow ‘Shakespeare has always already disappeared when transferred onto film’ where the new cultural work may reference other films rather than a Shakespeare tradition.3 In his study of postmodern culture, Frederic Jameson has observed that we live in a ‘perpetual present’ as historical amnesiacs.4 We make use of textual fragments and we may forget where they come from. Postmodern play can be fun. Think of Shakespeare in Love (dir. John Madden, 1998) with its eclectic textuality, from Marlowe and Webster to Blackadder and James Bond. Queen Elizabeth I (Judi Dench) sympathized with the ‘boy’ player, Viola (Gwyneth Paltrow). She knew what it was like to be a woman in a man’s profession, cueing her recent appearance as ‘M’, Head of the British Secret Service in the Bond film, Tomorrow Never Dies (1997). Yet being a historical amnesiac does not help if you want to explore art’s radical role in society over time, to garner as it were some kind of empirical record.



2 Shakespeare’s Culture in Modern Performance

According to Walter Benjamin, in his famous essay, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, the uniqueness of the original disappears with its reproduction: in the case of a photographic negative ‘to ask for the “authentic” print makes no sense’.5 Not for me. The uniqueness of the first photograph lies in the event: the history attaching to the one who took it, in what circumstances, when, where and why; how it felt in a hand the first time; the social effects of showing it to someone. I am reluctant to give away this history although I will happily give you another print. This is the way I feel about Shakespeare in modern performance. I see perfectly well that the plays I have chosen, The Taming of the Shrew, The Merchant of Venice, Hamlet and Richard II will only be relevant if something ‘new’ is made of them. They must be released from any controlling sense of an original as authoritative. All reproductions, transformations, adaptations, translations can speak anew to someone else. This is the important point for Benjamin. New technologies enable the work of art to shake off its ritualistic authority and release it for shared ownership and political efficacy: release it to popular culture. Film is a good example, and of course the popularization of Shakespeare on screen, particularly since Kenneth Branagh’s Henry V (1989), has brought the plays to wider audiences. Yet, I would argue, the work of art is also related to its founding moment, when, as Theodor W. Adorno observes, ‘society reaches into art and disappears’.6 Adorno suggests that in order to be critical of society, which is the revolutionary function of art, the work opposes society and therefore stands aloof from it. For example, I was startled and moved by Melanie Manchot’s glorious portraits of her naked mother, a woman in her sixties, for an exhibition by the Royal Photographic Society. The photographs challenged western society’s attitude towards beauty and older women’s bodies. I admit that I saw them in a newspaper (Hester Lacey, Independent on Sunday, 21 September 1997) so Benjamin was absolutely right about the political efficacy of mechanical reproduction. However, I was also affected by what was outside the frame: the intimacy of mother and daughter; the work of handling camera and film; the huge canvases with which the artist worked; the preparation for the exhibition in the autumn of 1997; their effect on me at that particular time. Art loses its original critical rawness but not the history of its making and the social effects it produces then and later. The point is this: How can we enable a discussion that without being reactionary (tying a text to its time), keeps these narratives in motion and in a relation? I mean the



Introduction: Performing Shakespeare’s Culture 3

narratives of the original creative social act and the release of the art work through time. Theatre is a social event, creating its own founding moments. However, it is my view that the work of performance touches the social life of Shakespeare’s scripts, what Hamlet calls ‘form and pressure’ (3.2.23) of the time, that disappears in the art, whether this is acknowledged or not.7 Yet, to say this does not imply that there is some hidden essence in a script that secretes into performance. Strangely, it is the new cultural interaction which finds itself evaluating contemporary social issues. Actors rise to the challenge the new work presents to them personally since it is their voices and bodies that create performance. The new interaction tests cultural values against an evolving past. The ‘past’, of course, never stands still because the events that really happened are continually scrutinized from the present. Although I have suggested that the past evolves, nevertheless, there was a particular founding moment when Shakespeare wished to reach his audiences with plays that would hold their interest. I will retain the term ‘early modern’ for the second half of the sixteenth century and the seventeenth century to suggest the beginnings of modernity, the time frame associated with capitalist economics.8 The scope and rhetorical form of these plays sprang from a specific interaction which Charles Whitney has described as ‘ante-aesthetic’, meaning before the idea of there being a realm of ‘art’, viewed as separate from society. Whitney emphasizes the interaction between audiences and their entertainment. In perhaps a riposte to what has been dubbed ‘ideology critique’, the play going, subjected ‘subjects’ of new historicist and even some cultural materialist readings, are now viewed as more autonomous, participatory and capable of influencing dramatists of their time.9 What is happening here is obviously a literary critical revision that is itself historically rooted and needs a discussion. This revision serves the needs of agents (in this case academics like myself) who choose to locate themselves in what Pierre Bourdieu calls a habitus, an autonomous interactive collective.10 In this instance the habitus is a durable structure, generating ideas and work on Shakespeare, having certain codes of conduct, that is, intellectual debate, without necessarily being governed by set rules. The participants are always renewing and revisiting what they hold dear: a collective value, Shakespeare. Currently, the desire to reclaim individual agency (power to act) over narratives of subjection (viewing people as subjects) may spring from a sense of a deepening global crisis since 11 September 2001, manifested in the economic and political spheres




(impact on world markets and intransigency of positions). Huge protests against intransigency and war against Iraq have brought people out onto the streets. Interestingly, the dangers of ‘intransigency’ came across forcefully in The Island Princess. The Portuguese adventurer Armusia recoiled from his beloved in horror and violent distaste at the very idea that she might try to influence him against his religion. Since 1980, when Stephen Greenblatt laid out his poetics of sixteenthcentury culture, the academic Left, writing about the period, has felt compelled to reiterate the need to wrest the artwork from an autonomous realm, to demonstrate how it is embedded in culture and society. Greenblatt writes, ‘great art is an extraordinarily sensitive register of the complex struggles and harmonies of culture’.11 These ‘complex struggles and harmonies’ may be viewed as local and historical, relevant only to the time and place of a past age. New Historicism, which has enriched Renaissance studies, has been criticized for having this synchronic limitation, though, in fact, Greenblatt always understood his ‘poetics of culture’ to be an interplay of past and present and acknowledged his own situatedness. ‘Struggles’ and ‘harmonies’ may also be considered as an unfinished and ongoing dialogue with the present, explained within a Marxist critique as relative, for example, to modes of production and the needs of capital, while allowing for the creation of future ‘harmonies’ through social change. Cultural materialism set out the agenda but has not always envisioned new futures, and its inattention to the radical potentialities of performance has been noted.12 It may be the case that disaffected intellectuals on the Left drew back from the sting of right-wing politics in the eighties, displaying what Terry Eagleton characterized as ‘a pervasive failure of political nerve’.13 Richard Halpern (1991) laments New Historicism’s joy in ‘the narrative richness of anecdote’ and the relegation of a Marxist narrative of transition to the status of ‘a hopeless antique’.14 However, the eighties’ imperative to rescue the empirical from the artwork – for example, Greenblatt’s reading of Thomas More’s historical self-fashioning at the court of Henry VIII – might also be construed as a radical retreat. Greenblatt confirms More’s autonomy by suggesting that the King’s Lord Chancellor reflects on and chooses (rather than submits to) his compromised position at court.15 Halpern cautiously acknowledges the ‘complementarity of Marxist and non-Marxist approaches’.16 Ronaldo Munck notes that after the events of 1989 (the collapse of communist




regimes) it was unfortunate that ‘people did not tend to distinguish between Soviet-style marxism and the 236 varieties to its supposed left’.17 A new ‘postmodern socialism’ might ‘de-demonize capitalism’, pursue a more productive engagement with feminism and recover a sense of utopian vision.18 J. K. Gibson-Graham argues the need ‘to step outside the discourse of Capitalism’ in order to separate Marxism from an inevitable ‘marriage to “the economy”’ while keeping Marxism’s concerns with both exploitation and social transformation’.19 Recent Marxist studies in Shakespeare display a willingness to move on from 1989 and to open up history to new futures. For example, Kiernan Ryan in his proleptic view of Shakespeare’s art, ‘Marxism before Marx’, refers to Marx’s view that revolutionary struggle involves ‘the completion of the thoughts of the past’.20 How are we currently completing ‘the thoughts of the past’? For some time now our intellectual grasp of where we are has been played out inside a concept of culture, rather than ‘society’. In part this has come about because of a profound pessimism that society as a shared generous collective could ever become attainable, with the demonstrable failure of communism, and a scepticism about narratives that try to offer creditable accounts of world history. Indeed the ‘linguistic turn’ in the late 1960s and 1970s persuaded us that history was only ever stories told about the past. In 1992 Francis Fukuyama pronounced ‘the end of history’, meaning the end of ‘universal history’ or ‘history understood as a single, coherent, evolutionary process’ (associated with the thinking of Hegel and Marx) moving towards an ideal society.21 In talking about the ‘end of history’, Fukuyama acknowledged that he did not mean the end of historical events, the things that people do. In early modern studies, including the study of Shakespeare, cultural historians also make this distinction between the stories we make of the past and real social life. Catherine Belsey writes: ‘Cultural history records meanings and values, which is to say that its concern is not so much what individuals actually did, but more what people wanted to do, wished they had done, what they cared about and deplored.’22 This definition weights the priority on the ‘wanting’ rather than the ‘doing’, suggesting the alienation of the individual from actual social life. Cultural studies in the humanities read forms of signification that reveal dominant power structures and bring forward the stories of disaffected groups who are not fairly represented in the misleading inclusive term ‘society’. The term ‘culture’ was once thought to mean intellectual life or ‘the arts’ and Marxist thought placed it as part of the superstructure, the realm of ideas, including legal, political, religious,




aesthetic or philosophic ideas, anchored by the socio-economic ‘base’. Cultural criticism has come to see that this realm of ideas is in fact an arena of competing ideologies which bears directly on the way people are situated in their social lives. For example, New Historicists have analyzed the link between state power and cultural forms such as the masque. Cultural materialists have brought new insights to early modern studies in their investigations of sexuality, gender, race and class in the plays of Shakespeare and his contemporaries. It would appear then that the idea of culture has fulfilled an oppositional function, even a politicized one. Today we have a proliferation of cultures as particular identities: Welsh culture, British Muslim culture, New York Jewish culture, Black Country (the industrial West Midlands in England) culture, gay culture, music festival culture, celebrity culture. Terry Eagleton wryly notes that identity culture – presumably Eagleton means, for his argument, a homogeneous feminist culture (there are many feminisms) – can write off the revolutionary William Blake (and, one might add, the radical playwright William Shakespeare) as ‘a Dead, White Male’.23 In a plenary lecture at the Anglo-American Conference of Historians in 2002, the Marxist historian Eric Hobsbawm referred sympathetically to the first Women’s Liberation Conference in Britain but warned of the risks inherent in ‘in-group history’.24 Historically speaking, however, we have waited rather a long time for Alison Findlay’s A Feminist Perspective on Renaissance Drama.25 It could be the case that identity politics is a necessary regrouping for a politics that will match collective self-discovery with a wider discovery of global identification. Cultural materialism has taught me to acknowledge my own position. I believe I am working within a shifting Marxist tradition but share Eagleton’s concerns. I am uncertain about the direction or desirability of an ‘open society’ in which solidarity mostly exists within closed cultures.26 There is the problem too of how far studies of cultural representation can translate into politics. This probably accounts for my interest in the social interaction of Shakespeare’s culture, the interplay between participants in theatre and their world and the renewing and recontextualising of social issues through subsequent performances. The concept ‘society’ embodies a sense of relationships, the interconnectedness of day-to-day concerns – the cost of a meal, the price and availability of a theatre ticket with broader economic and political organization. The problem can be seen quite clearly if we attempt to speak of ‘cultural relationships’ since the word ‘culture’ can suggest a pre-existing set of relationships that is





Moreover, since I consider that a Shakespearean play exists in multiple states – as the words constituting the playtexts, as the readings based on those texts, and as their concrete, historically particular theatrical representations, or performance texts – my project encompasses all these forms of textuality or, to put it another way, several different “Shakespeares,” each an altered, provisional state of what First Folio’s title page calls “the True Originall copies.”27 Given my insistence on ‘founding moments’ it would appear that this book is about to commit an original sin. It flies in the face of a critical climate that has all but severed the umbilical chord between the script’s point of origin and the contemporary event of theatre or of film. Barbara Hodgdon’s seminal work on performance criticism draws critical distinctions between a ‘playtext’, ‘readings’ based on those texts, and ‘performance texts’, which exist in their own right. Current thinking takes the ‘playtext’ and the ‘readings’ as departure points for literary and bibliographical study, often relative to early modern cultural history, while ‘performance texts’ are the province of performance critics interested in spectators’ responses and the cultural work of performance (of course the binary divide is never clear cut since ‘early modern cultural history’ is imbued with contemporary inflections). However, Hodgdon pushes performance scholarship to its logical conclusion. The contemporary ‘performance text’ has no ‘immanent meanings’ but is an event, voicing cultural concerns of its own.28 Presumably, the ‘event’ does not need the validation of an authenticating moment, such as knowledge of the original staging conventions explored by Alan Dessen.29 Indeed, as the theoretical accent falls on the cultural object of performance so it becomes apparent that the experience of a contemporary audience (or our attempts to recuperate that experience) figures largely as our measure of understanding. Michael Bristol and Kathleen McLuskie make the point that: ‘The diminished authority of the printed text has been accompanied by accelerating change, instability, and a relentless demand for innovation in the performance of Shakespeare’s plays.’30 Yet, is it true, as Peter J. Smith argues, that, ‘the production values and ideological accents of



exclusive and self-contained. Caught inside these contradictions I practise a cultural criticism which seeks to recall the dynamism of the artwork’s first social interaction with a spectrum of playgoers in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries and to offer an identifiable history of social events and social effects that have followed from it.

the Renaissance theatre are now lost to us’, and modern productions are ‘incalculably different’ from those experienced by Shakespeare’s audiences? 31 For some time now, new historicist and cultural materialist approaches to texts have addressed ‘the production values and ideological accents of the Renaissance theatre’, producing insights into the wider field of cultural production in which the plays take shape. Students can find a wealth of work on library shelves, exploring such diverse topics as mercantile exchange and defamation law, attitudes to Jews in the period and early modern family values.32 Critical insights are used in theatre programmes and may frame playgoers’ viewing experiences. The RSC programme for The Taming of the Shrew (1999) juxtaposes two pages of early modern references to courtship and marriage, scolds and shrews, and domestic tyranny with two pages of contemporary feminist and laddish quotations, including Rik Mayall’s comic and spurious comment, ‘All men are feminists now. It’s the only way to pull chicks.’ These explanatory contexts may inform performance (in the former case drawing attention to cultural attitudes past and present) but they may not. Perhaps they are not observable. The actor playing Katherina may feel she is being bridled in Act 2, Scene 1 where she cannot gainsay Petruchio’s claim that she has agreed to marriage. However, I have not seen (and hope not to!) a production showing her wearing the painful iron device called a ‘scold’s bridle’ which trapped her tongue in a metal plate. In what ways then can historicist criticism inform performance criticism? James C. Bulman warns that historicists who attempt to recreate authentic contexts for performances may end up creating the audience for whom the performance is said to have a particular meaning.33 For example, I might suggest how the metaphor of the ‘scold’s bridle’ might signify in a contemporary production but you may have watched the performance without knowledge of such a reference and may have found it irrelevant to your experience. In fact, it is entirely possible that the ‘scold’s bridle’ was given only a passing reference in rehearsals. On the other hand, in hindsight, you may have wished that you had been more alert to the multiple textual references to ‘shrew’ and ‘scold’. These discussions are really embedded in domains of knowledge, the literary and the historical, but as W. B. Worthen argues, ‘the text provides no “instructions” for its performance’.34 I may be interested in the insider/outsider status of Moors in a mercantile economy in early modern England but clearly scriptwriter Andrew Davies had no such interest when he made Othello a London




Metropolitan Police commissioner for a televised drama (ITV1: Carlton Central, Christmas 2001). Yet the tensions besetting an inter-racial marriage, the politically expedient use of a black officer, and the socioeconomic grounds of Ben Jago’s discontent in being passed by for promotion all touch the social life of the early modern drama; they create some form of dialogue with a first text. This dialogic process helps me to express a sense of historical continuity (an on-going conversation) rooted in social life. V. N. Volos˘inov theorizes this process in Marxism and the Philosophy of Language where he refers to a book as a ‘verbal performance in print’ that joins in a huge conversation with other texts (conversations that preceded it, are current with it and which may anticipate future questions).35 Volos˘inov’s work is linked with the writings of Mikhail Bakhtin.36 Michael D. Bristol gives an excellent discussion of Bakhtin’s idea of bolshoe vremja or ‘great time’ in his book, Big-Time Shakespeare. He shows how Hamlet is shot through with conversations about political democracy that reach back to Jean Calvin’s Institutes (1536) and forward to modern accounts by Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (1651), and Max Weber’s The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (1904).37 I stated earlier that my project is at the interface of a historicizing literary criticism and the study of performance. I also suggested that this would be a systematic study. It was my original intention to put forward a poetics of performance, drawing on Greenblatt’s poetics of culture, but inserting the diachronic axis of cultural production, performance on stage and screen over time. This seemed to me more in keeping with the principles of cultural materialism and its political agenda. Performance is I believe a politicized space. Barbara Hodgdon’s dialogic performance criticism certainly led the way through her understanding of the ‘multiple states’ of a Shakespeare play and the dialogues generated between them. As literary criticism left behind author and intention for textuality and the reader, it was logical that the discussion of performance should shift its emphasis to the performance event. However, it was my understanding that the performance event itself was inside another dialogic relation: the unresolved issues of modernity that are grounded in social, economic and political life thus sustaining my view of the socially transformative potential of art and necessitating a longer view of history. I wanted a systematic method that would allow me to strike up a dialogic discussion of modern performance that might reveal this process.




I discovered in the work of R. W. Vince a concern with the process underlying theatrical events.38 Vince suggests that the study of theatre can be thought of as a branch of social history. He argues that when theatre historians analyze performance as an event or as a series of events, their histories remain ‘fundamentally narrative and descriptive so long as the events and their determining conditions are perceived as unique’.39 Vince advocates a ‘focus on process and patterns’ and the testing of hypotheses through ‘a sequence of events from a different time and place’.40 Vince surmised how such a method might be used for comparing, say, the commercial growth of theatre in England and France in a particular century. Obviously, dialogic performance criticism does not view a performance event as unique. For example, Hodgdon considers the contradictory positioning of female spectators relative to a range of stage and screen versions of The Taming of the Shrew.41 However, I want to enlist Vince’s idea in another way. I want to know whether I can detect any ‘processes and patterns’ that can be employed to study the ‘pull of history’ on the performance event. Kiernan Ryan suggests that a Shakespeare play is ‘already charged with the pastness and otherness of its own intrinsic historicity’ through its language.42 In other words there is something about the writing that speaks not only through but of its historical moment. The history is intrinsic or inside the writing. Bristol speaks of the ‘latent semantic potentiality’ of the plays, suggesting that Shakespeare’s writing expresses new meanings to ‘successor cultures’.43 Both of these views grant a playtext authority to speak of itself later. Of course, the way in which it speaks is not purely intrinsic but relative to situation. Volos˘inov argues that language is always social utterance, that is, directed to an addressee in a particular situation.44 Moreover, Worthen’s reminder that the text does not instruct us how to perform a play marks out a discrepancy between readers’ theatre and performers’ theatre. Worthen considers that a derivative relationship persists in Shakespeare studies where performance is seen to derive from a reading of the playtext whereas performativity, for example, clowning, has its own history.45 Indeed, in my study of The Merchant of Venice I found myself asking, ‘Can postcolonial insights about African Moors assist the actor to play the Prince of Morocco?’ The role also demands comic exaggeration associated with the Captain figure from the Harlequin world of the commedia dell’arte. If postcolonial insights cannot be performed overtly, can they be used more subtly through the gestures of other dramatic figures? For example, Penny Downie’s solicitous




attention to Morocco in David Thacker’s production (1993) made the audience consider the hurtful rejection of a person alongside the comic role. This would suggest that the ‘pull of history’ is in fact a process of continual adjustment between performers, playgoers and versions of the past rather than a purely intrinsic historicity. Nevertheless, the early text forms the basis of the dialogue. My aim, therefore, is to study this process of continual adjustment between performers, playgoers and versions of the past relative to the early text that forms the basis of a dialogue in modernity. To say that the early text forms the basis of a dialogue does not mean that we want to continue that dialogue now. For example, Osric’s exchange with Hamlet in Act 5 about ‘hangers’ (the straps attached to a belt for securing a rapier) seems rather obscure today. Of course, should the fashion for ‘hangers’ come back then another generation of students might wish to pursue the topic. The dialogues I choose to pursue have wider applicability and are ‘unresolved issues’ in the sense that those taking part in the dialogue are in some way always trying to resolve them. They are linked to modernity because we can date something significant about these issues from the early modern period as well as observe the way they impinge on modern social life, for example, changes in marriage practice and attitudes to ‘aliens’ in law. The frequency with which such dialogues re-emerge in modern performance creates a kind of history; there is a history inside modernity that is unrelated to Shakespeare and another history, modern Shakespeare performance. Thus women’s suffrage is relevant to the years in 1928 and 1929, this latter date being important to the history of Shakespeare performance. It sees the first full-length sound film of a Shakespeare play, Sam Taylor’s The Taming of the Shrew. I have found it interesting to consider how the outcomes of these dialogues can show similarities in different time frames. It is not always the case that directors’ or actors’ decisions correlate with our retrospective understanding of the long time frame of history. For example, Franco Zeffirelli’s film of The Taming of the Shrew, made on the cusp of the feminist movement in 1966, concludes with Elizabeth Taylor’s sincere submission speech, only mildly undercut by her disappearance into the crowd (yet the film also has a surprising dark side). More surprising, Wales Actors Company’s sparky production in 2002 knowingly explored modern gender roles but refused to ironize the speech or reduce Kate to an automaton. They left playgoers with Kate’s sincere




declaration to the man she loved. I found this refreshing and preferred the resulting ambiguity to the cop-out of the added Slie scenes that remove Kate’s autonomy by figuring her as a phantom in a tinker’s dream. Kate’s final speech marks a limit point where the modern performance is most obviously in dialogue (and in difficulty) with the early modern text. Limit points are interesting because they involve us in the play’s dialogic history. David Thacker’s 1993 The Merchant of Venice humanized Shylock through severe cutting in Act 3, Scene 1, to remove excessive stereotyping, but this decision effaced part of the play’s dialogic history and some critics objected. Alan C. Dessen’s book Rescripting Shakespeare looks at the gains and losses involved in the process of ‘rescripting’ and ‘rewrighting’ and suggests that to rewright is to move closer to the role of playwright.46 I want to focus on the idea that our relationship with the original text might fruitfully be explored through these limit points observable in performance. Repeated interpretative patterns (for example, a finite number of ways of tackling Kate’s final speech) suggest that our relationship with the early modern script delimits performance. It is important to my argument that the emphasis is on our relationship. In a seminar on creative and critical appropriations of Shakespeare at the Seventh World Shakespeare Congress (2001) Suzanne Gossett remarked that ‘adaptations that suit their audience and their time do not work on infinitely malleable texts’.47 Yet, Shakespeare’s texts certainly appear infinitely malleable as, like kaleidoscopes, they are seized, shaken, brought to assume new patterns as rap, ballet, opera, wordless performance art, paintings, new stagings, new films. What was the nature of Gossett’s objection? She found the new work did not always relate to a play’s history or structure in a meaningful way. In a discussion of film, H. R. Coursen suggests that modern Shakespeare productions ‘must leave at least a window open to the past, that is, to the moment of the script’s origination’ because if they are only contemporary they soon become irrelevant.48 In a discussion of translation and performance, Jean-Michel Déprats agrees that what is important is to activate a relationship between past and present through ‘an interplay of periods’.49 One example would be the English Shakespeare Company’s production of Richard II (1987) which placed King Richard in a Regency period and Bolingbroke in a Victorian one. Why is the relationship between past and present important? In my view, the relationship between past and present opens a dialogic window, prompting the playgoer to acknowledge the force of





I have argued that the original text might fruitfully be explored through limit points observable in performance and I have pointed out that they are part of the text’s dialogic history with modernity and our relationship to it. I have arranged my chapters to form a dialogue. Although I begin each chapter with discussion of a point of early modern cultural history, it is often the modern production that has fuelled the dialogue with the past. Part I considers this relationship in respect of the contested ‘word’. As Volos˘inov tells us, ‘A word in the mouth of a particular individual person is a product of the living interaction of social forces.’50 In The Taming of the Shrew, Kate says: ‘I must forsooth be forced/To give my hand, opposed against my heart’ (3.1.8–9), calling attention to the omission of her word, her consent. Chapter 2 debates the issue of consensualist marriage practice through a sequence of modern productions of The Taming of the Shrew, from 1928 to 2002. The issue of consent had immediate contemporary relevance in the early modern period when ambiguity surrounded the constitution of a legal marriage. Kate does not verbalize her consent and Elizabethan playgoers may well have been interested in the invalidity of the marriage. The forced betrothal and Kate’s final speech are limit points where the play seems to pull back to its original history. As performers work to produce consent they engage necessarily in a dialogic history of marriage in modernity. In The Merchant of Venice, Portia refers to Shylock as an ‘alien’ (4.1.345), a word that defines him at the close of the play. Chapter 3 explores the legal definition of the ‘alien’ with reference to Shylock and the Prince of Morocco through a sequence of productions from 1933 to 2002. These dramatic figures never meet and inhabit distinct fictional worlds, Venice and Belmont. However, early modern spectators may have made a very old connection going back to the time of the First Crusade: ‘the linking of Muslims and Jews as enemies of the Church and faith’.51 Shylock and the Prince of Morocco inhabit the same early modern world in which the contradictory subject status of the ‘alien’ in law is debated through the eyes of western European trading nations. Modern performance has not always made this connection but today actors and directors are adjusting their relationship to a postcolonial view of the past.



history and their own part in it. I enjoyed 10 Things I Hate about You (dir. Gil Junger 1999) but I wanted Kat (Julia Stiles) to do something about that final speech, not to ignore it completely. Ignoring it effaced the historical record of women actors thinking through the role.

Frances Teague refers to Hamlet’s advice to the players to ‘ “suit the action to the word, the word to the action” (3.2.17–19)’ and suggests that the object that helps join word and action is the ‘property’, and in particular the way it functions and ‘speaks’ in performance.52 Chapter 4 is entitled ‘Ophelia’s Flowers’. I have identified Ophelia as a ‘pastoral speaker’, drawing on the work of Paul Alpers, and have considered the challenges she makes to the body politic in the mad scenes in Hamlet (1600), a play written at the height of the succession crisis.53 The Oxford Shakespeare edition of Hamlet includes a stage direction for Ophelia in Act 4, Scene 5: ‘Enter Ophelia, with flowers in her hand, singing’. However, the editor, G. R. Hibbard concedes: ‘None of the primary texts contains this direction, but Ophelia must bring the flowers with her, so that she can distribute them later.’54 I take a dialogic history of Ophelia’s iconic props, the ‘flowers’ in modern performance from 1948 to 2000. Chapter 5 is entitled ‘Richard’s Crown’ and I consider the function of the throne and crown relative to Robert Weimann’s distinction between locus and platea, intimating physical stage space (upstage/ downstage) and also symbolic space of cultural authority (throne and regalia) and symbolic space of subversion (Richard’s sometimes playful appropriation of throne and crown).55 I argue that a sense of history attaches to the function of the throne and the crown as props in modern performance (1987–2003), associated with the early modern period’s reflexive view of the role of ceremony and ritual in culture. My concluding discussion, ‘Prop and Word’, considers a ballet and a work of physical performance art. I argue that the pull of history on modern performance can be shown simply through a gesture that indicates a prop, in a ballet of The Taming of the Shrew. One word, ‘Ophelia’ is sufficient to conjure a dialogic history of representation in the example of performance art from the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (2002). I set this discussion within the context of arguments raised in my book as a whole and in the light of new developments in the field of performance criticism.







I Was ever match clapped up so suddenly? (The Taming of the Shrew (2.1.327)) If it be proved against an alien (The Merchant of Venice (4.1.345))



Word




Producing Consent in The Taming of the Shrew

In 2002, a white paper on reform of civil marriages in England and Wales promised a change in the law to allow ceremonies at any hour, at home or in open-air locations. Previous to this the law stipulated that ceremonies must be held before 6.00 p.m. (so there was no mistaking your partner in the dark) inside churches, register offices, or buildings with a special licence (John Carvel, The Guardian (23 January 2002)). The new position is a mark of changed social relations and restores some autonomy to couples. It also bears a dialogic relation to the early modern period and to Shakespeare’s play, The Taming of the Shrew. In Shakespeare’s play, the rapid wooing and the dubious establishment of a pre-contract in Act 2, Scene 1 form a limit point. Kate’s silence must be played. The actor will offer the modern playgoer some options: 1. Kate’s silence is consent. She loves Petruchio. 2. Kate is overwhelmed by events, secretly likes her strange wooer and will grow to love him. 3. Kate’s silence is ambiguous. 4. Kate’s silence is unambiguous. She has not consented to marriage. Too late, she expresses her feelings forcibly: ‘I must forsooth be forced/To give my hand, opposed against my heart’ (3.2.8–9).1 Although troubling to modern sensibilities, literary critics have not always read the issue of consent as one that would have concerned Elizabethan playgoers. Ann Jennalie Cook sees the issue of consent as part of the preliminary business that establishes the existence of a marriage, a ‘burlesque wooing’ in which Katherina’s answer is ‘beside the point’.2 Susan Bassnett argues that, as a ‘disorderly wife’, Kate would not have drawn sympathy from Protestant audiences.3 I want to argue that, on the contrary, the issue of consent had immediate contemporary relevance in the context of the ambiguities surrounding marriage practice in the period. 19



2

The historian David Cressy explores how parish disagreements and local disputes about the life-cycle rituals of birth, marriage and death ‘reflect the unresolved problem of England’s adoption of protestantism’ following the Reformation.4 Seemingly innocent references in the play, for example, Petruchio’s mention of ‘rings’ (2.1.325) and Gremio’s reference to the ‘many ceremonies done’ (3.2.168) at the wedding, are fraught with controversy. Some Puritan reformers deplored the old ‘popish’ rites when the priest sprinkled the ring with holy water, conferring a sacramental value.5 Continental reformers argued that marriage was not a sacrament and lay outside ecclesiastical jurisdiction.6 The Protestant Church of England drew on the old service from late medieval Catholicism but sought to simplify the ‘many ceremonies’ to which they objected.7 In 1563 the Roman Catholic Church responded to the reformers by setting out its position in the twenty-fourth session of the Council of Trent and reiterating the sacramental nature of marriage. The Council also decreed marriages, should be conducted by a parish priest in the presence of two or three witnesses after the publication of the banns, (usually) on three occasions. This was an attempt to prevent clandestine marriages and stop someone who had contracted marriage secretly from publicly marrying another. 8 Yet this part of the decree begins by emphasizing that even clandestine marriages,‘made with the free consent of the contracting parties, are valid and true marriages’.9 The anomaly is important and relevant to Shakespeare’s play because it shows the Church’s recognition that consent is the basis of marriage, even where the conduct of a ceremony is somewhat irregular, for example, a clandestine one performed by a priest but without prior publication and perhaps with fewer witnesses. From medieval times a marriage existed once a man and woman declared their mutual consent to be husband and wife. The Paris theologian Peter Lombard distinguished between two types of contract, one made by words of consent in the present tense (verba de praesenti), the other by words promising marriage in the future (verba de futuro).10 Those exchanging words of consent in the present tense were married, whether or not they had sexual intercourse, whereas promises to marry in the future created an indissoluble bond only when followed by sexual relations.11 The consensualist element was particularly important because if consummation was the essential element of a union then Mary and Joseph would not have a valid marriage.12 It is of interest that The Mary Play from the N. Town Manuscript (probably dating




from the mid-fifteenth century) stages the marriage ceremony of Mary and Joseph in which each agrees to take the other in holy wedlock and a ring is exchanged but Joseph makes it clear, ‘þat in bedde we zul nevyr mete;/For, iwys, mayden suete,/An old man may not rage’ (868–70).13 The consensualist argument, established following debates in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, had legal consequences. Although a betrothal or pre-contract might be a solemn affair conducted by a priest, it might also be a casual occasion in which two people simply declared their intention to marry. Martin Ingram in his study of ‘spousals’ litigation in the English ecclesiastical courts refers to many instances where ‘the contract (if it existed at all) had been made quite without witnesses, or with only a single witness present. Sometimes spousals were made on the spur of the moment, or effected in barns, streets, or fields.’14 Although some reformed churches had instituted civil marriage, however, the early Church of England was ‘largely successful’ in requiring solemnization by an ordained minister using the words of the Book of Common Prayer in a consecrated building in the presence of lawful witnesses.15 However, some weddings took place in private homes (perhaps Catholic recusants wishing to avoid Protestant services), alehouses (perhaps poor people who found such a wedding less costly) and other secular settings such as a meadow.16 The Taming of the Shrew was probably written in 1589–90 and the related text, The Taming of A Shrew, was published in 1594. In this latter text, Kate consents to the marriage (my square brackets): [She turnes aside and speakes] But yet I will consent and marrie him, For I methinkes have livde too long a maid.17 However, in The Taming of the Shrew, Petruchio informs her: Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented That you shall be my wife, your dowry ‘greed on; And will you, nill you, I will marry you. (2.1.268–70) When Petruchio names the wedding day, Kate’s response is clear: ‘I’ll see thee hanged on Sunday first’ (2.1.299). She is speechless at his effrontery in claiming that a bargain has been struck. Gremio and Tranio express their disbelief at Petruchio’s claim that Kate has



Producing Consent in The Taming of the Shrew 21


Gremio. Tranio. Petruchio.

Hark, Petruchio, she says she’ll see thee hanged first. Is this your speeding? Nay then, good night our part. Be patient, gentlemen, I choose her for myself; If she and I be pleased, what’s that to you? ‘Tis bargained ‘twixt us twain, being alone, That she shall still be curst in company. (2.1.300–7)

Petruchio’s lines, ‘If she and I be pleased’ and ‘ ‘Tis bargained ‘twixt us twain, being alone’, suggest that the couple have established a valid pre-contract. ‘Spousals’ litigation would rely for its judgments on the precise wording of the verbal contract but this of course could be notoriously difficult to prove in the absence of witnesses.18 Shakespeare teases his audience with other supposed proofs of a valid espousal. Ingram refers to rituals such as the exchange of gifts or tokens, the sealing of a contract with a loving kiss, and the bestowal of a ring.19 Petruchio claims, ‘She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss/She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath’ (2.1.310–11). Petruchio attempts to validate the ‘contract’ publicly by taking her hand, ‘Give me thy hand, Kate’ (316), a signal for Baptista to confirm the espousal by placing their hands together, ‘give me your hands’ (320). Petruchio urges Baptista, ‘Provide the feast father, and bid the guests’ (318) which seems an attempt to publicize the betrothal in the presence of Gremio and Tranio. They affirm, ‘We will be witnesses’ (322). Petruchio leaves with an irreverent reference to the ‘rings, and things’ that custom demands. It is a tricky matter that would have entertained members of the Inns of Court. Despite all the appearances of a valid pre-contract, in fact Kate has not consented. The question of whether ‘silence’ can be taken as tacit consent is debatable. William Shoreham, the fourteenthcentury vicar of Chart-Sutton in Leeds, writes in a poem on matrimony (editor’s translation): ‘As to God, the tacit consent of the parties to marry would suffice; but to the Church, it has to be declared in words. Dumb and deaf persons may express their consent by signs.’20 There is no aside from Kate to indicate consent (as there is in A Shrew) so it is always a shock to see her next in a wedding dress before the ceremony. Even though she now appears to consider herself a ‘wife’, this does not necessarily indicate personal consent. A publicly affirmed pre-contract placed the woman in a difficult position of being legally married even if the man failed to turn up. In George Wilkins’s



consented to marry him. Petruchio’s rejoinder relies on a consensualist view of a pre-contract that needs no outside recognition:


Scar. Clare. Scar. Clare.

This hand thus takes thee as my loving wife. For better, for worse. I, till death us depart love. Why then I thank you Sir, and now I am like to have that I long looked for: A Husband. (lines 241–6)21

When Scarborrow’s guardian forces him to marry someone else, Clare’s soliloquy reveals the plight of a woman involved in a pre-contract: Clare:

He was contracted mine, yet he unjust Hath married to another: what’s my estate then? A wretched maid, not fit for any man, For being united his with plighted faiths, Who ever sues to me commits a sin. (812–16)

As an only child, Clare fears that her father will force her into a marriage to preserve the blood-line: ‘I must be made a strumpet gainst my will’ (827). Seeing no way out, she must kill herself. Interestingly, for its time, this play ends by confirming Scarbarrow’s second enforced marriage as the valid one on the grounds that it was solemnized by a priest. Legally, however, Clare has a prior claim just as Mariana does in Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, performed at court in 1604. Kate refers to the social effects of a binding pre-contract when she says: Now must the world point at poor Katherine And say ‘Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife, If it would please him come and marry her’. (Taming, 3.2.18–20) This is a poignant moment in the play though one usually treated as comical. Her reputation not just her pride has been damaged, ‘For such an injury would vex a very saint’ (3.2.28), and can only be restored through ‘the ceremonial rites of marriage’ (3.1.6). We are left to assume that Kate consents verbally in church but, as a bride technically under duress, she could have a remedy in law. Cosgrave argues that ‘if marriage was based on the free consent of both parties, it followed that, if it could be shown that either party had acted under coercion or duress, the marriage would be deemed invalid’.22 He cites a judgment



play, The Miseries of Enforced Marriage (1607), Scarborrow and Clare agree privately to wed (I have regularized spelling):

from an Armagh court in 1488; the court decided that the woman had never consented to her husband but had been compelled to marry ‘through force and fear which could move a constant person’.23 The issue of consent is kept alive in the play through the sub-plot. Bianca admonishes her suitors and insists upon her right to choose: ‘Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong/To strive for that which resteth in my choice’ (3.1.16–17; my emphasis). Many writings of the period explore the tensions between parental control and personal choice. In Lyly’s satirical work, Euphues (1578), Lucilla orders her father to ‘content yourself with my choice’, causing him to grieve and die.24 In Much Ado about Nothing (written around 1598), Beatrice’s advice to Hero suggests a conflict between duty to parents and duty to oneself: Yes, faith, it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy and say, ‘Father, as it pleases you.’ But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say, ‘Father, as it please me’. (2.1.47–50)25 The issues of personal choice and freely given consent were particularly relevant because Protestant reformers were insisting on a greater role for parents in marriage arrangements. In his Preparative to Marriage (1591), the Elizabethan lecturer, Henry Smith, writes: God sayth, Honour thy Father and thy Mother. Now, wherein canst thou honor them more, then in this honorable action, to which they have preserved thee; and brought thee up, which concerneth the state of thy whole life? Again, in the first institution of marriage, when there was no Father to give consent, then our heavenly Father gave his consent: God supplied the place of the Father.26 Of course, underlying these concerns were economic realities. Parents wanted to protect their children as well as preserve their property rights but this brought obligation. Smith asks, ‘Will you take your father’s money, and will you not take his instruction?’27 In performance it is noticeable that the women are not on stage when financial arrangements are made so that they have no opportunity to consent to the proceedings. Even Bianca’s counterfeit precontract leaves her at the mercy of her father’s decision to accept the offer that is best. However, Bianca evades her father’s plans for her by seeking a clandestine wedding.




Cressy suggests that the proportion of clandestine marriages was probably low before the later seventeenth century.28 However, ecclesiastical authorities must have had some concerns because a canon of 1604 required applicants for licences to enter bond that they had their parents’ or guardian’s consent.29 From a study of prosecutions in the records for the Wiltshire portion of the diocese of Salisbury, Ingram argues that many clandestine marriages ‘were related to the evasion of social pressures against free choice’.30 Houlbrooke refers to ‘a remarkable paper written in defence of licences in c.1598’.31 It appears among the papers of John Whitgift, the third and last Lord Archbishop of Canterbury in Queen Elizabeth’s reign. It is headed, ‘Reasons for licences to marry. An answer to a bill in Parliament against them’. The following extract reveals a desire to preserve free consent over and above parental control: Licences to marry according to the form set down without banns, are no cause of disordered marriage, but rather the contrary … For first, seeing consent in marriage is the matter specially to be regarded, and credit of kindred, honour, wealth, contentment, and pleasure of friends, be rather matters of conveniency than necessity in matrimony; it were better to tolerate the means wherewith consent of the parties themselves may more freely effect an honest matrimony.32 Bianca’s subsequent clandestine marriage to the man of her choice is ultimately validated in the play even though in the 1600s such a marriage risked prosecution. Lucentio tells Tranio: ‘Twere good methinks, to steal our marriage, Which once performed, let all the world say no, I’ll keep mine own despite of all the world. (Taming, 3.2.139–41) Bianca’s clandestine marriage secures a union of free consent and conforms indirectly to parental wishes. In marrying Lucentio, son of a rich citizen of Pisa, Bianca has chosen an ideal suitor whose family connections and financial status will meet with Baptista’s approval. However, her decision was always a risky enterprise, because without prior publicity she had no way of knowing whether Lucentio had a pre-contract with someone else and whether the priest had authority to undertake the ceremony. Biondello tells Lucentio: ‘the old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours’ (4.4.86–7) which Elizabethan playgoers would have noted as irregular. Canonical hours




were eight to twelve in the morning, and it was a common grievance that the Church of England’s calendar prohibited marriage ceremonies on close to 40 per cent of the year.33 The sisters’ positions are very different with respect to the precontracts negotiated by their father and the subsequent weddings. Since the bid made by Tranio is bogus, Bianca is legally free and is not bound by the terms of the marriage contract. By contrast, the bogus pre-contract achieved by Petruchio binds Kate. To Elizabethan playgoers, the status of Bianca’s marriage would be of interest. Biondello remarks on the ‘counterfeit’ pre-contract in the same breath that he refers to the solemnized marriage, ‘To th’church take the priest, clerk and some sufficient honest witnesses’ (4.4.91–2). The wedding may be perfectly legal but is irregular and has flouted the requirement of parental consent. However, the audience is in no doubt that the Church solemnizes an indissoluble union between Kate and Petruchio. Shakespeare’s play explores the ambiguities implicit in the Protestant reformers’ ideals and their practices. Ideally a marriage was to be based on consent and mutuality. However, Tudor Protestants had refused to recognize divorce. The annulment of Henry VIII’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was not a divorce and ‘England was unique among Protestant countries or states in that its Reformed church did not reject the Roman Catholic doctrine of marital indissolubility’.34 Houlbrooke argues: ‘for many, marriage was unhappy. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century pastoral analysis blamed avoidable failures in mutual adjustment.’35 However, Puritan orthodoxy maintained ‘that affection could and would develop after marriage, provided that no violent antipathy manifested itself at a first brief interview’.36 For Kate, however, there can be no divorce despite the ‘violent antipathy’ of their first meeting. In a remarkable inversion it is Kate who must be punished for the play’s central omission, her crucial lack of consent, and she must bear the responsibility for producing a Puritan ideal of mutuality. In the final scene, she delivers a retrospective Puritan reading of consent to the fathers assembled at the banquet, much to their satisfaction. Vincentio applauds, ‘ ‘Tis a good hearing when children are toward’ (5.2.182). However, the retrospective strategy of the speech, which satisfies most of its on-stage audience, may appeal differently to off-stage audiences. It subtly insinuates the history of the burlesqued exploration of sixteenth-century marriage practice that began with a rich citizen of Padua allowing a suitor to marry his daughter without her consent. Kate’s final speech recalls the various stages of the drama: the ‘woman moved’ (5.2.142) who parried with Petruchio – ‘ “Moved”, in




good time! Let him that moved you hither/Remove you hence’ (2.1.194–5); ‘Too little payment for so great a debt’ (5.2.154) recalls the promise to pay ‘one half of my lands,/And in possession twenty thousand crowns’ (2.1.120–1); ‘My mind hath been as big as one of yours’ (5.2.170) recalls the woman who had ‘a spirit to resist’ (3.2.223); ‘My heart as great’ (5.2.171) recalls the hand given ‘opposed against my heart’ (3.2.8–9); ‘to bandy word for word’ (5.2.172) recalls her anger in the scene with the haberdasher, ‘I will be free/Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words’ (4.3.79–80) – and so, in words, she is. Clearly the consent issue re-emerges as a barb to the ‘supposed’ appearance of mutuality given in that final speech.37 Lucentio questions the value of the publicized ‘taming’: ‘ ‘Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so’ (5.2.189). Taming has not settled the issue of consent. Kate’s final words accompany a gesture, an outstretched ‘hand’ that is ready to ‘do him ease’ (179), a hand that needed to be freely given before it could be taken at the pre-contract stage. In a moment Petruchio will call for a kiss, ‘Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate’ (180) and he will confirm the validity of the marriage by taking her to bed, but these are his demands. The end of Kate’s difficult speech is a statement of autonomy, requiring an answer and in performance, even where she is sincere, may act as a reproof. A study of Shakespeare’s culture in modern performance reveals the considerable imaginative investment in managing the sixteenthcentury Puritan dilemma of producing mutuality as a retrospective strategy where consent has not been given.

Subverted consent W. Bridges-Adams (1928) and Sam Taylor (1929) It seems an irony that women actors of the suffrage years found themselves ‘restricted to the authentic text in the wooing scene’ when David Garrick’s cut version, Catharine and Petruchio, fell from favour.38 Garrick’s version, which held sway on English and American stages from 1754 to 1844, inserted lines, in an aside, that explained Kate’s motives in consenting to marriage: A Plague upon his Impudence! I’m vex’d – I’ll marry my Revenge, but I will tame him.39 However, despite a concern by literary critics and theatre managers to restore Shakespeare’s original play including the induction, ‘Garrick’s




influence was far from dead’ in the early twentieth century so that cuts and knockabout aspects were transferred to fuller acting versions.40 In performance, Kate ‘grimaced, slapped, and kicked’ while Petruchio ‘chased his servants under tables, into chests, and out of windows’.41 W. Bridges-Adams’s production at the Memorial Theatre, Stratfordupon-Avon, in 1928 enjoyed knockabout elements and employed the traditional whips but also evidenced a change of direction towards a subtler, more romantic comedy. I was intrigued to discover that the silent screen star Mary Pickford saw this production when it toured in America, shortly before she began rehearsals for a film version. There are similarities in approach and even in small details of costume (Kate’s plumed hat) and stage business (relating to Punch and Judy) that made me wonder whether Pickford might have drawn on Dorothy Massingham’s portrayal of Kate. Both women suggested that mutuality was achieved and both women tackled the final speech, while also subverting their consent. The first full-length sound film of a Shakespeare play, Sam Taylor’s The Taming of the Shrew (1929), starring Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, is often singled out for her notorious wink to Bianca. E. A. Baughan (Daily News (15 November 1929)) comments: ‘The spirit of Katherine’s famous advice to wives is contradicted with an expressive wink. Thus the independent womanhood of the United States has been placated, for no American woman could fall for her husband as her head and sovereign.’ The reference to ‘independent womanhood’ has particular relevance to the political context of Massingham’s performance in 1928. The year saw the passing of the Equal Franchise Act, granting the vote to all women of 21 and over. The new summer festival opened at the temporary Memorial Theatre at the Greenhill Street cinema, which the Stratford players made their home when fire destroyed the old theatre in March 1926. The Birmingham Mail (19 April 1927) described The Taming of the Shrew as a ‘brilliant performance’; ‘a great curly-locked Hectoring brigand of a fellow, Mr. Wilfrid Walter’s Petruchio had every conceivable natural advantage’ but unfortunately ‘his fierce simulations of brutality’ failed to strike ‘the wonted spark’ in Kate (Esme Biddle). The reviewer thought her performance ‘not so much a Shrew as a sulk’. One might argue that Esme Biddle’s portrayal of ‘a much over-advertised victim’ evidenced the actress’s perspicacity – modern-day Kates including Paola Dionisotti (1978), Josie Lawrence (1995) and Monica Dolan (1999–2000) have shown Kate as the victim of abuse (and indeed, as a rape victim in Charles Marowitz’s ‘collage’ version, 1973).42 However,




in 1927 the reviewer saw that to cast Kate as a victim would make the ‘humour’ of taming her untenable. What was needed was a gallant, gentlemanly Petruchio who ‘tamed’ in jest and whose purposes were honourable. Kate should take a joke and be prepared to give as good as she gets. Wilfrid Walter fitted the first expectation. The Stratford-uponAvon Herald (22 April 1927) remarked: While more than adequate to the formidable task of reducing Kate to submission, Petruchio was rarely without a twinkle in his eyes, and his bluff and hearty manner gave the lie to the portrait suggested by the text, which tends to paint him as an ill-mannered and rapacious boor. When played without a sparkle of humour, as I once saw it played by an actor of great renown, the character becomes downright offensive. Walter got round the fortune-hunting aspects of the play by making it clear that he loved Kate’s vitality from the moment he saw her. The reviewer for Stage (12 July 1928) remarked that the new production kept Wilfrid Walter as Petruchio but had ‘a new Katharina in Dorothy Massingham’ who ‘maintains a reserve of spirit, which, as it should, leaves Katharina by no means a spent force’. Bladon Peake (Stratfordupon-Avon Herald (13 July 1928)) pondered Katherina’s part in the play and the performance: No matter how often one sees this comedy … one is always brought up with a jolt at her sudden appearance in the wedding dress. Her last words to Petruchio [are] ‘I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first’: yet, when next we see her, not only is she ready and waiting for him, but her anger is less the outburst of a scold than the hysterical fretfulness of a young girl who fears that her lover has deserted her … Yet we are given no reason for her change of attitude. The reviewer praised Massingham’s intelligence in realizing that ‘the weak spot, not only in the part, but in the play, was the lack of a connecting link between Katharina wooed and Katharina won’. The writer returned to Massingham’s performance the following year, a particularly relevant review (10 May 1929), which I quote at length: The imp of mischief was ever present under Miss Massingham’s honeyed spicing of the words – ‘And dart not scornful glances from those eyes/To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor,’ and




although her clever blending of feared presumption and feared discovery at the closing – ‘My hand is ready: may it do him ease’ was almost lost in the showing of an overwhelming love which here dawned over a face of poignant charm, it was not quite lost, and gave me the clue for which I have long sought. Katharina is not tamed at all. She has the womanly artistry, however, to know that it is far better for Petruchio to think her so. Pickford also conveys this impression through her conspiratorial wink to Bianca, and by extension to women spectators especially. The Festival Company planned a trans-Canadian and American tour beginning at the Princess Theatre, Montreal, on Monday 1 October 1928. They were to visit various American cities including San Francisco, Los Angeles, Denver and Chicago. Their tour would hopefully create interest in the Stratford players and in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre Rebuilding Fund. The touring company would include Wilfrid Walter and Dorothy Massingham (Stage (13 September 1928)). On 1 February 1929, the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald published ‘interesting letters’ about the tour, quoting a letter received by W. H. Savery, general manager to the festival company: Our second week at Los Angeles was a huge success. We did packed business. One woman wept at not being able to purchase a seat for ‘Hamlet’. Mr. Douglas Fairbanks and his wife (Miss Mary Pickford) attended a performance of ‘The Taming of the Shrew’. On 26 March 1929, the Birmingham Post reported that members of the festival company were due to arrive in England and reported an interview with the director Bridges-Adams who had already returned: ‘In Los Angeles Mr. Bridges Adams met Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. Chaplin sang old-time music-hall songs to him.’ The director added that ‘ “The Merry Wives” and “The Taming of the Shrew” won as much laughter as any modern farce’ and that ‘notable personal successes’ included Wilfrid Walter as Petruchio and Dorothy Massingham as Katherina. It can be established that Pickford and Fairbanks saw Massingham and Walter in the Stratford production some time around Christmas 1928 or early January 1929 and that the director spoke with them presumably at that time. Scott Eyman’s biography of Mary Pickford gives a date of January 1929 for the appearance of ‘the Stratford-upon-Avon players’; he adds, ‘Mary and Douglas saw the play and enjoyed the




Figure 1. Dorothy Massingham as Katharina in W. Bridges-Adams’s The Taming of the Shrew in a revival (1931).

manner in which the knock-about aspects of the script were emphasized. They both agreed that this was the vehicle in which they should make their long-awaited co-starring effort.’43 Subsequent events, particularly in the context of their own marriage breakdown, cast doubts on the extent of the ‘agreement’. R. Windeler provides a different emphasis: Mary blamed [Sam] Taylor for much of what went wrong with the movie. She said he entered the project determined on a broad comedy fashioned to the existing screen personalities of herself and Douglas, rather than asking them to grow into something more serious.44 Barbara Hodgdon argues that Pickford was not happy with Fairbanks or the film: ‘he not only played jokes, delayed shooting schedules, and failed to learn his lines, wildly increasing production costs, but relegated his co-starring wife (also his coproducer and cofinancier) to a lower place in the production hierarchy’. 45 Hodgdon quotes Pickford: ‘The making of that film was my finish. My confidence




was shattered, and I was never again at ease before the camera or microphone.’46 Four months after the Stratford players’ performance in Los Angeles, Reuters telegraphed (4 May 1929): ‘Miss Mary Pickford and Mr. Douglas Fairbanks have arrived in New York for the purpose, they explained of selecting the cast for their forthcoming sound film version of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.’47 By July, rehearsals were in progress.48 On 10 September, ten months after seeing the Stratford players on tour, the film stars were reported to be due in London: ‘They have just completed a talkie of “The Taming of the Shrew”.’49 In an interview, Fairbanks said, ‘It was Mary’s idea to make this picture … Mary has all the good ideas’,50 but Pickford refuted this in her autobiography, Sunshine and Shadow: ‘I was talked into doing The Taming of the Shrew against my better judgment.’51 It is tempting but can only remain conjecture to wonder how far the ‘clue’ (sought by the Stratford reviewer) to the submission speech delivered by Massingham had inspired Pickford to try out the ‘good idea’ on Fairbanks. Interestingly, The Times (9 November 1929) reported that ‘Mr. Thomas Patton, Miss Constance Collier, the well-known Shakespearian actress, and Mr. John Craig, a member of Augustin Daly’s Shakespearian company, were the advisers to Mr. Fairbanks and Miss Pickford.’ In 1887 Augustin Daly had reshaped the play to feature Ada Rehan.52 Tori Haring-Smith writes: Much of the praise stemmed from the critics’ approval of Daly’s presentation of the play as a comedy – not a farce. The Epoch, for example, was glad to see Rehan and Drew ‘mark a delicate line between the boisterousness of farce and the intelligence of romantic comedy.’ Reducing the slapstick allowed the characters of Katherine and Petruchio to be more fully developed.53 Could this be what Pickford meant by ‘grow into something more serious’ (as reported by Windeler)? One reviewer suggested that Massingham’s performance had caught the ‘inward tragedy’ of Kate’s role while another found her ‘thought-provoking’.54 Had Pickford hoped to bring this depth to her own performance? The history of the wink is complicated further by Eyman’s account. He argues that the producer Daniel Frohman wrote to Pickford after she had decided on her new film suggesting that she should give, ‘a broad wink to her assembled friends to let them know that she had been in control of the situation all along’.55 Eyman quotes Pickford’s reply, ‘I believe Ada





Somehow when one remembers the splendour of Ada Rehan in that final submission speech and compares it with Pickford’s wink – a needless concession to those who refuse to take the play for what it is worth – there is no question which reading one must choose. Eileen Whitfield argues that Constance Collier and Pickford ‘aimed for a formal grandeur’ but the director disagreed: ‘ “We don’t want any of this heavy stage drama,” advised Sam Taylor. Instead, he demanded the “Pickford tricks.” Mary, simmering, gave the usual pratfalls, double takes, and pouts.’57 Pickford comments on the director’s dismissal of ‘stage drama’ in her autobiography, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t told this before I decided to make the film. I would have fought it out bitterly.’58 Eyman suggests that Pickford’s complaints after the event revolved around her ‘slightly paranoid feeling’ that Fairbanks had taken advantage of her and that he had more experience in the study of Shakespeare’s verse. However, Eyman concedes that there were other problems including Pickford’s anxieties about ‘just what kind of actress Mary Pickford was going to be in the talkies’.59 Another bit of stage business from the Stratford production may have made an impression. A reviewer commented on Arthur Chisholm’s performance as the Pedant: The way in which Mr. Chisholm throws himself, like Punch, from side to side when leaning out of the window to look down upon Mr. Oliver Crombie’s righteous indignation is excellent fooling, and he carries the effect right up to the time he makes his exit from the street of Padua, and incidentally, from the play.60 Sam Taylor’s film does, of course, begin with a Punch and Judy show. Punch pleads, ‘I love you.’ Judy hits. Punch goes down. ‘It’s no use. It’s no use. It’s no use.’ Then Petruchio rises with a stick, ‘I’ll tame you. I’ll tame you.’ Judy puts her arms around him and kisses him. This ‘induction’ prepares the spectator for Kate’s final gesture of goodwill despite the ill treatment she has received from her ‘tamer’. Consent to the pre-contract and to the wedding is achieved by force. One reviewer61 remarked on the ‘comic’ moment when, from behind, Baptista and Gremio see Kate sitting on Petruchio’s lap with her head



Rehan had the same idea.’56 The Morning Post (15 November 1929) remarked on the discrepancy between Pickford’s performance and Rehan’s:

on his shoulder whereas the spectator sees that ‘Petruchio has his hand over her mouth and has imprisoned her kicking legs within his own.’ Petruchio then forces her hand to the ‘match’. A quarter of the film is taken up with an inserted wedding scene in which Petruchio delays the proceedings and stamps hard on Kate’s foot so that the requisite ‘Oooooo!’ can be construed as ‘I do’. Does Pickford’s wink subvert the consent coerced in the wooing and wedding scenes by reaching out to modern women of her time? Pickford played a headstrong store clerk in My Best Girl (1927) and studied for the part by working in disguise as a shop girl.62 It is quite likely that Pickford intended a ‘modern’ slant for The Taming of the Shrew but was talked out of it by Fairbanks, as one newspaper report suggests: The Daily Mail is now able to reveal that at one time they considered doing ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ in modern dress, but, in Miss Pickford’s words: Douglas is quite wedded to costume pictures and, furthermore, he has always been such a student and lover of Shakespeare that it has been a joy to him to present it according to his first conception of the play.63 When Massingham’s performance as Kate first made its mark in 1928, the British Press made much of ‘modern’ women’s achievements. A report in Nation (22 December) was headed ‘1928 The Year of Women: Triumphs in Many Professions’. Press reports referred to the achievements of Elisabeth Scott, the only woman architect among 76 competitors, who won the design for the new Memorial Theatre; in medicine Dr Justina Wilson was the first woman to take her seat as FRCP (Edinburgh).64 The issue of women’s rights in the public world of 1928 had immediate relevance to the issues concurrently raised in performances of Shakespeare’s play, The Taming of the Shrew. The Bolton Evening News (6 January 1928) commented: While two education conferences were discussing yesterday the problems of girl education it was announced that a brilliant young Englishwoman had been selected as the winning architect in the designs for the new Shakespeare Memorial theatre. There is a close connection between the two subjects. What should girls be taught? Nine out of ten would reply that they should be given a specialised training for married life. During the Festival season, the tamer Petruchio would be wholly in agreement while Dorothy Massingham’s Kate would slyly undercut the




basis of his supremacy with ‘honeyed spicing’ of the final speech for knowing audiences. Despite Pickford’s own assertion that ‘Katharina was one of my worst performances’, I feel the wink is finally subversive. I base this argument on a close study of the whips as leitmotif (reiteration of a theme) for the power struggle at the heart of the play.65 Haring-Smith notes that the earliest evidence we have of Petruchio carrying a ‘traditional whip’ is the Furness Collection promptbook for a performance in 1788, based on Garrick’s Catharine and Petruchio. Massingham and Walter carried whips in the Stratford productions and they are important to the film. Frances Teague refers to props as ‘speaking properties’, which may delineate character, for example, the phallic connotation of a sword, and may signify through their absence as well as their presence.66 The spectator is guided to view the whips as objects capable of expressing the shift of ground each protagonist is willing to give. The advancing camera first takes us to meet Kate, who sits imperiously, whip in hand. Swash-buckling Fairbanks, whose whip dealt rough justice in The Mark of Zorro (dir. Fred Niblo, 1920) and Don Q, Son of Zorro (Dir. Donald Crisp, 1925), swings his whip idly and regards himself in a mirror while he waits for Kate to appear. The whips disappear and reappear at key moments. Petruchio shows a momentary concern for Kate’s bedraggled condition when she enters his house but she picks up her whip and vows to continue the fight: ‘Look to your Seat, Petruchio’, repeating a line from Garrick’s version used earlier (after the ‘wooing’): Look to your Seat, Petruchio … Cath’rine shall tame this Haggard; – or if she fails, Shall tye her Tongue up, and pare down her Nails.67 The director uses his leitmotif to bring the taming narrative to a conclusion. Kate throws a stool that strikes Petruchio’s head, after which she mothers him. Having won the physical fight, she throws her own whip into the fire. Kate stands to deliver her speech while a grinning Petruchio, his head bandaged, sits whip in hand. Kate’s knowing wink tells Bianca and her film audiences that appearances are deceptive. Petruchio’s whip has lost its phallic power. The Observer may have been right in its assessment that The Taming of the Shrew was ‘not in any sense’ Pickford’s film and that Fairbanks ‘was behind every moment of the production, behind the choice of cast, the ideas, the motives, the selection of technicians and auxiliary workers, the whole movement of the thing’.68 However, the film grossed 1.1 million dollars and was named one of the ten best pictures




of the year.69 Pickford was an astute businesswoman (she co-founded United Artists) and understood that the film’s financial success depended on public interest in her marriage to Doug, both on and off the screen. Clearly, Pickford and Fairbanks both watched the Festival Players’ production of The Taming of the Shrew in Los Angeles – an event which Eyman considers to be ‘the impetus’ in their decision to make a screen version. However, even though they saw it together, that doesn’t mean they responded to the performance in the same way. Pickford may have struggled to bring a more considered performance as Kate to the screen but the wink challenges (even if briefly) the orchestrated mutuality of the submission speech. Massingham’s intelligent performance left playgoers to reflect on Petruchio’s treatment of Kate. One reviewer remarked, ‘Katharina puts up a good fight against him, and in the last speech of all gives, by subtle inflection, a hint that he has not been half as valiant as we think.’70 Both women contributed to a tradition of subverted consent in performance. In 1965 Sam Taylor’s film was shown in Paris, earning Pickford (aged 73) a standing ovation.71

Forced consent Franco Zeffirelli (1966) The following year, Franco Zeffirelli’s film (1966) closed on a harmonious note. Elizabeth Taylor’s Kate delivered her final speech with absolute sincerity, so much so that her husband Richard Burton, who played Petruchio, was in reality ‘deeply moved’ and wiped away a tear.72 However, I want to argue that Zeffirelli’s version is much closer in its interpretative strategies to Michael Bogdanov’s darker reading (1978) and to a tradition continued in Lindsay Posner’s touring production (1999–2000) that tackle the issue of forced consent. In Zeffirelli’s film, it is likely that the ‘star’ narrative of the famous married couple, together with the sumptuous Renaissance sets, obscured the film’s new emphasis noted by some contemporary reviewers. Graham Holderness remarks on the strong linking of the off-screen and on-screen roles: ‘ “the love-at-first-sight” motif is rendered conspicuous in the film by looks and gestures’, an effect that is also reinforced by Nino Rota’s romantic music. 73 However, David Robinson (Financial Times (3 March 1967)) observed that while Shakespeare had created a callous wooer in Petruchio, ‘the




Zeffirelli/Richard Burton Petruchio is nastier still. He is dirty, coarse and drunken.’ The film draws cleverly on the Induction to connect the drunken Sly with Petruchio, portrayed as a smelly drunkard. He is helped up the stairs and into bed at Hortensio’s house. The next morning, servants bring ‘a silver basin/Full of rose-water and bestrewed with flowers’ (52–3) but his ‘wash’ consists of a few dabs to his eyelids and behind his ears. The camera dwells on his dirty clothing including stockings, full of holes, ‘no more stockings than legs’ (Induction 2.9). When they enter Padua, Lucentio and Tranio pass a drunkard, publicly shamed by being locked in a cage. This cage is in the frame when the newly married Kate follows her husband out into the rain, prompting a memory of his uncouth behaviour at Hortensio’s house. Penelope Houston (Spectator (10 March 1967)) saw that, ‘for all its extravagances, this is by no means a romantic Shrew’, and she commented: ‘No question either, that for this Petruchio Kate’s dowry remains emphatically the first of her attractions. I can’t remember a production which lays more stress on the financial side of the marriage bargain.’ In the play, Petruchio tells Hortensio that he seeks ‘one rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife’ (1.2.66) whether she be ‘foul’, ‘curst’ or ‘shrewd’ (68–9). Shakespeare satirizes the commercial priorities of a marriage transaction through Grumio: Nay, look you sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is. Why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses. Why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal. (1.2.76–81) Grumio’s lines expose the evils of the marriage market in which a man might choose an unsuitable partner for her fortune and in which a woman might find a ‘mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen’ (3.2.10) foisted upon her. In Zeffirelli’s film, Petruchio inspects the silver as soon as he enters Baptista’s house. Pleased with the generous dowry on offer, Petruchio is prepared to match it with a settlement for the widow of ‘all my lands and leases whatsoever’ (2.1.121). A reaction shot shows Baptista’s eagerness to have this offer confirmed. Alexander Walker (Evening Standard (2 March 1967)) described Michael Hordern ‘huffing and puffing like a small shunting engine anxious to hook his shrewish daughter on to the first willing man’.




Zeffirelli adds an unbroken sequence in which Petruchio’s relentless pursuit of Kate tropes the stories of Io surprised and raped by Jove and Daphne’s narrow escape from Apollo depicted in the erotic paintings referred to in the Induction. At first Taylor’s Kate seems to enjoy the sport of the chase, confident that she can win on her home ground. She climbs up into the granary and heaps sacks of grain on top of the trap to stop him but Petruchio forces the door open. She climbs higher, retrieving the ladder, but he swings across on a rope. Finally, at the top of the barn, she bolts a heavy door fast but he smashes through the light brickwork until the fun turns to alarm. Burton’s tone is menacing as he repeats, ‘And will you, nill you, I will marry you’ (2.1.270). Kate sees she is cornered. Her figure is framed against the open sky as she backs out with a cry, ‘I’d rather die’. For a split second the spectator thinks she is going to jump and this idea is registered in a reaction shot from Petruchio who shows a flash of fear: ‘my twenty thousand crowns!’ The viewer then realizes that the opening leads onto the roof and that Kate intends to climb across it. They fall through the roof, landing in the wool shearings. Petruchio is astride Kate and has her arms pinned. When she climbs out of the wool, the spectator sees that she is injured. There is a cut to the concurrent financial wrangling between Baptista and Bianca’s suitors, which nicely qualifies the previous shot of Petruchio’s supporting arm around the limping Kate to the surge of Nino Rota’s music. The tease of a romantic resolution is dramatically snatched as the camera cuts to a view of Petruchio steering Kate across a gallery with her arm behind her back. The cut to Baptista and the suitors watching from below aims to capture the comic effect of their wonder and disbelief that the match has been made so suddenly. Zeffirelli extends the sequence significantly by having Kate forced to walk the length of the gallery. Petruchio puts pressure on the trapped arm, making her wince with pain. He warns: ‘Never make denial. I must and will have Katherine to my wife’ (2.1.279). It is unclear whether Baptista and the suitors can see Petruchio turn the key in the lock. He descends in triumph and Kate, like a regressive inmate, watches through the tiny window of her ‘cell’ and sinks down, bringing her fingers to her mouth in comfort. This is a particularly shocking sequence but much depends on how much autonomy the spectator attributes to Kate/Taylor. Barbara Hodgdon argues that the film ‘capitalizes on her attraction for Burton’ and that when she looks out of the locked room ‘an extreme close-up of one of Taylor’s famous violet eyes, turns her gaze into a spectacle in which viewers meet their own voyeurism’.74 Hodgdon writes: ‘Kate sinks into a thoughtful pose; and a smile crosses her face as the sound track’s soft, romantic music expresses her private pleasure.’75




It should be remembered, however, that Shakespeare gives Kate only one final line of protest in this scene, ‘I’ll see thee hanged on Sunday first’ (2.1.299). In Zeffirelli’s film Kate voices the line but is bundled inside the room and locked in, from where she repeats it. The Evening Standard (2 March 1967) commented that Burton’s Petruchio ‘finally strong-arms her into her bedroom with the oath “I will marry you!”, the last word of which he bites off like a bullet casing’. The Financial Times (3 March 1967) remarked: ‘the situation ceases altogether to be comic and is instead a Hammer horror in the Gaslight mould’. An interview with Elizabeth Taylor reveals a surprising reversal of tactics for the inserted wedding scene. The woman who had been locked in her room now appears to buy into the material gain of her new position. She takes her father’s hand and descends imperiously, richly dressed, to inspect the display of wedding gifts including the finest linen. Godfrey Blakeley (Weekend Telegraph (15 July 1966) ) interviewed Taylor about the proposed scene: ‘She is just a little dewy,’ says Elizabeth Taylor ‘But because of the marriage, not because of him … She arrives at the church wearing “the give-away-nothing” expression much affected by princesses whose marriages have been arranged.’ Petruchio delays the marriage service by a coughing fit, then by pretending to fall asleep and finally by searching for the ring. Kate waits until the last possible moment to say ‘I do not’ but the final word is lost as Petruchio stops her mouth with a long kiss. Her earlier composure now lost, she cries out in distress, ‘Oh no!’ and ‘Father!’ but no one hears in the general mêlée. The film cuts to the merriment of the bridal feast where the elder daughter’s moment of triumph in finally gaining public approval is undercut by the mercenary motives for the marriage. The film cuts to her view of Petruchio handing a large coffer of her father’s gold to Grumio. When Petruchio refuses to stay and carries her away from the guests she grips the wall either side of the open door and screams for her father. Petruchio’s first action on entering his own house is to fling some of the gold coins at his servants, announcing that his plan to ‘wive it wealthily’ has been a success. In the bridegroom chamber, Kate weeps but then smiles as an idea takes root. Kate’s appearance next morning, feather duster in hand, has prompted some critics to feel that she is transformed from a spirited woman to a less interesting housewife. This is not the case because the





Petruchio. Kate.

How fares my Kate? Ill.

He tries again: Petruchio. Kate.

Mistress, what cheer? Faith, as cold as can be.

Of course, the film works hard to show that Petruchio loves her throughout. He is taken aback by her bedraggled state when she enters his house but covers his confusion by abusing the servants. He kisses her tenderly on the nape of the neck in the bed chamber but then bungles his attentions, making her flee to the bed, where she grabs a warming pan and strikes him. There is a cut to Petruchio watching her asleep, before waking her gently. Zeffirelli catches the emotional distance between the couple in a medium shot of them seated side by side at the banquet with nothing to say. Petruchio covers his confusion again with an angry outburst, ‘Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!’ (5.2.12). Mutuality is achieved through Kate’s sincere delivery of the submission speech to a shocked Petruchio, who is even more shocked to receive such passionate kisses. However, Kate subverts his autonomy by waiting until he turns in triumph to the men. Quickly, she raises Bianca and Hortensio’s new wife (the ‘Widow’), plants a placating kiss on her sister’s cheek, and leaves both her ‘sisters’ to guard her rapid exit into the crowd. Thus Zeffirelli’s much underrated film brings a new dark element to the story of Petruchio’s wooing and wiving but leaves us with Kate’s belated consent and regained autonomy. Michael Bogdanov (1978) and Lindsay Posner (1999/2000) In modern times, some theatre directors have compensated for Kate’s silence in the ‘wooing’ scene by presenting a fierce physical struggle. Michael Bogdanov’s RSC production in 1978 is famous for its coup de théâtre. Audiences were shocked when a violent drunken man in the theatre auditorium argued savagely with the usherette about his ticket, climbed onto the stage and demolished the Italianate set. In this way,



director first cuts to a disorientated Petruchio (waking after little sleep) who discovers that Kate has undermined his authority by managing the household. She ignores his pleasantries as she organizes the servants:

Bogdanov placed modern sexual politics as the agenda for the ensuing bitter struggle between Sly/Petruchio (Jonathan Pryce) and Hostess/ Kate (Paola Dionisotti). Jane Ellison (Evening Standard (5 May 1978)) remarked: ‘This is the first production of The Taming of the Shrew I have seen which is not infected with the deadly boisterousness of the Kiss Me Kate variety. Bogdanov has decided, rightly, that the play is essentially serious.’ The production was not without comic moments. The drunken Sly/Petruchio took a bath in a shell-shaped tub, assisted by immaculately suited servants (Botticelli’s ‘Venus’ rising after a night of debauchery). However, the play’s darker elements were never far away. Norah Lewis (Birmingham Mail (5 May 1978)) remarked how the huntsmen introduced ‘an atmosphere of savagery’ (they threw a bloodied fox pelt on the sleeping tinker). When (as servants) they brought titillating photographs to Sly/Petruchio in his bath, it was an unpleasant signal that the ‘hunt’ was on. In Act 2, Scene 1, Baptista (Paul Brooke) sat at a large gilt desk, calculator to hand while the men agreed the terms of the pre-contract. The promptbook states at 2.1.123: ‘Grumio takes a contract out of case and hands it to Petruchio, who hands it to Baptista.’ 76 Hortensio arrived to report his lack of success in teaching Kate to play the lute. Petruchio’s lines of admiration for Kate, ‘Now by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e’er I did’ (2.1.159–60) were cut, adding to the idea that marriage was principally a financial transaction, not a love match. Bogdanov’s production marked the ‘wooing’ scene as the first stage of a violent Foucauldian legal process.77 The contract was produced and handed to Baptista before Kate arrived. The promptbook shows that following Petruchio’s line, ‘Good Kate, I am a gentleman’ (2.1.220), she ‘slaps him across the face’ at ‘That I’ll try’ (221). The promptbook then indicates: ‘Grabs her by the arms … she struggles to escape, and they grapple throughout next section of the scene until he lets her go.’ 78 During the struggle ‘Petruchio holds Kate’s wrists’, ‘throws Kate on floor and crouches [up stage] of her’. Petruchio, sat on the edge of Baptista’s desk, announced, ‘Thus in plain terms: your father has consented/That you shall be my wife’ (2.1.268–9), and stopped her protests by ‘holding her wrists again’.79 Baptista, Tranio and Gremio returned, and at this point, Grumio entered on the gallery with the direction ‘and waits there unnoticed’. 80 Kate was forced to join hands with Petruchio while a flash from the gallery revealed Grumio securing photographic proof of the




witnessed espousal. The marriage contract was then signed. Kate struck Petruchio and ran out but her fate was sealed as Petruchio collected the contract from Baptista. Petruchio and Grumio exited, and Baptista immediately resumed contractual negotiations for Bianca’s marriage using a calculator, which exploded when totalling the wealth of Lucentio’s argosies. The introduction of comic relief necessarily lightened the dismal process. The New Statesman (12 May 1978) commented: ‘Certainly, Bogdanov is only following Shakespeare’s lead when he emphasizes that it’s money rather than love that absorbs many of the characters, not least Petruchio himself.’ After the violent defeat of Kate in the ‘wooing’ scene, her appearance in a white wedding dress and veil symbolized her conformity to institutionalised marriage. The ‘institution’ was itself parodied as umbrellas were produced against the typical British weather, spoiling ‘her’ day. More comic stage business ensued as a brass band played ‘Another Opening, Another Show’ from Cole Porter’s Kiss Me, Kate (1948), but the film reference had a darker purpose in parodying a tradition of farcical and romantic Shrews. The taming scenes in Bogdanov’s production were particularly brutal. Sally Aire (Plays and Players (July 1978)) commented that Dionisotti’s Kate arrived at Petruchio’s house in ‘a filthy white dress and a man’s jacket, looking like an Irish potato famine refugee at Ellis Island, her face growing gaunter by the minute’. The promptbook suggests the intended cruelty: as a plate of food is brought near her ‘Petruchio holds her by the shoulders so she cannot eat’; when he destroys the tailor’s gown ‘Kate weeps’ and during his homily ‘she puts her head on Petruchio’s arm’ but he ‘takes his arm away’. Michael Billington’s comments (Guardian (7 May 1978)) show that the through-line of forced consent could make sense of the final speech: Only in the final scene, set around the green baize table in a haze of cigar smoke does Bogdanov’s approach start to pay handsome dividends. Dionisotti delivers Kate’s speech of submission with a tart, stabbing irony while Pryce shame-facedly grinds his cigar butt and runs his fingers through his hair. Confronted with the logic of his own actions, he quails; and when she ventures to kiss his shoe, he instantly withdraws his foot. It is the best interpretation of this scene I remember; but one has to wade through a lot of wife-beating to get to it.





But, he [Petruchio] also suggests, impressively, that his cruelty does not come to him easily. He is even nervous of her. And when finally Kate publicly acknowledges him as master, he listens as if in shame, and will not let her kiss his foot. The pair have fallen in love. Robert Cushman (Observer (7 May 1978)) recalled seeing Petruchio remember ‘to rake in the chips’ after winning the bet on the women’s obedience while Baptista ‘conscientiously writes a large cheque for the reformed Kate’s second dowry’. In his view, the production was ‘intelligently ambiguous about the play’s ethics; “Peace it bodes and love and quiet life” as Petruchio says, but only on masculine, mercantile terms’. Dionisotti’s comments suggest that the possibilities for corruption at the heart of sixteenth-century marriage practice and a legacy of exploitation in the modern world have damaged human relationships: ‘the last image was of two very lonely people. The lights went down as we left – I following him, the others hardly noticing we’d gone … They just closed ranks around the green baize table.’81 In recent years, as Leah Marcus has observed, some directors have opted for the complete framing device from The Taming of A Shrew in order to soften the brutality of the taming scenes.82 This can have a happy pay-off when the play’s bully is reduced to a boasting little man who is foolhardy enough to imagine he can use taming tactics on his wife. In my view, however, this pay-off hardly compensates for the degree to which Kate can become object rather than subject of the inner play. Lindsay Posner’s touring RSC production (1999–2000) took this risk by framing the story of Katherine and Petruchio as website entertainment for the uncouth Sly (Stuart McQuarrie). The play began in modern dress. The hunting set in vivid red riding habits alighted on the drunken man and initiated the hoax. The arrival of the travelling players was cut with the play moving swiftly on to the baiting of Sly with Bartholomew (Ryan Pope) dressed as his Lady. This was smoothly done with the page smartly putting Sly in his place when he made advances. Sly was then left alone to taste more pleasures with a desktop computer where he tried to log on to a porn site. He called up a web site entitled ‘Taming Room, Politics and Power’. At first the words



Of course, by choosing to deal with the issue of forced consent, Bogdanov’s production could not produce a final retrospective consent to assure playgoers of a final mutuality in the couple. Albeit, John Barber (Daily Telegraph (6 May 1978)) made the attempt:

‘access denied’ appeared on a large screen at the back of the stage before he successfully logged on to a site showing the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of The Taming of the Shrew. Sly disappeared from the action to reappear as Petruchio in a virtual reality that saw him playing the part of a violent, coarse sadist who enjoyed bullying his wife. As Benedict Nightingale wryly observed (The Times (29 October 1999)), ‘Anyone addicted to surfing the Net for porn would surely be disappointed to end up with a three-hour Elizabethan comedy in period costume.’ However, the inference was clear: this play gratified the tastes of someone with a perverted sense of pleasure. By implication then, the theatre audience was prompted to question their motives in wanting to see it. This was an intelligent start but its effect was to cast Kate (Monica Dolan) as the object of our gaze, reducing her autonomy. This effect was reinforced by the way the production isolated Kate in the early scenes. Baptista (Colin McCormack) was a cold father rather than an exasperated one. His preference for Bianca was clear, adding a sense of justice to Kate’s retort, ‘What, will you not suffer me?’ (2.1.31). Petruchio’s boorish behaviour in the ‘wooing’ scene was not mitigated by any sense of attraction between the couple. He circled Kate until he could grab her from behind, lifting her up and holding her tightly against his chest. While she struggled ineffectually he forced her to listen to his witticisms, ‘For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous’ (244), much to the audience’s amusement. After releasing her, he advised her that her father had consented to the match. His tone became determined and chilling, ‘And will you, nill you, I will marry you’ (270). Hands were joined quickly. Petruchio set the date, kissed Kate and immediately dropped her on the floor. There was a brief view of the subject Kate when she spat at her father for forcing her into the marriage but the resistance seemed short-lived. After this, a traumatized Kate emerged from the wedding for which Petruchio turned up in a dress, but any suggestion of selfemasculation was to prove deceptive. In his own house, his behaviour was particularly brutal. He punched a servant savagely and repeatedly in the stomach and kicked him. Kate’s bedraggled appearance at Petruchio’s house was extremely disturbing in the performance I saw at The Swan in Stratford.83 Her dress was grimy and she appeared to be the victim of abuse. Certainly at Stratford many playgoers lapped up the ‘comic’ business including the vicious beating and kicking of servants. It became apparent that the production chose to reproduce violence and misogyny as an intelligent




Figure 2. Petruchio (Stuart McQuarrie) restrains Kate (Monica Dolan) in Lindsay Posner’s The Taming of the Shrew (1999).

statement about the complicit investment by consumers of the ‘entertainment’. This was made explicit when McQuarrie framed the question ‘He that knows better how to tame a shrew,/Now let him speak’ (4.1.197–8) to challenge the theatre audience. McQuarrie studied parts of the audience in turn and waited for a response, causing amusement mingled with discomfort. The scene with the haberdasher showed the men clearly enjoying the joke while a desperately weak, starving woman looked likely to faint. The production at Telford seemed to lighten the scene somewhat with Kate at least capable of noticing their tomfoolery. Overall McQuarrie diminished Dolan’s status in the play when on a number of occasions he picked her up and walked offstage with her. There was no reason at all why Kate should fall for her tamer and the kiss in the street indicated the triumph of sadomasochism. Jane Edwardes commented: ‘Petruchio is an unstable, violent sadist who shows no glimmer of affection for his wife.’84 Charles Spencer referred to Monica Dolan’s performance as a ‘cowed, blank-voiced automaton’ at the end of the play.85 Reviewers were not wholly in agreement on this point and some felt that Kate had surrendered to get Petruchio into bed.86 Benedict Nightingale asked, ‘Is the dominatrix




agreeing to be dominated for the sexual fun of it?’87 This was certainly one explanation for Kate’s behaviour in Act 5 when she knelt at the end of the submission speech, placed her hand near Petruchio’s foot and, at his response, ‘Why, there’s a wench!’ (5.2.180), jumped on his lap and kissed him with fervour. There was a long pause after their exit while the assembled guests (and much of the theatre audience) struggled to comprehend what had just happened. The play returned to contemporary time as Petruchio metamorphosed into the drunken Sly on the ground outside a night club. As in the case of Bogdanov’s production, the pay-off made sense and was effective. The promptbook shows that Kate and Bianca ‘enter as modern women’ and at one point Bianca tries to help Sly to his feet but ‘accidentally pushes him over’.88 The women responded to Sly’s ineffectual ravings with absolute disdain as they closed the door behind them, leaving him to stagger home unaided.

Coaxed consent Jonathan Miller (1980) and Bill Alexander (1992); Ruth Garnault (2002) A contemporary ploy that circumvents the consent issue is to figure Kate as the snarling termagant who can be coaxed by a patient man who dabbles in psychotherapy. This strategy assumes that marriage is the only way to cure a wilful woman and that ‘taming’ effects good mental health. Ruth Nevo’s study of the play chimes in accord with two productions that adopted this strategy, the BBC/Time-Life version, directed by Jonathan Miller in 1980, and Bill Alexander’s RSC production in 1992: Stage-manager and chief actor, master of homeopathy – ‘He kills her in his own humour’ as Peter says – Petruchio’s play-acting, his comic therapy, provides the comic device. One of a long line of Shakespearean actor-protagonists he holds the mirror up to nature, and shows scorn her own image.89 Miller’s Petruchio (John Cleese) had the right credentials, appearing like ‘an eccentrically pragmatic social worker’ in a sixteenth-century Puritan household,90 while Anton Lesser’s Petruchio could be seen ‘applying homeopathic doses of aggression’ at Stratford.91 Both directors emphasized Kate’s estrangement from Paduan society through her




self-willed neurosis. Sarah Badel in Miller’s production was ‘really stark mad’ while Amanda Harris at Stratford was described as ‘stamping round the set, her out-thrust jaw locked in a perpetual snarl’.92 Reviewers’ responses reveal the dangers of approaches that efface the issue of forced consent by making Kate’s situation ‘a single peculiar case history’.93 Both productions suggested that ‘shrewish’ behaviour originated in individual psychology and sibling rivalry, accentuated by a father who favoured one daughter more than the other. In an interview with Tim Hallinan, Miller remarked, ‘In this situation of feeling unloved, she behaves unloved. This is a very common psychological consequence of the withdrawal of love from a parent.’94 In these circumstances, Petruchio took the father’s place as an authority figure but one prepared to take Kate’s part. Miller’s version dispensed with the Induction and set the play in ‘a carefully documented social context’, the Elizabethan mercantile upper-middle classes.95 Susan Willis describes Miller’s use of a Vermeer painting Young Lady and Gentleman at the Virginal (also known as The Music Lesson), ‘which he reproduced exactly – furniture, fittings, and stances – in the course of the wooing scene’.96 The iconography of the espousal in Miller’s version also recalls the famous painting by Jan Van Eyck, The Betrothal of the Arnolfini, painted in 1434. Kate and Petruchio act out their wooing in front of a mirror positioned above a virginal, an action that constructs the betrothal for the viewer to bear witness. The art historian E. H. Gombrich writes of the Arnolfini portrait: The young woman has just put her right hand into Arnolfini’s left and he is about to put his own right hand into hers as a solemn token of their union … In the mirror at the back of the room we see the whole scene reflected … We do not know whether it was the Italian merchant or the northern artists who conceived the idea of making this use of the new kind of painting, which may be compared to the legal use of a photograph, properly endorsed by a witness.97 Despite her earlier manic howls, the wooing is a much quieter affair than the Burton–Taylor screenplay, and Sarah Badel’s witty exchanges are given more emphasis. Petruchio establishes his ‘good’ intentions in the wooing scene. In contrast to Richard Burton’s brash entrance into Baptista’s house in Zeffirelli’s film, John Cleese is




firm but patient as he waits while the disguised Tranio (Anthony Pedley) urges Lucentio’s suit. Petruchio’s own mercantile transaction is conducted quickly and he reacts to Baptista’s offer of 20,000 crowns with studied restraint. The camera picks him out at various points during these negotiations, straining towards the arched doorway for a sight of Kate. Cleese makes his admiration clear when he refers to ‘thy beauty sounded,/Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs’ (2.1.191–2). The psychotherapy begins in earnest with Petruchio’s response to Kate’s line, ‘If I be waspish, best beware my sting’ (2.1.211). Petruchio emphasizes his purpose, ‘My remedy is then to pluck it out’ (212) to which Badel’s Kate replies almost wistfully, ‘Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies’ (213). When the men return, Petruchio is shown seated in medium shot regaling them with the tale of his ‘success’ while Kate’s reactions are shown in close-up. Her silence can be interpreted as both a response to the speed of events and to her deep reflection on the unexpected personal attention she is at last receiving. Petruchio folds his arms tightly around her so that Baptista (John Franklyn-Robbins) can take their joined hands before witnesses. A shot shows Petruchio holding her arm behind her back as they exit, indicating the coercive element of his psychotherapy. Baptista’s unearthly screech of joy that the match is concluded strikes an unpleasant note, suggesting that Kate has long lacked the affection she craves from her father. The set for Petruchio’s house is a room with bare boards, low ceiling and minimal furniture, suggesting Puritan austerity. The ‘bridal chamber’, curtained off from view, connotes continence, perhaps sexual repression. Malcolm Bradbury (Times Education Supplement (31 October 1980)) remarked, ‘Cleese’s comic gift is to indicate that sexuality is horror anyway, and that all true relations are with one’s betters or inferiors.’ Cleese’s approach to the part is essentially serious though he has bursts of eccentric behaviour (clucking like a hen), familiar to viewers of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers. The thought is there that Kate has escaped one mad, repressive patriarch for another. However, Miller attempts to mitigate the cruelty of the taming scenes by suggesting that Petruchio suffers too in the process (an idea used in Bill Alexander’s production). Stanley Wells observed that Petruchio’s soliloquy ‘Now have I politically began my reign’ was not delivered as a kind of defensive challenge to the audience but that John Cleese spoke the lines ‘in a quiet close-up, a moment of exhausted selfcommunion as Petruchio yawned over a candle, serious and purposeful even in his fatigue’.98




For mutuality to be achieved, the spectator has to accept that this Kate wants the Puritan patriarchal guidance that Petruchio offers. Clearly she does because the kiss in the street is sincere. However, Russell Davies (Sunday Times (28 October 1980)) was unsure of Cleese’s success: ‘He made sense of the part, the idea being that Kate finally sees the funny side of him. But was the funny side really there? Or was he a sermonising didactic oaf of impenetrable gawkiness and rather fortunate charm?’ Unhealthy hysteria manifests itself at times in Miller’s production. When Kate finally discovers a funny side to Petruchio she enters the game with Vincentio in earnest but the effort is too much and she explodes into hysterical laughter. Nancy Banks-Smith (Guardian (24 October 1980)) described her ‘lashing feebly at Petruchio as if to say “Oh, no. Stop it. Don’t.” The very image of an actress corpsing.’ Miller creates an interesting film in terms of early modern marriage practice and, unlike some productions, Baptista is not won over immediately when Lucentio (Simon Chandler) and Bianca (Susan Penhaligon) admit to a clandestine ceremony. Baptista is clearly furious when he takes Lucentio aside and says angrily, ‘But do you hear, sir, have you married my daughter without asking my good will?’ (5.1.121–2). Miller’s version celebrates the right approach to marriage, symbolized through the finale with its Puritan hymn, emphasizing the harmony and orderliness of married life. Kate seats herself at the table on Petruchio’s level to speak the line ‘my hand is ready’. Retrospective mutuality has been achieved including a degree of equality in the marriage. This may have worked for Puritan playgoers but cloys somewhat for modern ones. Kate places her hand on her husband’s and smiles in complete unanimity, a cue for an embrace and an acceptable married kiss. The Guardian reviewer, Nancy Banks-Smith was not won over: Jonathan Miller, the director of the play and new producer of the Shakespeare series, is said to seek a sixteenth-century solution and see Petruchio as a Puritan. Hum. Sort of ‘He for God only. She for God in him’ as Milton put it? Milton’s wife left him. Bill Alexander’s production (1992) sought a modern connection through the use of the complete framing device from The Taming of A Shrew. The production took an ironic view of Thatcher’s England and its class divide, portraying the Lord and his hunting party as modern city slickers, ‘Sloane’ types or ‘Yuppies’. Curiously, Elizabethan marriage practice would serve up a moral lesson to the moderns.




Without undue reverence for the 1594 version or the Folio version, the director (like Bogdanov) inserted a script of his own. The additions included ‘Lord Simon’s party’ to victimize the drunken Sly (Maxwell Hutcheon) found collapsed outside the Ugly Duckling, a reference to a real Stratford ale house, the Dirty Duck, frequented by actors and playgoers. The opening dialogue between the well-dressed Lord Simon Llewellyn (Dominic Mafham), the Hon. Hugo Daley-Young (Dorian MacDonald), Lady Sarah Ormsby (Catherine Mears) and The Hon. Peter Sinclair (Barnaby Kay) established that this was to be a play about class: Simon. Hugo. Simon. Sarah. Peter. Hugo. Simon.

What’s this? Is he dead? Is he breathing? He’s breathing. He reeks of beer. How beastly. Look at him lying there like a pig. How foul. Leave him alone, don’t touch him. Simon, he’s disgusting. He’s probably working class. (This is a joke! They laugh) And he definitely smells! How loathsome.99

The production established the upstage area, an oak-panelled ancestral hall, as the represented world or locus (in Robert Weimann’s analysis) while the bare boards downstage represented the players’ world or platea, an area capable of subverting the locus.100 The Chief Player/Petruchio (Anton Lesser) established an early class antagonism with the travelling players’ modern patrons. Lord Simon confided, patronizingly: ‘One of our number tonight is a little odd … A friend of my father who’s just turned up, not one of us exactly, probably never seen a play before’, to which Lesser replied tight-lipped, ‘There’s no need to worry’.101 However, as any study of marxist-feminist issues might have told him, liberating victims of class discrimination does not automatically eliminate patriarchy. Lord Simon’s earlier chilling pronouncement, ‘The drunk needs teaching a lesson. We’ll mess about with his mind for a bit’, would inevitably connect with the taming strategy Petruchio planned for Kate. Anton Lesser shared John Cleese’s approach in establishing an early admiration for Kate (Amanda Harris). He entered with manifest bravado but without looking at her as he announced spiritedly, ‘Good morrow, Kate – for that’s your name, I hear’ (2.1.181). As she replied, they exchanged looks and the moment was held to establish mutual attraction. Unlike Fairbanks, Burton and Pryce, this Petruchio was determined not to restrain her by force and hesitated to use the word





I liked Anton Lesser’s Petruchio enormously. He is miraculously free from male hang-ups over his own potential domination by Kate. I had always thought of Petruchio as deprived of love like Kate. But not this one. He respects women … Lesser asserts a kind of Italianate charm over the whole process of courtship.102 Kate’s reaction was somewhat different. After refusing to give her hand to Petruchio, she refused to allow Baptista to join their hands to establish a pre-contract. Seeing the men each shake hands, she screamed in frustration at the assumption that she had consented. However, when Petruchio failed to turn up for the wedding she spoke her line wistfully, ‘Would Katherine had never seen him though!’ (3.2.26). Charles Spencer (Daily Telegraph (3 April 1992)) observed that (like Cleese) Anton Lesser had ‘moments of chilling ferocity’ that made it difficult to understand why Kate would finally declare her love and devotion rather than ‘biff the little tyke on the nose’. In the Induction Lord Simon hurt Sarah for ‘crossing’ him when she recoiled at the plan to persuade Simon’s brother Rupert to play drag. Lesser’s Petruchio mirrored this behaviour when as patriarchal lord of his own home (after the wedding) he wreaked class vengeance on Lord Simon’s Party who now held scripts as his servants. The opportunity to trounce his patrons was clever and potentially funny. However, this left Petruchio as saviour of the working classes but victimizer of women since the script required him to kick Sarah and slap Ruth across the face. With Kate, however, Petruchio showed restraint. Like Cleese, Lesser suffered in the process of enlightening Kate but would not show physical violence towards her. After the episode with the tailor she sat defeated, gloomily reflecting that she was never likely to have a beautiful gown to wear. Lesser’s Petruchio showed compassion by touching her hair but when Kate disputed the time of day he exploded in fury: ‘Look what I speak, or do, or think to do,/You are still crossing it’ (4.3.189–90). Paul Taylor (Independent (3 April 1992)) commented: ‘Lesser’s vehement, overwrought Petruchio seems to be wrestling with himself as much as with his froward bride, as though obscurely



‘tame’ at 2.1.275: ‘For I am he am born to tame you, Kate.’ Even Cleese held Kate’s arms tightly for the betrothal but Lesser only asked for her hand (in fact she spat on his). As an apparently understanding man of the 90s, Lesser sought to establish his credentials with a modern audience. Garry O’Connor was impressed:

anguished that his rough methods are the only ones he knows to work.’ Petruchio’s psychotherapy reached its climax in the ‘sun and moon’ episode where the ‘overwrought’ Anton Lesser rasped in exasperation, ‘I say it is the moon that shines so bright’ (4.5.4). As, falteringly, Kate grasped what it was he wanted from her she responded with growing confidence. Lesser coaxed the words from her as one would coax a hesitant child to recite a poem just learned: And be it moon, or sun, or what you please; And if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. (4.5.13–15) Vincentio’s arrival saw them performing to each other so that their lines became moments of mutual discovery and recognition. Petruchio’s lines to Vincentio became charged with deeper meaning because he was really talking to Kate: ‘What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty/As those two eyes become that heavenly face?’ (4.5.31–2). She threw herself wholeheartedly into the game, adding a subtext to her lines that asked forgiveness: ‘Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking’ (49), and she acknowledged her new understanding, ‘everything I look on seemeth green’ (47). The kiss in the street became a public affirmation of mutuality and confirmed their marriage retrospectively. Kate seemed shy of Petruchio, hanging her head after offering a quick peck of a kiss. Then reaching up to touch his face she initiated a real kiss. Romantic music accompanied their embrace and the lights dimmed for a very long kiss, held deliberately until the audience finally broke the silence with appraising laughter. As they drew close the couple faced upstage to confront the on-stage Sloanes giving a surprising moral message about the value of mutuality achieved through sixteenth-century marriage practice. Turning back to face the theatre audience, Petruchio asked Kate, ‘Is not this well?’ (5.1.139) and on the line ‘Better once than never, for never too late’ (140), he took a ring from his finger and placed it on hers. This unexpected twist suggested that he had all along taken consent to be provisional and that the legality of the marriage depended upon her final choice. After this, the submission speech was obviously going to be a tribute to her husband’s long-suffering patience as well as a mutual joke on the assembled guests. At one point Amanda Harris turned to Petruchio as if to say, ‘Am I doing all right?’ and on the line ending ‘external parts’ (5.2.168) she laughed at her own skill in finding a rhyme. The ‘chief player’ had succeeded in producing the performance he wanted.




Amanda Harris’s Kate could not really rise above the consequences of an interpretation that made Anton Lesser her actor-manager as both one of the travelling players and as Petruchio’s wife. Within these constraints her performance could never really be her own. Robert Smallwood suggests the muted success of the final speech and its inability to connect with modern audiences: ‘It seemed to be a coherent statement of a way of ordering things – a coherent statement, but in a play from another age.’103 Although cast as the deceiving sister, Rebecca Saire’s Bianca found more freedom in the role, happy to enjoy the attentions of her suitors including Gremio and Tranio (as himself). At Kate’s lines, ‘What is she but a foul contending rebel/And graceless traitor to her loving lord?’ (5.2.158–9), the promptbook shows that ‘all eyes’ are on Bianca. However, the play had shown, through the chief player/Petruchio, that resistance to oppression was necessary in an unjust society. Bianca’s actions might then be viewed differently. After all, the return to Sly at the end recalled not only his victim status but the parallels drawn with a starving Kate at Petruchio’s house. Sly had interrupted the ‘play’ to offer her food from the Lord’s table. It was appropriate that Rupert, who had been victimized by Simon and made to wear drag as Sly’s Lady, carried the sleeping tinker from the ancestral hall. The Lord’s party and the actors exited though Sarah and Simon were left on stage for a moment, their relationship shown to be unequal and therefore damaged. As the innkeeper helped Sly home, the players (now changed into modern clothes) entered, leaving the audience with interesting ambiguities about class power, patriarchy and marriage practice, and the struggle for autonomy historically by men and women. Wales Actors’ Company’s touring production (2002), directed by Ruth Garnault, chose to meet modern feminism head-on, acknowledging the play’s dialogic history through an ironic take on Kate’s situation. In this fast-paced production, Petruchio (Paul Garnault) coaxed Kate (Charlotte Rogers) out of her hostility and tantrums by an amused acceptance of the needs of modern women and the history of their struggle. The director Ruth Garnault announced in the theatre programme that the final speech could only make sense if the performance could ‘find the love in the relationship between Petruchio and Katherine’: I read accounts of other productions. We could pretend she doesn’t really mean it: she has her fingers crossed behind her back and her





Paul Garnault, former house-husband and the company’s artistic director, found the role of Petruchio hard to play in modern performance: I spent the rehearsals hating him. In the end I found that my only voice was to subvert – show images of men that women find hard to accept – men who may have the same qualities that women hold as their own. The part came to life for me and I was able to express my frustration as a man growing up in the sixties and seventies.105 The production worked to equalize the relationship by taking a number of opportunities to undermine Petruchio and emasculate him. This strategy began in the Induction when the hostess, having been abused by the drunken Sly/Petruchio, reappeared as one of the Lord’s servants so that she was now in on the joke. The servant forced to dress as Sly’s Lady looked put out rather than intimidated, and entered with confidence in a long blonde wig, ready to play the part. Thus only Sly/Petruchio was disempowered. As the locations were outdoors, the travelling players drove up in their van and prepared to play for the duped Sly who sat on the front row with the theatre audience. From here he interrupted and pressed to be allowed to take part and act. He was handed a trench coat and hat and metamorphosed into a Mafioso-type gangster, ready to do business with Baptista and battle with Kate. However, this ‘heavy’ approach was itself mocked in the production. In his wooing Petruchio emphasized ‘gold’s effect’ (1.2.92) but on meeting Kate (Charlotte Rogers) was obviously taken with her. The ‘wooing’ and betrothal were carried out quickly and boisterously, leaving Kate little chance to react. Petruchio emasculated himself at different times in the production, sealing his lips with tape to allow Kate leave to speak. Having demolished the prepared food at his house, Petruchio cooked for her and, still wearing his pinafore, brought the meat. When she failed to thank him, he feigned the hurt of a stereotyped housewife whose efforts in the kitchen were wasted, to strains of Try a Little Tenderness.106



tongue firmly in her cheek. Or we could play her as a Stepford wife – Petruchio has replaced the real Kate with an automaton. But these were cop-outs. I don’t believe that was what Shakespeare intended.104

Figure 3. ‘I never saw a better-fashioned gown.’ Kate (Charlotte Rogers) and Petruchio (Paul Garnault) in Wales Actors’ Company’s The Taming of the Shrew (2002).

In the scene with the tailor when Kate challenged her husband, ‘Why sir, I trust I may have leave to speak’ (4.3.73), Petruchio gestured to the audience that she should have leave to address them. After her line, ‘I will be free/Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words’ (80), he replied with amusement, ‘Why, thou say’st true, you little Germaine Greer you’. Equality and mutuality being assured, the kiss in the street sealed their love. Kate’s final speech was a sincere tribute to Petruchio, who knelt alongside her at its close. This was an intelligent production in which Petruchio’s psychotherapy was lightened considerably by his ability to mock himself. In comparison Cleese and Lesser were rather heavy-handed in their management of Kate, reducing her autonomy. However, Wales Actors’ Company left audiences with a dilemma. There was no Widow in the play and no last-minute subversion, so that, at its close, the sincere speech cast modern women playgoers as a community of wilful Biancas. There was some turning of heads and mutterings by the women at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival performance at Calton Hill. In contrast, the production seemed to be saying that it was impossible to






have this play both ways. The performance provided a plausible romantic outcome to a marriage arranged without consent – Kate was silent because she felt desire, but, by acknowledging a feminist history, it reminded playgoers that for sixteenth-century Biancas the struggle for equality was just beginning.


Defining the Alien in The Merchant of Venice

On his televized journey across the Sahara (2002), Michael Palin asks a Christian missionary how many Muslims have converted to Christianity but she refuses to answer his question, telling him it doesn’t matter whether it is hundreds or just one.1 Palin touches a nerve: a dialogic history of Christian-Muslim relations, which in Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice connects also with MuslimJewish relations and anxieties about ‘aliens’ and conversion. It is a commonplace that the dramatic structure of The Merchant of Venice moves between two worlds, Venice and Belmont. It has also been noted that mercantilist values attach not only to the famous Mediterranean trading city but also to Portia’s world where suitors pursue the wealth and beauty of a rich heiress. We associate the Prince of Morocco with the fairy tale plot of the three caskets but Renaissance spectators may have leapt to an altogether different view. The first reference to Morocco’s expected arrival appears just ten lines before Shylock’s first entrance. Portia makes her uncomfortable reference to ‘the complexion of a devil’ (1.2.127).2 Hard upon Shylock’s exit, after the ‘merry bond’ has been agreed, the stage direction based largely on the First Quarto is ‘Enter [the Prince of] Morocco, a tawny Moor all in white’; ‘all in white’ suggests the ceremonial colour in Islam.3 Shakespeare’s playgoers may have made a very old connection going back to the time of the First Crusade: ‘the linking of Muslims and Jews as enemies of the church and the faith’.4 Bernard Lewis writes: ‘in western Europe, Jews and Moors and, in eastern Europe, Jews and Turks were commonly named together in polemic, in exhortation, and even in regulations, local, royal, and papal, as the enemies of Christendom’.5 Allan Harris Cutler and Helen Elmquist Cutler argue that the medieval roots of anti-Semitism 57



3

can be traced to ‘the deep-seated Christian apprehension that the Jew, the internal Semitic alien, was working hand in hand with the Muslim, the external Semitic enemy, to bring about the eventual destruction of Indo-European Christendom’.6 Lewis argues that, while Muslims presented a military threat, Islam was not perceived as a strong religious threat whereas Jews posed a challenge to Christianity: ‘Being pre-Christian and not post-Christian, [Judaism] could not be dismissed as heresy or an aberration’.7 In modern times these religious positions have been the subject of renewed discussion in the wake of 11 September. In a study of MuslimJewish relations, Abdullah Stockton (Q-News (March–April 2002)) argues that historically Muslims ‘are closer to Judaism than to any other faith’ and that Islam is ‘the original, the primordial religion’. In an interview with Jonathan Freedland (Guardian (27 August 2002)), Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks talks about his latest book, The Dignity of Difference, in which he revisits the first 12 chapters of Genesis, ‘before Isaac and Ishmael part: the symbolic moment when Judaism and Islam begin their separate journeys’ in order to argue for an acceptance of difference.8 Lewis argues that of the Jews expelled from Spain in 1492, ‘by far the most important group were those who went to the Islamic lands, and more particularly, to the vast realms of the Ottoman Empire, in Europe, in Asia, and later also in Africa’.9 Brian Pullan describes how Venice became ‘the uneasy refuge of Portuguese New Christians or Marranos, often hesitating between Christianity and Judaism. For some of them Venice would be their point of departure for Ottoman Turkey’, where they might feel free to practise their faith.10 Muslim jurists would often take the view that forced conversions were invalid, thus enabling Jews who had undergone Christian baptism in Spain and Portugal to revert to Judaism.11 Bearing this latter point in mind complicates my response to Teatro de la Abadia’s production of The Merchant of Venice, directed by Hansgünther Heyme (Valencia, 2001). The modern camp production did not allude overtly to the expulsion of the Jews from Spain. However, I began to see how an audience might be implicated (as inquisitors) to Shylock’s forced conversion to Christianity when the actor (Gabriel Garbisu) stepped into a bath for a ritual immersion. Yet, given the knowledge that Venice was an escape route to Islamic lands, to what extent did early modern playgoers consider conversion as ultimately binding on Shylock? Indeed, Shakespeare’s play taps into fears




Defining the Alien in The Merchant of Venice 59

In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont. (5.1.14–17) Pullan points out that radical historians have disputed the Inquisition’s accounts of Marranos or crypto-Jews from Spain and Portugal pretending to be Catholics, secretly practising Judaism and taking the first opportunity to escape to the Ottoman Empire: ‘The suggestion that New Christians were secret judaizers was a convenient pretext for attacking them.’12 In the sixteenth century, however, these ideas persisted and the fear grew that ‘the treachery of these Marranos need not be confined to Spain, but could, in time of war with Islam, extend to all Christendom’.13 Joshua Trachtenberg explores the association of Jew with Muslim in early modern Europe, referring to several dramas of the period including Robert Wilson’s Three Ladies of London (1584) and Christopher Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta (1589–90). He argues: When the Turks moved north against the [Holy Roman] Empire in the sixteenth century, everywhere the cry arose spontaneously that the Jews were in league with them, serving as spies and in general as what we would call today ‘fifth columnists’.14 In The Three Ladies of London, Mercadorus, a Christian merchant, borrows from Gerontus, a Jew, and fails to pay him back. Threatened with arrest and prison, Mercadorus flees to Turkey and is prepared to embrace Islam. The Judge of Turkey warns Gerontus: ‘if any man forsake his faith, king, countrie, and become a Mahomet,/All debtes are paide, tis the lawe of our Realme, and you may not gainsay it’ (1712–15).15 The conniving Mercadorus refuses Gerontus’s generous offer, first to forgo the interest and then to accept only half of the debt. Mercadorus persists, ‘me will be a Turke I say,/Me be wearie of my Christes religion’ (1738–9). Finally, in order to save Mercadorus from becoming a Muslim, Gerontus waives the debt. This curious plot plays with an audience’s fears about unsafe conversions that are driven by expedient gain rather than religious loyalties. Oddly it is not the



that conversion is not binding, in its portrayal of Jessica even in marriage as the daughter who cannot be trusted:

Christian but the Jew who is appalled at the idea of embracing Islam. In this updated morality play, it is Gerontus who teaches Mercadorus how to be a good Christian. The Judge concludes that ‘Jewes seek to excell in Christianitie, and the Christians in Jewisness [sic]’ (1754), suggesting (for English playgoers) that Gerontus is part way to becoming a Christian, and is therefore less of a threat, while corrupt and greedy Christians who act unscrupulously risk becoming stereotyped Jews. The Judge’s response to Mercadorus’s generosity recalls Antonio’s response to Shylock’s ‘merry bond’: ‘The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind’ (2.1.175). However, Bassanio reminds the audience of Shylock’s stereotyped role as dissembler, ‘I like not fair terms and a villain’s minds’ (176). Two lines later Morocco enters. In The Jew of Malta, Barabas plots with Ithamore, his Turkish slave, who establishes his credentials by describing how he has spent his time ‘In setting Christian villages on fire’ (2.3.205), cutting travellers’ throats (209) and sprinkling powder on the stones where pilgrims kneeled at Jerusalem (210), laughing ‘to see the cripples/Go limping home to Christendom on stilts’ (209–14).16 Barabas persuades his daughter Abigail to feign conversion to Christianity in order to enter a nunnery and retrieve his gold. She throws the bags down to him in a scene echoed in Jessica’s elopement. Barabas plans to defeat his internal enemies by working with the Turks, the external enemies, though his duplicity finally ensnares him. It has been argued that Marlowe’s play proved popular in June 1594 (it was performed on four occasions) when Queen Elizabeth’s Portuguese-Jewish physician Dr Roderigo Lopez was executed. Margaret Hotine argues that the anti-Semitism displayed at Lopez’s trial, the postponement of his execution and the execution itself are ‘noteworthy’ (in the sense of exceptional) since ‘Jews were tolerated in late Elizabethan London’.17 Hotine cites an example given by C. J. Sisson ‘of a practising Jew who received a compassionate hearing in the courts when sued by a Christian, only two years later, in 1596’ (the year Shakespeare was writing The Merchant of Venice).18 She argues there were few Jews in England and they did not practise usury. Rather, as Thomas Wilson noted in A Discourse Upon Usury (1572) the English moneylenders were ‘worse than Jewes’.19 Arguably the cause of the anti-Semitism occasioned by the Lopez case was less to do with moneylending and more to do with the allegation of spying and the representation of the Jew as the internal alien working with an external enemy (in this instance, the Catholic King of Spain).




Research by Richard H. Popkin reveals the presence of an actual Jewish merchant from Venice in England from 1596 to 1600 and establishes a link with the Sultan of Morocco.20 The Jewish merchant was improperly taken as hostage in the Earl of Essex’s raid on Cadiz. Alonso Nunez de Herrera (Abraham Cohen de Herrera), born in Florence, was an aristocrat and a distinguished scholar. He became an agent for the Sultan of Morocco and was in Cadiz at the end of June 1596 on the sultan’s business. Popkin tells how Herrera wrote to Essex and to the Sultan of Morocco and was eventually released after Queen Elizabeth’s reply indicated that a mistake had been made.21 Popkin’s research points to Herrera’s concern to establish his credentials as a merchant on a trading mission for the Sultan of Morocco. Such a mission has particular significance in the sixteenth century since the Reformation enabled English merchants to defy the papal edict banning the export of munitions and foodstuffs from Christendom to the Islamic territories.22 Shylock refers to Antonio’s argosy ‘bound to Tripolis’ (Merchant, 1.3.18), a major port in Lebanon. Jews and Muslims were represented as a threat to European Christendom on the grounds of faith and military expansion, but such reservations were contradicted by sixteenth-century commercial practice. Lisa Jardine notes that in 1577 John Hawkins proposed ‘a lucrative mission eastwards, carrying a cargo of prohibited goods and making use of a trading safe-conduct negotiated by another English merchant with the Ottoman Sultan’.23 The Merchant of Venice negotiates definitions of ‘friendly’ and ‘unfriendly’ aliens revealing the contradictory subject status of the alien in law through the eyes of Western European trading nations in the period the play was written. Shylock is defined in Act 4 as the ‘internal Semitic alien’ whose rights in law have been provisional. Portia tells him: It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state, And the offender’s life lies in the mercy Of the Duke only, ’gainst all other voice. (4.1.344–52)




In English law ‘aliens’ were ‘generally those born outside the realm’, though children born in England to foreign parents were not aliens.24 Through Portia’s speech, the play defines Shylock as an alien, but possibly his daughter Jessica is not, and of course Jessica is allowed to inherit her father’s wealth. In early common law aliens had ‘virtually no enforceable rights at all’ but as J. H. Baker describes: England, however, was a trading nation, and it was commercially necessary to extend protection to aliens. This protection was originally specific to individuals, and conferred by royal letters of safe conduct. The recipient of such a document was an ‘alien friend’ (alien amy), and the common law increasingly gave rights to these friendly aliens, as opposed to alien enemies.25 In the trial scene, the Duke seems anxious to identify Shylock as an ‘alien friend’ who acts differently from ‘stubborn Turks and Tartars’ (Merchant, 4.1.31), but by making the reference he betrays an anxiety about such an association. As Halio notes, ‘Turks were classed with Jews, Infidels and Heretics’.26 The Duke urges Shylock to show that he merits a different type of legal treatment because the buoyancy of Venetian trading practice depended on the Jewish moneylenders’ abilities to provide cheap credit. Indeed, Walter Cohen argues that the Jews of Venice ‘contributed to the early development of capitalism not as usurers but as merchants involved in an international, trans-European economic network’.27 As Cohen argues, ‘to the English, and particularly to Londoners, Venice represented a more advanced stage of the commercial development they themselves were experiencing’.28 English playgoers in the late 1500s may have struggled with the unpalatable fact that ‘merchants were the leading usurers’.29 Stephen Greenblatt makes a similar point with reference to Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta: Marlowe quickly suggests that the Jew is not the exception to but rather the true representative of his society … Barabas is not primarily a usurer, set off by his hated occupation from the rest of the community, but a great merchant, sending his argosies round the world.30 Shylock exercises the privileges of an alien merchant who can bring personal actions by pursuing the forfeit of the bond through the courts. Shylock warns, ‘If you deny it, let the danger light/Upon your charter and your city’s freedom’ (Merchant, 4.1.37–8). Baker notes that




between 1450 and 1550 common-law courts allowed friendly aliens to bring personal actions and to own personal property (including the lease of a dwelling house), but an alien could not own real property.31 James Shapiro argues that despite the small numerical presence of aliens, ‘roughly four or five per cent of London’s population in the late sixteenth century’, anxieties about their presence contributed to exaggerated reports of their numbers, prompting the civic authorities to compile a census.32 Shapiro suggests that The Merchant of Venice acted as ‘a cultural safety valve’, deflecting ‘anti-alien sentiment into antiJewish feeling’.33 The Prince of Morocco shares Shylock’s situation to the extent that he is invited to seek friendly alien status; he may take part in the ‘lottery’ devised by Portia’s father and, should he win, may marry Portia. Dreams of owning Belmont tease the alien wooer but Portia has already signalled her disapproval: ‘If he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me’ (1.2.126–8). In the same way Shylock’s confidence in his friendly alien status, ‘I stand for judgement’ (4.1.102), proves to be a mistake. Graziano is only too pleased to emphasize the consequences of pursuing an action at law: thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou has not left the value of a cord; Therefore thou must be hanged at the state’s charge. (4.1.361–3) The invitation to stay as a friendly alien in Venice (or England) is rescinded and in fact expulsion is the unspoken threat beneath the coerced conversion to Christianity. Clearly, however, Shylock does not act like a victim in the play; his ability to preserve his internal friendly alien status through his economic activity is a mark of his success measured in the context of his own time. Shylock’s determination in plying the Duke ‘at morning and at night’ (3.2.275–81), his insistence on his bond according to law and, finally, the attention the case receives, ‘Twenty merchants,/The Duke himself, and the magnificoes/Of greatest port have all persuaded with him’ (3.2.277–9), all emphasize the seriousness with which the matter is viewed. Antonio recognizes this: The Duke cannot deny the course of law, For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied,





The State of Venice grants permission for the action to be pursued since, as Portia tells Shylock, Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. (4.1.174–6). In the same way, Portia must grant Morocco the right to ‘proceed’ in the trial of the caskets, despite her private fears that ‘the lott’ry of my destiny/Bars me the right of voluntary choosing’ (2.1.15–16). In the Venetian court Portia (Balthasar) begins by granting Shylock autonomy to pursue the case, casting herself as a servant of the law. Then, almost immediately, she overturns their respective positions, casting herself as the divine voice of a merciful God reminding the sinner of his Christian duty to forgive his fellow man. Mercy is ‘an attribute to God himself ‘ (4.1.192) and only those who seek it ‘Should see salvation’ (196). Similarly, at Belmont, the trial of the caskets begins by granting Morocco autonomy to pursue his fortune with the other wooers. Portia acts as a servant to her father’s will, telling Morocco that not withstanding the rules of the lottery, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have looked on yet For my affection. (2.1.20–2). In practice, their respective positions are reversed. Morocco appears at Belmont as ‘the spectacle of the homage-paying stranger’ familiar from stories of the black Magus and the legend of the Queen of Sheba’s arrival at Solomon’s court.34 Ania Loomba argues that ‘the most common form of representation of outsiders was to show them paying homage to European royalty’ and she gives the example of entertainments for Elizabeth at Kenilworth Castle in 1575 in which ‘it was arranged that a Hombre Salvagio or wild man should testify to the queen’s “glorie” ‘.35 Morocco’s paean to Portia corresponds with the panegyric familiar from literary allusions to Queen Elizabeth, whose hand in marriage was sought in vain by admirers: ‘Kinges and Kinges peeres who haue soughte farre and nye/But all in vayne to bee her



Will much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. (3.3.26–31)


All the world desires her: From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint. The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia. (2.7. 38–43) Jack D’Amico comments on the way in which the lottery constructs a view of what is ‘foreign’ from the safety of what is familiar: Portia’s father creates a situation that curbs his daughter’s freedom, yet allows the luxury of experience without its dangers. Since it appears that the suitors are not apprised of the test until after they have arrived, Portia has a chance to observe a number of foreigners from the safety of Belmont.37 Morocco’s first lines emphasize difference, ‘Mislike me not for my complexion’ (2.1.1.). The allusion to ‘burnished sun’ offers a vaguely topographical reference that is also a trope for heat and lust. Loomba argues that ‘Renaissance writings on Islam emphasise three things – that it is “cruel and bloody”; that it is “false” because its prophet Mohammed was an imposter; and that it is sensual and decadent’.38 Morocco fulfils these expectations: his personal courage in the field of battle figures the Orientalist account of Islamic military might, posing a threat to Christendom, By this scimitar That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince That won three fields of Sultan Suleiman. (2.1.24–6) However, traditionally the threatening ‘scimitar’ is safely managed in performance within the discourse of Italian comedy figuring Morocco ironically as the Spanish Il Capitano, the overbearing military adventurer who usually carries a long sword. One of his descriptions within the conventions of the commedia dell’arte is ‘matamoros’ or ‘killer of Moors’, the original Spanish mercenary, created by Francesco Andreini.39 His boasts include the claim that he ‘fought his way into the tent of the Sultan himself and dragged him through the camp



paramoures’.36 Morocco pays homage to Belmont’s mythologized and canonized ‘queen’:

while fighting off the entire enemy army with the other hand’.40 Thus the sword that symbolizes masculinity and sexual prowess is emptied of signification, and Morocco is emasculated. In the same way, his Muslim faith is belittled by the reference to ‘some god’ to direct his judgment (2.7.13). At Belmont, Morocco figures as a ‘stranger’, but playgoers are invited to view him from his own perspective too. The ‘gentle queen’ is invited to appreciate him from the more favourable perspective of ‘the bestregarded virgins of our clime’ (2.1.4–12). Morocco preserves his cultural identity: ‘I would not change this hue’ (2.1.11). He suggests that he be judged as he sees himself: ‘If thou beest rated by thy estimation,/Thou dost deserve enough’ (2.7.24–7). Some theatre and film directors have suggested that Shylock desires assimilation within European society, but, as in the case of Morocco, the playtext offers an opportunity to explore cultural identity itself. A Christian commonwealth is clearly not ready to accept other cultures. Lancelot tells Jessica, ‘This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs’ (3.4.21–2); inclusion comes at a price. Lorenzo points out that he has served the commonwealth better by converting a Jewish woman (Jessica) than Lancelot has by ‘getting up of the Negro’s belly’ (3.5.36–7) and, by implication, sullying the white Christian race. Modern audiences today acknowledge the likelihood that Lancelot forced himself upon an African slave. Shylock adds to this view in the following scene when he answers the Duke’s plea for mercy: What judgement shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchased slave Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them. Shall I say to you, ‘Let them be free, marry them to your heirs …’ (4.1.88–93) Morocco and Shylock are ‘aliens’ or ‘strangers’ who risk much by agreeing to be bound by Christian bonds. Morocco finds ‘a carrion Death’ in the golden casket, the terms of the lottery precluding marriage and suggesting the ending of his blood line. Jessica converts to Christianity, establishing an end to Judaic tradition. Through Portia’s mediating role at Belmont and in Venice the threat posed by the association of Jew with Muslim appears managed and resolved. Both men meet with rejection and are therefore punished for their attempts at inclusion.




However, depending upon choices in performance, there can be a sense of reinstated autonomy in both their exits. Morocco chooses to leave quickly: ‘Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart/To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part’ (2.7.76–7). Morocco exits ‘with his train’ and to the possible direction ‘flourish of cornetts’.41 Shylock urges: I pray you, give me leave to go from hence. I am not well. Send the deed after me, And I will sign it. (4.1.391–3) In modern performance (post-Holocaust) the defeat of the ‘alien’ Jew haunts the comic resolution of Act 5. Lorenzo accepts the special deed of gift to Jessica from Shylock by parodying the history of the Jews during the Exodus, ‘Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way/Of starvèd people’ (5.1.294–5). Jessica has no lines to reply but her silence, like Kate’s in The Taming of the Shrew, may still be eloquent.

Comic and tragi-comic aliens Theodor Komisarjevsky (1932) and Michael Langham (1960) Modern productions have sometimes sought comedy in defining the alien roles in the play, taking their cue from the title of the printed version, The Comical History of the Merchant of Venice (1600). Theodore (Fyodor) Komisarjevsky (Director of the Moscow Imperial and State Theatre until 1919) chose the fantasticated Harlequin world of the commedia dell’arte for his first production at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in 1932–33. Michael Langham directed the play for Peter Hall’s ‘Season of Shakespearean Comedy’ in 1960. The theatre programme suggests that Shakespeare’s comedy ‘matures’ in The Merchant of Venice but there is ‘a dark side that almost spoils the fun’.42 One might speculate that the ‘dark side’ would certainly be apparent in 1960 (post-Holocaust), and indeed Peter O’Toole played a dignified Shylock in the Henry Irving mould. However, unlike Irving’s romanticized portrayal of Shylock as a Levantine Jew in 1879, O’Toole’s portrayal was not wholly sympathetic. In 1932, Komisarjevsky was doing something new in rejecting the ‘almost completely standardized’ stage version associated with Irving.43 Shylock would not be the noble, tragic figure of Victorian sensibilities. With only ten days to rehearse, Komisarjevsky disclosed his plans for Shylock to the Birmingham Mail (7 July 1932): ‘I shall not have a sympathetic Shylock. The point of Shylock is revenge, and revenge can





It is possible that an Elizabethan finding himself in the Memorial Theatre tonight would have recognised in Mr. Randle Ayrton’s Shylock the Jew he had been accustomed to see played at the Globe. If he retained his taste for a little Jew-baiting he might have laughed uproariously at the despairing rage of the crafty alien usurer hoist with his own petard. Today, it seems inconceivable to imagine that a director would take such a risk. However, I had the opportunity to reflect on these ideas when, as a groundling at the new Globe in Bankside, London (1998), I found myself involved in a heated discussion. My colleague (and friend) was incensed at the production, directed by Richard Olivier, which she felt primed playgoers to laugh at Shylock, and was therefore anti-Semitic. I shared her concerns and was uneasy about the production. However, the performance certainly made me aware of the skill of the actor, and indeed the clown’s performance was remarkable. Earlier in my discussion, I referred to W. B. Worthen’s argument that historicist critics often see performance as something derived from the reading of a text, rather than as performativity, a practice with its own history, for example, clowning. As Pauline Kiernan observed, ‘Marcello Magni brought to the role of Launcelot Gobbo the kind of extemporizing skills for which Will Kemp was famous’.44 Magni mimed a range of possibilities for his own death: slitting his throat, hanging himself by an invisible halter, drinking poison from an invisible glass, drowning in an invisible sea and stabbing himself all over with an invisible dagger before stringing out his ‘intestines’.45 In my view, the Globe space granted the performer considerable stage presence and autonomy in the role. Norbert Kentrup delivered Shylock’s arguments both to his on-stage and Globe audiences, turning towards the groundlings, engaging them in debate and implicating them in the outcome. However, my colleague’s concerns find support in Kentrups’s comments, made later in an interview. His observations strike a chord with the effects of Komisarjevksy’s production: I think that the Globe can bring out the worst elements in the play, but I was pleased that the groundlings sometimes adopted a very



never be sympathetic.’ The effect is captured in a review in The Times (26 July 1932):


Komisarjevsky’s production must have been a visual feast. The director had previously devised expressionistic settings and costumes for the innovative Russian director, Vsevolod Meyerhold, whose stylistic theatre emphasized ‘the expressive power of the actor’s body’.47 The Birmingham Mail (26 July 1932) described how Komisarjevsky’s production began with ‘Harlequin fantastic in striped clothes and yard-high hat’, strutting on to the stage. The Daily Express (26 July 1932) referred to ‘this mechanically wonderful theatre’: The pillar of St Mark’s leaned drunkenly against a nightmare Venetian tower surrounded by a confusion of flying bridges. The set was riotously out of perspective and bathed in a pink glow. In his book, The Costume of the Theatre (1931), Komisarjevsky refers to the commedia dell’arte as ‘a perfect form of theatrical art’, and in a discussion of German Expressionism emphasizes the importance of the actor: As the creation of the illusion of reality is not the aim of art, the transformation of the human body becomes necessary on the stage. Such transformation is made possible by costume and the mask.48 Komisarjevsky describes how the costume accentuates the movements required in performance and gives one example of ‘a doll on hinges’.49 The Observer (31 July 1932) remarked that the director ‘draws Portia from the china-shop and Morocco, a perfect golliwog, from the toy-shop’, in a production that ‘has no period but that of eternal masquerade’. The director criticized playgoers who could not be ‘stirred by ideas’ and wished only to see before them ‘objects and people similar to those they meet with in their ordinary existence’.50 He expected playgoers to see Shylock and the Prince of Morocco as figures of fun. Shylock becomes associated with the Pantalone figure of the commedia dell’arte, characterized by his avarice and having a long memory – he ‘never forgets or forgives the slightest past transgression’.51 The Prince of Morocco becomes the boasting Captain, ‘originally employed by Pantalone to do his dirty work for him’.52 The stylistic intention seems clear, distancing the dramatic figures from history, but of course a



bad attitude towards Shylock; often they hated him. That helped me as an actor because I could fight with them. If strong feelings are expressed then you can react against them and that’s the greatest experience in theatre for me.46


And so we shall turn Portia into a piece of porcelain and make a blackamoor doll of his Highness of Morocco and a grimacing acrobat of Gobbo. But what of Shylock? We shall not sentimentalise him into a Type of the Oppressed Minority appealing to the League of Nations. He must be what he was, the butt of the Elizabethan crowd.53 On 4 February 1932 (just four months before the opening), the Birmingham Mail reported an address given by Dr A. Cohen at Birmingham Rotary Club deploring the effects of Shakespeare’s play, and informing members that the Central Conference of American Rabbis had been successful in getting the play banned from schools in many states. In September 1932 a report in Freethinker expressed concern at events in Europe: The election of a congress of Jewish people to meet in 1934 to consider protection of Jews in view of their critical situation was decided on at Geneva recently. The resolution was the outcome of a conference, and special mention was made of the endangering of the rights of citizenship and the ousting of the Jews from the economic life of some European countries. The curious thing is that Komisarjevsky wished to burlesque what he saw as the preposterous story of the play itself, in particular the way it granted Shylock a remedy in law and then took that remedy away, rendering the idea of justice a sham. For these reasons, the director wished to poke fun at Portia and Belmont and show the trial scene as a travesty of justice. The Doge’s court would sit in uniform dress, their faces covered by uniform masks, while in the background would be painted ‘a shadowy ensemble of the court crowd – the sort of people who gloat over sensations in our present-day courts’.54 In Belmont, Portia was the prized object everyone wanted to obtain and the suitors, including Morocco, were fools or tricksters. Jonathan Ash described the stage set designed by Komisarjevsky and Lesley Blanch: Away rolls his fantastic impression of Venice, all leaning pillars and crooked bridges, and up comes a tableau vivant with Portia and Nerissa posed in the garden at Belmont. The tableau does not stay at



narrative of denial is already inside history. Ivor Brown remarked that ‘the frank theatricalism of the whole was charming’, adding:


Komisarjevsky wanted all the young Venetian men to be ‘put in their place’ and shown as ‘the dissipated, fast, bright, young people like the crowd we have in London today’.56 At Belmont, Bassanio’s musings on ‘the outward shows’ of the caskets (3.2.73) became ‘a piece of hypocritical attitudinizing’, a comment on the immorality of the modern bourgeoisie.57 While some reviewers saw the carnival of characters as ‘timeless’, clearly the director drew on the commedia dell’arte to forge connections with modern life. Robert L. Erenstein notes that for some critics true commedia dell’arte ‘shows not the slightest trace of social satire’, while others view commedia dell’arte as ‘concerned solely with sociocritical satire’.58 Erenstein argues that when the Ancienne troupe de la Comédie Italienne settled permanently in Paris in 1660, the masks changed to reflect the French way of life.59 The commedia dell’arte lost its ‘arte’ aspect of pure art and theatrical skill; ‘the more the masks degenerated to meaningless stereotypes, the more this genre became adapted to conveying the satiric intentions of authors, who could fashion the characters to suit their intentions’.60 I find this argument compelling in the case of the Prince of Morocco who was ‘fashioned’ in 1932 to convey not only the boasting Spanish Il Capitano (relevant to early modern audiences) but also the minstrel persona, associated with Al Jolson, the Jewish American popular singer and songwriter, famous for his blacked-up face in The Jazz Singer (1927). The reviewer in the Birmingham Mail (26 July 1932) remarked that Stanley Howlett’s Morocco was ‘so like Mr. Al Jolson that one expects him to drown his disappointment with a stave of “Sonny Boy”’. Robert C. Toll argues that ‘“Ethiopian delineators”, as the blackfaced white entertainers called themselves, claimed that they authentically portrayed American Negroes’, though in fact, as minstrels, they created theatrical masks, making themselves up ‘to exaggerate Negroes’ supposed physical peculiarities, putting on “woolly” wigs and painting huge eyes and gaping mouths, on their faces’.61 Toll historicizes the success of the minstrels’ entertainment in American show business in the mid-nineteenth century, noting its relevance to ‘slavery, the plan-



the level of the stage but continues to rise until we think that Portia lives on a roof garden. Beneath the garden, let into the wall, are the caskets, and here on the lower level Portia’s unwelcome suitors make their stupid choices while she remains unapproachably high above their heads.55

tation system and the proper place of the Negro in America’.62 The minstrel show allowed white entertainers to act out ‘images of Negroes that satisfied their patrons’, and ‘provided its primarily Northern white audiences with a non-threatening way to work out their feelings about race and slavery’.63 It was successful because it was also ‘a damned good show’, unscripted with ‘each act – each song, dance, joke, and skit’ forming ‘a self-contained routine that attempted to be a highlight of the performance’.64 These improvised routines have some affinity with the lazzi and jeux of the commedia dell’arte in France, where lazzi refers to the smaller units of stage business (the ‘lazzi of the ladder’, the ‘lazzi of taking fright’), while jeu is a comic routine with a complete structure.65 The Prince of Morocco’s Al Jolson persona fused the braggart Il Capitano with the minstrels’ routine based on a use of frontier folk stories: Blackface minstrels also bragged about their own power and their fantastic exploits on the frontier. ‘Half fire, half smoke, a little touch of thunder,’ one minstrel character boasted about himself; ‘I’m what dey call de eighth wonder.’ Others, including ‘Jim Crow,’ claimed that they whipped their weight in wildcats, panthers, or crocodiles. Still others claimed they fearlessly sailed down the Mississippi River on the backs of alligators that had teeth like broad swords.66 Morocco boasts of his power to Portia, ‘I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine/Hath feared the valiant’ (2.1.8–9). For Asa Yoelson, the son of Jewish parents who fled from Russia, his ‘aspect’ or blacked-up face enabled him to forge a new identity in America. Jolson’s biographer, Michael Freedland, reveals that ‘when he started out he was a bundle of nerves; he escaped that by putting on the blackface’.67 In Komisarjevsky’s production, Morocco could be identified with a white minstrel entertainer who hid his (Jewish) identity ironically beneath the mask of a black man who also could not successfully represent himself. Toll describes how black minstrels could only find success by acting out caricatures of Negroes themselves.68 Nevertheless the history of black minstrelsy is receiving scholarly attention as an early form of indigenous American musical theatre.69 In 1960 Michael Langham’s production found audiences happy to recognize in Peter O’Toole’s Shylock the noble dignified Jew of Henry Irving’s conception but such a reading was not unequivocal. In the same year Exodus was released, a romanticized version of the creation of Israel, directed and produced by Otto Preminger. Arnold Wesker’s




stage trilogy (Chicken Soup with Barley, 1958; Roots, 1959; I’m Talking about Jerusalem, 1960) provided a more socially anchored analysis of working-class communities such as the Jewish East End. A year later (1961), Stanley Kramer’s Judgement at Nuremberg was released, a film dealing with the prosecution of Nazis after the war, coinciding with the trial of Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem.70 Langham’s production entered a discursive space where spectators might be encouraged to look for Shylock’s ‘best qualities’, but the text precludes any such reductive reading. Reviewers read Shylock both as a representative Jew and as an individual: Shylock represented the suffering ‘of all the Jews since Moses’ and therefore represented his race but could also appear ‘as an individual Jew whose actions make him detestable’. 71 The Stratford-upon-Avon Herald described the production as ‘comedy pointed against drama’, glossing Peter Hall’s thematic approach to his first Stratford season as director. David Addenbrooke comments in The Royal Shakespeare Company: the Peter Hall Years that the 1960 season evidenced ‘a definite change in theatre policy’ with ‘a selection of plays planned as an organic sequence’. 72 The theatre programme outlined the idea ‘to trace through a sequence of six plays, the range, development and paradox of Shakespearean Comedy’; the focus on ‘humanity’ meant that the comedies ‘are seldom purely comic’. 73 The programme offered a brief overview of performance history, noting that ‘a new dignity of breed and bearing were given to the Jew by Macready, and by Irving’. 74 Like Komisarjevsky, Langham matched Shylock’s strong individualism against an effete group of Venetians. Belmont’s eighteenth-century set of picturesque ruined arches and period costumes (waistcoats and knee breeches for the men) established Portia (Dorothy Tutin) in an idealized elegant age, having no apparent relevance to Shylock’s world. However, Belmont’s graceful, even ‘Watteauesque grace’ perhaps pointed up more sharply the sordid, material world of Venice upon whose dealings such luxury depended.75 Reviewers who felt the play erred on the side of Shylock’s tragic stature noted the resulting imbalance of presentation. He appeared too fine to be involved on a day-to-day basis with sordid financial transactions. The Daily Mail (13 April 1960) remarked: ‘It is a truly splendid performance often one has to admit played against the grain of the writing.’ John Russell Brown thought Shylock ‘too well dressed for a miser; he walked too upright to suggest cunning or unbridled hatred; in the savagery of the court scene he was controlled’.76 The Observer




(17 April 1960) remarked on O’Toole’s ‘single stricken gesture of rending his garments’ after hearing of Jessica’s betrayal; ‘Mr. Langham could easily have presented it as the Jew’s tragedy for in Peter O’Toole he had a Shylock of huge resources’. Critics were divided in their view of Portia’s authority opposite Peter O’Toole’s impressive Shylock. As Balthasar, Portia emerged from the elegant though superficial world of eighteenth-century Belmont with wit and youthful determination. The New Statesman (23 April 1960) thought: O’ Toole imposes on the audience a pressure of emotion and dignity which transforms Shylock from an ambiguous figure hovering somewhere between caricature and melodrama into a major tragic hero. As Portia, Dorothy Tutin did not try to compete with him. She has none of that kind of authority. The reviewer for Stage (15 April 1960) countered: ‘Miss Tutin enters the court as a slip of a boy wearing the plainest of dark suits. From that moment, she takes over the situation and dominates the rest of the play.’ A number of critics felt that O’Toole’s Shylock was representative of a monolithic Jewish experience of persecution. The Sunday Times (17 April 1960) responded to Shylock as: The representative of a religion persecuted for many centuries; and, when in one of the deepest moments of his distress he cries ‘I have a daughter,’ his thoughts immediately fly back to an ancestral memory and an ancient wrong. The Star (13 April 1960) observed, ‘and, all the time his eyes smoulder with the suffering not of just one Jew vested in a business transaction but of all the Jews since Moses’. Desmond Pratt (Yorkshire Post (13 April 1960)) feted O’Toole’s performance. ‘I believe it will be placed amongst our very greatest Shylocks’. He described the effect of his entrance: Mr. O’Toole’s Shylock enters tall and slow. Rather like Irving to look at but this is a smiling Jew with a sardonic and sly humour confident of his superiority over others. The famous defence of Jewry is admirably conceived and argued, lacking perhaps a mounting passion. But the hatred is one that hurts physically as well as mentally. This Shylock writhes in its unrelenting clasp. The affront





The review suggested ambivalence in the presentation of a romanticized Jewish dignity. Shylock appeared to represent his race but he was not like Irving: this was a ‘smiling Jew’ who scorned his enemies. The production ran the risk of exonerating the individual Jew’s vengeful path with reference to a monolithic Jewish history of oppression. The casting of the Prince of Morocco (Paul Hardwick) as the noble Moor reinforced this ahistorical view of alien dignity striving to surmount prejudice. The Daily Telegraph (13 April 1960) referred to Morocco as ‘a sort of young Othello’. Eric Johns (Stage (15 April 1960)) commented on ‘the rich voice of Paul Hardwick’s Prince of Morocco’ which ‘rings through the theatre with Robeson-like beauty of tone’, a reference to the black actor and singer, Paul Robeson (1898–1976), whose best-known stage performances were in the title roles of Eugene O’Neill’s The Emperor Jones (1924) and Othello (1930). Robeson was also known for his active campaigning for civil rights. The Stratford-uponAvon Herald (15 April 1960) noted a discrepancy between the reified mask of the minstrel and the ‘noble Moor’ persona with Paul Hardwick ‘fighting against a nigger minstrel make-up as Morocco seizing sympathy with a shiver in the heat of the line “Cold indeed, and labour lost”’. Charles Grave (Scotsman (18 April 1960)) found Hardwick’s Morocco ‘outstanding’ while the Sunday Post (20 April 1960) gave a backward glance to Komisarjevsky suggesting the inappropriateness of that director’s treatment for the 1960s: ‘Morocco should never shed his dignity, though I remember that the capricious Komisarjevsky gave to him the aspect of a beach minstrel.’ Morocco’s dignified portrayal was emphasized in comparison with the arrival of the Prince of Arragon, a high-voiced schoolboy, accompanied by his mother and a tutor. Morocco’s serious intentions, evinced in ‘fiery protestations’, were in contrast to the controlled artifice of the casket scene which emulated Langham’s Ontario (Stratford) production in 1955 where he directed the caskets ‘to be carried by three maids who moved about “freely”’.77 During the Prince of Arragon’s speech the maid holding the silver casket fainted ‘with strain and boredom’.78 Some reviewers objected to the knockabout comedy in the scenes with the caskets, a reflection on the contradictory expectations raised by the tragicomic production. Despite his overconfident speeches, Morocco showed his vulnerability when after snatching his scimitar from a slave (at which point everyone tried to get out of the way) he lowered the



to his race has been rank and he will have law honoured and judgment given.

weapon and stepped downstage at the line ‘But alas the while!’ (2.1.31) as the prospect of failure occurred to him. Mervyn Jones (Tribune 22 April 1960) observed that the dissolute youth of Venice were ‘a proper foil to alien dignity, of which we get a glimpse in Paul Hardwick’s admirable Prince of Morocco and a full portrait in O’Toole’s suffering, revenging, struggling, incessantly feeling Shylock’.79 ‘Alien dignity’ in both cases was associated with controlled emotion in an age of order and decorum. By setting the production in the ‘Age of Reason’, the trial scene, with its ineffective periwigged judges, could convey and approve Shylock’s ‘enormous power of argument’ while also suggesting that through Portia ‘right’ reason and order would finally prevail.80 The Western Daily Press found that: O’Toole maintains this dignity in the trial scene, while all about him are losing theirs. Coldly, calculatingly, he insists on sticking to the letter of the bond; and when Portia discovers the loophole which will save Antonio’s life, he appreciates the situation instantly and with the acumen of a quick-witted businessman, asks for the money instead.81

Figure 4. ‘By this scimitar.’ The Prince of Morocco (Paul Hardwick) and Portia (Dorothy Tutin) in Michael Langham’s The Merchant of Venice (1960).




The Financial Times remarked on ‘touches of over-production’ when Antonio (Patrick Allen) prepared for exposure to Shylock’s knife (he was stripped and manacled for execution), when Shylock tested the knife on a piece of cloth, and, when Shylock ‘fainting in court and being surrounded by a pack of baying Venetians’ was rescued by Portia.82 Ambivalence marked Shylock’s exit. Eric Johns remarked: Mr. Langham has denied this masterly Shylock a memorable final exit. On the opening night, he slipped off at the side of the stage, half-masked by people who were crowding the court. Both Shylock and Mr. O’Toole deserve better treatment.83 However, John Russell Brown found that Shylock’s exit had a stronger impact: ‘After the collapse of his “rights” Shylock regained some of his strength with his dignity; he laughed at the sparing of his life and prided himself still on his sense of right – “send the deed after me, And I will sign it”.’84

Aliens in Venice John Caird (1984) and Bill Alexander (1987) While Komisarjevsky universalized Shylock and the Prince of Morocco as comic figures and Langham gave them universal dignity, John Caird and Bill Alexander sought a sense of historical authenticity. Ian McDiarmid and Antony Sher brought a sense of mission to the role of Shylock in their respective RSC productions in 1984 and 1987. Shylock would be portrayed as an alien in early modern Venice. These productions occurred at a time when critical work on colonialism and race were making themselves felt. Homi K. Bhaba questioned the ‘mode of representation of otherness’, which left cultural identity trapped in the same/other binary divide of western thinking.85 What was needed was a way of exploring ‘the differential materiality and history of colonial culture’.86 Today, postcolonial criticism is a diverse and sophisticated area of study, questioning many assumptions within its field. Ania Loomba and Martin Orkin note: ‘One such sharp area of controversy is the question of location.’87 Postcoloniality can express ‘a rather vague condition of people anywhere and everywhere’ but it would be important to point out that ‘English experiences in the Levant, Africa and India in the sixteenth century were quite different from one another and from those in the Americas’.88




Ian McDiarmid wanted to understand Shylock as a ghetto victim in an authentic Venetian mercantile world and decided to research his subject by visiting Venice and Jerusalem. He argued: ‘I think any actor playing a Jew has a responsibility to the Jewish people and also to the audience to do some research.’89 He told John Higgins that Shylock would be ‘just as Jewish as I can make him, although I am not a Jew’.90 The search for ‘Shakespeare’s Jew’ (McDiarmid’s expression) appears to have been linked to an idealistic pursuit of an authentic Judaic tradition: I encountered Mea She’arim, an uncompromising pocket of individuality. Here, about one thousand ultra-Orthodox Jews live the life of the Polish ‘shtetl’. Here too live the extremist sect called the Neturei Karta, who do not recognize the state of Israel, as its proclamation was not preceded by the coming of the Messiah. The men dress in long black frock coats, with tieless white shirts and let their hair grow long over their ears into carefully curled ringlets called ‘peyot’.91 McDiarmid reflected on his visit to Venice: ‘In the city of Venice, the past seems so tangible that any intimation of the present seems anachronistic. American Express seems the ultimate absurdity.’92 Unfortunately, by rejecting ‘any intimation of the present’, McDiarmid risked losing centuries of history through which the very term ‘Jewish’ has been debated. The problem is the play: Shylock is the focal point of definitions of Jewishness. On the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the creation of Israel, Jonathan Freedland (Guardian (7 January 1998)) wrote an article, headed ‘Let the people decide who is or is not a Jew’. Freedland referred to a row between Orthodox rabbis in Israel and Reform Jews who wanted to make it easier for would-be converts to embrace Judaism. Freedland argued that the creation of Israel, ‘the so-called Zionist Revolution’, was ‘a declaration that the Jews were more than a religious sect – a nation capable of determining its own future’. References to American Jewry, Anglo-Jewry as well as Jews in the Middle East remind readers that the term ‘nation’ is not just about geographical boundaries but rather points to a sense of responsible democratic citizenship. Freedland suggested: ‘Jews need to adopt a looser, more modern attitude to their entire identity’; and he reminded readers of Howard Jacobson’s joke pertinent to ‘heavilyurban’ Anglo-Jewry: ‘A Jew is a person who can’t name a bird, a fish




or a tree’. 93 Unfortunately The Merchant of Venice does not offer much scope for Jewish diversity. Tubal makes only a brief appearance. Jessica’s role, in eliciting Shylock’s grief over his lost money: ‘I shall never see my gold again’ (3.1.103–4), can tend to reinforce the anti-Semitic stereotype. As Hyam Maccoby observed (with reference to Bill Alexander’s production): ‘Shylock is unmistakably a Jew – not a real Jew, but a Jew as presented in Christian religious tradition.’ 94 In seeking ‘Shakespeare’s Jew’, McDiarmid risked reproducing this stereotype. Caird’s production, which opened on 5 April 1984, aroused the wrath of William Frankel, former editor of the Jewish Chronicle, whose criticism resulted in changes to the Royal Shakespeare Company theatre programme. Commenting in The Times (17 April 1984) on ‘a series of infamous anti-Jewish writings of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries’ in the six-page anthology of quotations, Frankel flared: Were they included to add authenticity to the production? And does the search for authenticity justify the perpetuation of the malevolent stereotypes still capable of influencing impressionable minds? Frankel averred that McDiarmid played the part of Shylock ‘as it might have been in Shakespeare’s time – comic, villainous and avaricious; cruel and insolent in success, servile in defeat – everything, in fact, apart from the hooked nose and devil’s costume’. Clearly this was not the director’s intention and indeed not all reviewers were incensed. J. C. Trewin (Birmingham Post (11 April 1984)) felt that McDiarmid’s Shylock was ‘hardly the full scale “cormorant” the Elizabethan would have known’ but rather ‘a closely considered, very Hebraic Jew’. A spokesperson for the Royal Shakespeare Company defended the theatre programme by arguing that the quotations, which began with a text from Erasmus, ‘If it is part of a good Christian to detest Jews, then we are all good Christians’, had been read out of context (Birmingham Post (5 May 1984)). The Company later added further notes to the programme explaining that the choice of Medieval and Renaissance sources was meant ‘to reflect the ignorance, prejudice and cruelty of the prevailing opinion in Shakespeare’s day’.95 Lisa Jardine’s exploration of early modern mercantilism lends support to Caird’s much-maligned set, a sumptuous interior for both Venice and Belmont, designed by David Ultz. Jardine draws attention





They announce with pride Italian access to markets from northern France to the Ottoman Empire. Here is a world which assembles with delight rugs from Istanbul, tapestry hangings from Arras, delicate glass from Venice, metalwork from Islamic Spain, porcelain and silk from China, broadcloth from London. 96 Martin Hoyle (Financial Times (11 April 1984)) remarked: ‘the show is almost stolen by the sets, rich hangings in patterned red and ochre, whose hint of the Orient recalls Venice’s Eastern Empire’. Conceptually, the set worked to suggest that the riches of Belmont were underwritten by the credit obtained from the Jews of Venice. Brian Pullan describes the historical position: Within the Venetian economy, the traditional function of the Jews was to provide cut-rate pawnbroking services – theoretically for the benefit of the poor, although well-to-do persons frequently tried to make use of them. From 1598 onwards these were financed by taxes levied on all the three resident Jewish communities, including those Sephardic Jews who were traditionally not moneylenders but rather traders.97 Caird’s production made Shylock a prisoner of his own success; he was trapped by the Venetians’ economic dependence. McDiarmid had visited the Jewish Quarter, the Ghetto Nuovo, in Venice, and commented: ‘I was fascinated to see that all the windows looked inward towards the square. None looked outward to the city and the sea beyond. So, I extrapolated, the Jew was not permitted to look outwards’.98 McDiarmid imagined how Shylock’s meeting with Antonio would take place in ‘an opulent salon; a monument to wealth and privilege’: The exotic outsider is permitted a glimpse of ‘civilised’ Christian society. Allowed, for once, to remove his ugly yellow ‘badge’, he reveals his ‘yarmulke’ and gleefully sets about subverting the conventional morality, satirising the hypocrisy of ‘Christian values’ in terms of profit and loss.99 The problem with such an interpretation was that it severely reduced Shylock’s autonomy. Of course there is no indication in the playtext



to the ‘visual celebration of conspicuous consumption and of trade’ in a painting by Carlo Crivelli, The Annunciation with St Emidius (1486):

where this scene takes place but the general direction of the action suggests that Bassanio and Antonio seek out the merchant usurer whose help they need. Indeed it appears that Bassanio has already found Shylock and enters with him. There is much to be gained in establishing the autonomy of the ‘outsider’ by demarcating his territory. Usually, playgoers are invited to see Shylock’s point of view as he observes the Christians who need his money. Nicholas Shrimpton found that ‘any sense of ideological distinction between Venice and Belmont was impossible when a single, sumptuous set was used for both places’.100 On reflection, McDiarmid agreed that the designer had, ‘unintentionally, created an imposition’.101 Caird’s version may have been too subtle. It could be argued that, in reversing the point of view, Shylock’s first entrance suggested his inferior status. Martin Hoyle remarked on Shylock’s grotesque appearance as ‘a cabbalistic figure in a pointed yellow hat’.102 The theatre audience was invited to view Shylock through the eyes of the decadent Christians, ‘an interchangeable group of bespangled youths’, and at the same time see the Christians as Shylock saw them in his permitted glimpse of the opulent salon.103 For his aside, ‘How like a fawning publican he looks’ (1.3.38), McDiarmid came to the edge of the stage, addressing the audience as the generic villain, ‘If I can catch him once upon the hip’ (43). At the end of the scene when Antonio agreed the bond and offered his hand, there was a long pause before Shylock took it, putting on his yellow hat to exit. Michael Billington (Guardian (11 April 1984)) referred to his ‘mesmerizing performance’ as the despised ghetto victim ‘encased in thrifty gaberdine’. If Venice was also Belmont, then the appearance of the Prince of Morocco (Hepburn Graham) created an interesting disjunction between his ideological construction as stranger (connecting him to Shylock) and his stage presence within a locus of Oriental association from which he derived his wealth and status. Reviewers criticized the enormous period pipe organs, complete with players, and the extraordinary mechanical arms controlling the caskets. However, stylistically the set suggested the power of spectacle and ritual to overwhelm the subject, having an ideological function like the Jacobean masque. The disembodied booming voice of Portia’s father admonished the failed suitors with the appropriate verses, usurping their autonomy as ‘readers’ of their own fate. Perhaps the voice functioned as the invisible power of empire and patriarchy.




The production drew laughter from the audience as Frances Tomelty’s strong Portia brought Shylock literally to his knees. Richard Easton pronounced the Duke’s final words to Shylock with unusual vehemence, ‘Get thee gone, but do it’ (4.1.393). Shylock retrieved his coat and case, leaving his yellow hat on a chair in the courtroom. Shylock was defeated but the alien’s function in the Venetian economy remained. In 1987 Antony Sher argued that ‘the racism described in Shakespeare’s text is of a particularly brutal and explicit nature’.104 In a brave and ‘radical’ interpretation, Sher made the experience of racial abuse explicit.105 His Shylock was spat at, kicked and spurned. Here was the rabbinically bearded figure of biblical association, described by Jeremy Brien (Bristol Evening Post 30 April 1987) as ‘the most Jewish Jew of Venice I have ever seen’.106 The Sunderland Echo (24 February 1988) remarked: ‘the “Jewishness” is very heavily stated, not in an insultingly cliched way but in a carefully researched portrayal of the TurkishJewish minority in 16th-century Venice’.107 In an interview with Michael Goldfarb (Guardian 16 April 1987), Sher explained that the production was set in 1620: What that does is unleash the barbarity of the racism in the way that is exactly described in the text but which is often underplayed. When Shylock talks about being spat at and kicked that’s not something I’ve ever seen in any production of Merchant.108 The director Bill Alexander adopted Caird’s strategy in having one set for Venice and Belmont but this time emphasized Shylock’s world on the canal-side streets of Venice where ‘a bridge of sighs spanned the stage throughout’.109 The conflict between Jews and Christians was highlighted by the presence of a chalked Star of David and the figure of a Madonna on the back wall. For Belmont, the figure was lit and a gold carpet created the opulence of an interior world. Shylock’s territory was differentiated as a small street bazaar downstage from where he conducted business. Gregory Doran, who played Solanio, explained Sher’s decision to play a Levantine Turk: There were apparently three different racial types among the Jewish population in the Ghetto: German/Italian Jews, the Ponentine Jews, who had escaped the Inquisition in Portugal, and the Turks. Making Shylock an Ottoman Turk allowed the two opposing communities to have distinct cultural differences which the production could




Figure 5. (1987).

Antony Sher as Shylock in Bill Alexander’s The Merchant of Venice

heighten. Thus the segregated Jewish quarter might resemble a Byzantine bazaar, with the money-lenders squatting in the street clicking abacuses.110 Sher’s ‘Turkish’ accent was pronounced: ‘“ducats” became “dockets”; “Christian” became “Chreestian”; and “justice” “jostice”’.111 Michael Billington (Guardian 1 May 1987) commented on his portrayal as ‘a totally unassimilated Levantine Jew’, facing ‘loathsome, virulent antisemites forever spitting, quite literally, in the face of this despised alien’.112 Charles Osbourne (Daily Telegraph 1 May 1987) thought Sher’s performance ‘dishonest’: ‘He plays Act 1’s “How like a fawning publican he looks” as though Shylock is joking in order to underline his sincerity in Act III’s “Hath not a Jew eyes?”.’113 Sher spoke softly at times in Act 1 and was almost deferential to John Carlisle’s impatient Antonio, who at one point grabbed Shylock’s counting book, threw it on the ground and dragged him up onto his feet. Shylock crouched obsequiously as Antonio exited. At ‘Hie thee, gentle Jew’ (2.1.174), the Christian merchant spat in disgust. In Act 3, Scene 1, when Shylock entered distressed after




Jessica’s elopement, Solanio and Salerio (Michael Cadman) baited him with sticks, and drew blood. Jeremy Kingston (The Times (27 April 1987)) remarked of the Barbican production: ‘Jostled, knocked to the ground, pelleted with spittle, the extreme attacks supply further fuel for his revenge but risk making irrelevant everything that does not revolve around his story.’ Sher, a South African-born Jew, glossed his performance with contemporary reference to apartheid. At the Shakespeare Birthday Celebrations at Stratford-upon-Avon in April 1987, theatre company members laid a wreath at the foot of the South African flagpole. Sher said the tribute was to those who had died for the cause of human rights in South Africa.114 At the Barbican, Sher read out a statement about South Africa before the performance. Bernard Levin (The Times 28 April 1987) objected to what he saw as Sher’s appropriation of the play for a partisan cause: ‘Do they really believe that South Africa’s racial policies are unique?’ Levin referred to racial oppression in Bolivia, China, Ethiopia, India, Indonesia, Israel, Pakistan and Vietnam.115 By the court scene, Shylock’s revenge had reached a climactic frenzy. Shylock gave the anti-Semites a Jew of Christian tradition who sought his enemy’s blood in a terrifying ritual. Presumably, the intention was to make his oppressors confront the racial stereotyping of their own creation but his ‘performance’ risked alienating sympathies entirely. Michael Coveney (Financial Times (30 April 1987)) described the effect: Sher presses for his pound of flesh with Hassidic fervour, suddenly bursting into Hebrew verses while donning a white shawl and bearing his miniature sabre to cut the pound of flesh. Steve Grant (Time Out (4 May 1988)) felt the production simplified the historical ambivalence of Shylock’s relationship to the Venetians: Bill Alexander’s production, rather inevitably, is strong on motivation and debunk, but there is a double bind here. While it helps our post-holocaust sympathies to see Sher’s Jew reacting insanely to Nazi-style bullying and abuse, the truth lies somewhere else – of all places in the mediaeval or renaissance world, Venice was the one where the Semite community was more than tolerated. Pullan’s analysis seems to support this view: ‘Although supposed to be transients, the Levantine Jews developed by the second half of the sixteenth century into a body of permanent residents.’116




Despite every effort to uphold the distinction between performing a type and being a type, Sher’s ritual in the trial scene closed the gap. James C. Bulman described Sher’s dismay when at the height of the ‘ritual’ the on-stage crowd screamed, then Portia (Deborah Findlay) stopped Shylock and the theatre audience ‘spontaneously applauded’.117 Sher commented: ‘often, in the trial scene, when the tables are turned on me, there’s a roar of delighted applause. I feel hurt by that. It’s like being at a Nazi rally.’118 Sher’s manic performance in court not only offended the propriety and decorum of the Venetians but also impugned their authority. Similarly the Prince of Morocco (Hakeem Kae-Kazim) unsettled order and decorum at Belmont by undermining Portia’s authority. He treated her as a servant, removing his cloak and expecting her to take it from him. He drew his sword, waved it about, kissed it and handed it to Portia with obvious sexual connotations. At various points he advanced on her and forced kisses on her. She placed her hand on a Bible and crossed herself at ‘swear before you choose’ (2.1.40) indicating her fear lest he choose her. Through an exploration of sexual politics, the production highlighted the vulnerability of her position. However, sympathies for Portia were qualified by unease at her racism. Michael Billington observed: Deborah Findlay’s intriguing Portia is a tart, astringent figure constantly boxing people’s ears and guilty, to put it mildly, of social tactlessness in dismissing Morocco with ‘Let all of his complexion choose me so’ in front of her own black servant.119 Findlay explained: ‘We felt that Morocco would treat a wife as his property, appropriate her physically, so there was a bit of manhandling in the scene which Portia reacted against.’120 When Morocco finally made his choice and called for the key, Portia replied, ‘There, take it, Prince, and if my form lie there,/Then I am yours’ (2.7.61–2). In this production she handed over the key and turned away towards Nerissa. The end of the line ‘Then I am yours’ sounded almost desperate. As she turned back slowly to know her fate Morocco lifted out a skull in both hands, whereupon Portia screamed. Morocco pulled out a paper, lodged in the skull’s eye socket. The audience laughed at ‘I’ll read the writing’, when he produced a tiny scroll. Morocco’s exit complicated playgoers’ responses still further as he took his scimitar in his right hand and brought it down as if to stab himself




in the face of rejection. He sheathed the sword, however, retrieved his cloak from Nerissa and went out. The production fulfilled its aims to bring out the racial tensions in the play but at some cost to the balance of the whole. Sher’s improvised ritual altered the pace and balance of power in the court scene, creating some difficulties for Findlay’s Portia: ‘The ritual included spattering blood on a sheet before Antonio’s prostrate body and he [Sher] suggested that this would be a marvellous way for Portia to get the idea of “no drop of blood”.’121 Findlay found that she lost Portia’s balanced sense of control, necessary for her performance as Balthasar, because she was forced to play the scene ‘in a bewildered state, buffeted by the events and grabbing onto the solution in a last desperate attempt’.122 The production’s emphasis on racial prejudice was followed through in Belmont’s romantic conclusion: ‘There was worry that the Jewish element would be forgotten in the welter of froth, and so we introduced a final image of Antonio dangling the cross above Jessica as if to say “you’re not really one of us”.’123 Of course, in doing this, the implication was that ‘the Jewish element’ referred to a Judaic/Christian conflict not fully borne out in the production. After all the ritual was pure invention. In fact, the production was less about Judaism and more about a generalized racism. Sher placed his performance within a history of Jewish oppression (his grandparents fled Jewish persecution in Lithuania), and his personal experience of apartheid in South Africa, drawing connections between the aliens of Venice and more recent history: ‘I no longer have any doubts about the relevance of the play to a modern audience.’124

English aliens Jonathan Miller (1970), David Thacker (1993) and Loveday Ingram (2001) Shakespeare’s depiction of Venetian society has been described as ‘a refracted projection of London’.125 Leo Salingar suggests that the profligate Christians are fashioned on the English aristocracy and points out a historical discrepancy – in reality sixteenth-century Venetian aristocrats frowned on private extravagance.126 Walter Cohen has also pointed to the differences between the situation of historical Jews in Venice and Shakespeare’s utilization of Shylock to embody a generalized threat to the social values the play world tries to




maintain.127 The play explores the relationship between country (Belmont/English country house) and Venice (London/English court) by invoking the tradition of Renaissance pastoral: ‘a literary and theatrical reaction by the nobility to the two dominant trends of the age – the rise of capitalism and the partly complementary growth of absolutism’.128 The ‘great country house’ in England represents the values of ‘a rising class increasingly dependent for its revenues on capitalist agriculture and soon to align itself against the monarchy’.129 Modern performance has recognized the misuse of the figure of a Jewish man to embody generalized fears rooted in a history of English capitalist expansion. In an effort to wipe out his representation of Jewish history through the Jew of Christian tradition (and thereby denying performance history), Shylock has been reappropriated as a man who is and wants to be British. Laurence Olivier portrayed Shylock as a frock-coated late Victorian or Edwardian businessman, wearing his yarmulke under his top hat in Miller’s production at the National Theatre (1970). David Calder presented a cultured, anglicized businessman in the hi-tech world of London City finance in David Thacker’s RSC production (1993). Irving Wardle (Independent on Sunday (6 June 1993)) remarked: Genial, shrewd and totally lacking in Hebraic trademarks, Calder’s performance picks up from where Olivier’s Edwardian Shylock stopped. This Jew is indistinguishable from any other Western businessman: and the line of the production is that it is only the loss of Jessica that drives him into vengeance. More recently, Ian Bartholomew played Shylock with an English accent in Loveday Ingram’s RSC production (2001), set once more in a late Victorian or Edwardian period, quoting Miller’s version. Miller’s production set the play in the hey-day of the British Empire, with the opening scene depicting an exclusive gentlemen’s club in London. The televised version (1973) includes an outdoor location for Belmont at West Wycombe House in Buckinghamshire, establishing a reference to the historical fortunes of the English aristocracy. In an interview with Peter Ansorge, Jonathan Miller explained his aim to dispel the idea of the Jew of Christian tradition and situate Shylock (Laurence Olivier) in the context of the Rothschilds Banking House.130 The production would be ‘an intelligent experiment’, based on Hannah Arendt’s thesis that modern anti-Semitism was rooted in nineteenthcentury capitalism and politics rather than biblical disputes.131




In the televised version, Act 1, Scene 1 establishes Bassanio (Jeremy Brett) as something of a spiv, dressed in a loud check jacket, seeking out Antonio (Anthony Nicholls) in an exclusive café or club with silver service waiters. Bassanio reappears in a rich banking house where Shylock sits at his desk. It is not until the two men exit that the viewer sees that the ‘bank’ is a room in a rich, elegant house belonging to Shylock. The mise en scène suggests the banker’s ‘insider’ status, and indeed this Shylock seeks assimilation above all else, conveyed through his clothing, speech and gestures. Miller makes the point that Olivier’s merchant banker looks indistinguishable from other merchants – once he has covered his yarmulke with a silk top hat. Irving Wardle (The Times (30 April 1970)) observed of the stage production: ‘Olivier jettisons altogether the rabbinically bearded tribal figure (on his lips the very word “tribe” approaches a sneer).’ However, Wardle felt that Shylock was ‘incurably maimed by the process of assimilation’, noticeable in his incongruous speech rhythms where he appeared to copy the intonation of the English ‘clubmen’. He commented on Shylock’s ‘ghastly compound of speech tricks picked up from the Christian rich: posh vowels and the slipshod terminations of the hunting counties’. Shylock is caught between the desire to use the advantage that he now appears to have over Antonio and the desire to ingratiate himself with his ‘fellow’ business colleagues. Fingering his silver-topped cane, he makes them wait for a decision (I have put the emphases in italics): I am debatin’ of my present store And by the nee-arr guess of my memory I cannot instantly raise up the gross. (1.3.50–51) With affected nonchalance he peruses the daily paper for current interest rates and gives an ingratiating little laugh as he sums up the point of his story about Laban and the sheep, ‘I make it breed as fast’ (93). However, Olivier also suggests a knowing acquiescence: ‘Well then, it now appeeyars you need my help’ (111). After accusing Antonio of spitting and kicking, Shylock intones, ‘What should I say to yawr?’ (117). When Bassanio becomes alarmed at the terms of the bond, Shylock rejoins, ‘what should I gain/By the exaction of the forfeitchawr’ (160). John Gross objected to ‘the whole theme of assimilation and rejection’, complaining that Olivier’s Shylock ‘did not grow out of either Jewish history or Shakespeare’s text’ – which, of course, was the




point.132 Miller argued: ‘There shouldn’t be too much overt characterization of Shylock’s Judaism, that’s the least interesting part about him.’133 Miller felt a Judaic representation inevitably meant caricature and found himself disabusing Olivier of the notion that ‘Jewishness’ needed expression through ‘an elaborate make-up with a prominent hooked nose, Hassidic curls, a beard and false teeth’.134 However, the Judaic representation that Miller dismissed belongs to a Christian tradition that needs somehow to be articulated and challenged in performance. Clive Barnes (New York Times (29 July 1970)) felt that Miller had ignored the causes of anti-Semitism in the play. Peter Lewis (Daily Mail (29 April 1970)) commented: ‘The story doesn’t really fit. In the 1890s the frock-coated Rothschilds did not do so badly. Nobody called them cur, wretch.’ However, Miller’s production revealed a modern understanding of the insidious ways in which concealed discrimination operates beneath polite surfaces. The Christian women treated Tom Baker’s Prince of Morocco (Stephen Greif took over the role from 20 October 1971 and appeared in the televized version) as an unwelcome presence at Belmont and drew amusement from their shared sense of English superiority. On his first entrance, the promptbook directs that Portia (Joan Plowright) and Nerissa (Anna Carteret) ‘stop and shriek as they see M’.135 At the line, ‘I would not change this hue,/Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen’ (2.1.11–12) Morocco kisses Portia’s hand and, in his enthusiasm with the ‘scimitar’ speech, he forces Portia upstage. The effect is comic and clearly the women view him as a figure of ridicule rather than fear. The omission of lines 38–59 from Act 2, Scene 6, beginning ‘all the world desires her’, cast the speech only in terms of Morocco’s desires for himself and removed the contemplative poetry which placed his own suit in perspective. At his exit, the promptbook indicates ‘M strokes P’s hand’. However, the warmth of this apparently touching gesture is hardly reciprocated. The promptbook indicates that Portia’s ‘gentle riddance’ is not so ‘gentle’: ‘Morocco: rid of!!!’ The televized version conveys the idea that Morocco provides entertainment for the two women, by cutting to a view of Portia watching the prince from a small balcony. James C. Bulman commented: Not the ‘tawny Moor all in white’ with three or four followers indicated by the stage direction, he enters alone, dressed in Victorian military regalia like a colonial officer in whom the ideal




of cultural assimilation is turned to folly. His blue uniform, complete with epaulettes on the shoulders and a banner around the chest, suggests that he is the proud product of British imperialism, someone with a public school education who may do very well in his own country but should not expect to mix races with Portia.136 At the line, ‘pause there, Morocco’ (2.7.24), the prince speaks to camera but the potential autonomy in his self-musings is undercut by the inclusion of Portia in the frame, watching. Morocco’s faulty pronunciation, like Shylock’s, is a result of over-compensation. Morocco pronounces ‘hoo’ for ‘hue’ and ‘seelva’ for ‘silver’; ‘What says the “seelva” with her virgin “hoo”?’ His mispronunciation of ‘qualities’ undercuts the personal sense of worth suggested in the lines: ‘I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,/In graces, and in “kwa-lities” of breeding’ (2.7.32–3). However, although not referred to in the promptbook, the televized version gives Morocco comic business that allows him a point of view. On reading the scroll, ‘All that glisters is not gold;/Often have you heard that told’ (2.7.65–6), Morocco pauses, raises his eyes with a look of incomprehension and continues reading. This small movement suggests that, no, he has not ‘often been told’ this inconsequential advice but he will submit to English eccentricity and carry on reading. It is a brilliant comment on the extravagance of the casket plot, which is further burlesqued through a parlour duet for Bassanio, emphasizing the end rhyme of ‘Tell me where is fancy bred’ (3.2.63). In a radio interview, Miller described Portia as ‘a woman of high intelligence, a great deal of command but frustrated by her wealth and by her position in a society which didn’t give much role for women’.137 The production suggested that the basis of Portia’s partnership with Bassanio was expediency and could tolerate Bassanio’s emotional (possibly sexual) attachment to Antonio. In the televised version, the courtroom resembles a boardroom in which Portia proves a decisive, quick-witted and unrelenting player. A reaction shot registers Bassanio’s shock at the ‘justice’ meted out to Shylock. Portia’s stinging reference to his ‘alien’ status is too much to bear for a man who has desperately sought inclusion. Olivier’s famous howl of despair is powerful enough to disturb the self-satisfied English Christians and haunts the comic closure in Act 5.





One of the better ideas of Miller’s original but misguided production is to end it with Jessica, the Jew’s daughter, not about to enter a life of silly pleasures but beginning to feel the deep inroads of guilt and doubt. In the background she, and we, can hear the eternal wail and lamentation of Orthodox Jewish prayer. It is an inspired moment, and one was grateful for it.138 In subsequent RSC productions, both David Thacker and Loveday Ingram saw the need to augment the only other roles that could register a Judaic tradition: Tubal and Jessica respectively. Thacker followed Olivier’s lead in placing Shylock in a modern business world and chose the City of London: It was just after Black Wednesday when the stock exchanges went haywire and it seemed such an anarchic few days in which people’s lives were effectively destroyed or ruined, the value of money dominated everything and it suddenly occurred to me that this is essentially what happens in ‘The Merchant of Venice’.139 Neil Smith described Shelagh Keegan’s set as ‘a yuppie dystopia not a million miles from the Lloyds’ Building or Canary Wharf, a maze of silver columns and metallic stairways’.140 David Calder played Shylock as a businessman, at ease in a high-tech world of computers, mobile phones, faxes and credit cards. Of course, the modern context could make little sense of Shylock’s historical hatred of Christians so Tubal (Nick Simons) supplied a cultural memory of Judaic tradition. His presence in Act 1, Scene 3 as a skull capped rabbinical scholar contrasted with a Shylock in shirtsleeves and fashionable bracers, working on a laptop computer. The play does not have Tubal in this scene, and the device opened up a divide that would widen between a historicized Judaic tradition and Shylock’s eventual misconceived path of ‘Jewish’ vengeance. Peter Holland commented on Thacker’s ‘careful use of Tubal to place and define the audience’s attitude to Shylock’.141 The production established Shylock as a private, cultured man who enjoyed quiet moments at home, sitting in a smoking jacket, listening



Miller had argued that Shylock’s Judaism was the least important thing about him but Herbert Kretzmer (reviewing a performance at the Old Vic) remarked:

to classical music and thinking of his wife. At work, he succeeded by seeking a strategy of co-existence, evidenced in his ability to make jokes at his own expense, assuming a mock ‘Yiddish’ accent with business associates. However, ‘co-existence’ was always threatened by less overt forms of prejudice, simmering under the surface. Calder and Thacker agreed that Shakespeare’s play ‘has attitudes of its time which are not acceptable today’.142 Both were anxious that the character of Shylock should not ‘be handicapped from the start by the hidden agenda of a man who was vengeful and harbouring grudges’.143 By cutting the line, ‘If I can catch him once upon the hip,/I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him’ (1.3.43–4), they removed any evidence that might suggest premeditated murder. Although directors have often cut offensive lines to soften our view of Shylock, the changes to Act 3, Scene 1, notably a reversal of the two halves of the scene, produced far-reaching effects. The scene began as usual with Salerio and Solanio discussing Antonio’s misfortune, thus imparting the news to the theatre audience. However, Shylock entered as at line 75, greeting Tubal with desperate pleas for information about Jessica, ‘Hast thou found my daughter?’ The effect of Shylock’s immediate callous reaction to Antonio’s losses, ‘Let him look to his bond’ (44) was therefore removed at this point. In the exchanges with Tubal, the repeated references to his ‘ducats’, ‘jewels’ and ‘gold’ were cut. On hearing of Antonio’s losses, Shylock’s reaction ‘I will have the heart of him if he forfeit’ (116–17) sounded like misjudged bravado and this was immediately checked by Tubal. The prompt book indicates that Tubal ‘stands’ at the word ‘forfeit’, turns back to look at Shylock at the word ‘synagogue’ before exiting on the second reference to ‘synagogue’.144 By cutting the previous line, ‘go Tubal, fee me an officer, bespeak him a fortnight before’ (115–16), the production partly steered thoughts away from the execution of the law relating to the bond. Given the emphasis on Shylock’s distress over Jessica, he could have been seeking spiritual consolation and community support at the synagogue. On Tubal’s exit, the rearranged scene brought Solanio and Salerio to taunt him. Shylock’s outburst, ‘You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight’ (22–3) reinforced the idea that Shylock’s key concern was for Jessica. The changed effect of this can be compared with the usual sequence of the scene, which ends with Shylock’s unfeeling response: Tubal. Shylock.

But Antonio is certainly undone. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer. Bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the





Here, Shylock’s hasty decision to have Antonio arrested changes the effect of the reference to ‘our synagogue’, possibly implicating Tubal in Shylock’s desire to make a ritualistic oath of vengeance. In Thacker’s production, Solanio and Salerio baited Shylock at his emotional low point. Distressed at the loss of Leah’s ring, he rounded on them, ‘You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight’ (23–4). When Salerio repeated the rumours of Antonio’s losses, Shylock’s line, ‘Let him look to his bond’ took on a different emphasis. The production positioned the ‘Hath not a Jew eyes?’ speech at line 50 just before the interval. Shylock’s final line, ‘The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction’ (65–6) suggested the remorseless path now taken. As Shylock took on the mantle of a stereotyped ‘Jewishness’, he and Tubal would part company. Peter Holland commented: I have always preferred to believe that The Merchant of Venice is not anti-Semitic but directors have usually lacked the perceptive ability to show how it is not. Thacker’s production was the most coherent and convincing demonstration that the play need not be.145 However, it can be argued that ‘the most coherent and convincing demonstration’ was made possible only by substantial changes to Shakespeare’s play. Alan C. Dessen referred to the ‘devious’ and ‘suspect’ route through which Thacker achieved a more sympathetic portrait of Shylock, in part by ‘the major rewriting’ of Act 3, Scene 1.146 Dessen felt the director ‘took the refashioning of Shylock farther than any other production I have ever seen’.147 When the play performed at the Barbican, the Guardian critic, Claire Armitstead, chaired a discussion between the playwright, Arnold Wesker and the RSC director. Wesker argued that his own strategy of writing a new play, The Merchant (in stages of rewriting and production between 1976 and 1978, and later called Shylock) was ‘a more honest approach to the problems than rejigging and imposing on the play’.148 Wesker’s play presents Shylock as an enlightened bibliophile in the Jewish ghetto of Venice in 1563. Antonio is his friend, and both men would gladly loan



heart of him if he forfeit, for were he out of Venice I can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue. Go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal. (3.1.117–23)

each other money but are forced to make a ludicrous bond to keep within the law. In the trial scene, Calder wore a gaberdine suit, yarmulke and ‘Star of David’ pendant. Tubal’s growing disapproval of Shylock alerted the theatre audience to view the guise of Judaic tradition as wilful misuse. Nevertheless, such was the powerful effect of the first half of the production that playgoers might understand and forgive this Shylock. A terrifying trial scene brought a climactic moment when Shylock drew a line around the heart of Antonio (Clifford Rose) with a felt pen. Portia (Penny Downie) was decisive and relentless in her legal pursuit of the ‘alien’ Jew who had conspired against the state. Towards the end of the trial scene, Shylock was knocked to the ground. Left on his own, he drew himself up by clutching the chair which, moments earlier, held a shaking Antonio. Shylock pulled himself round sharply to confront the audience. The moment was held before the lights dimmed bringing spontaneous applause. Notably the applause was for Calder’s powerful portrayal not for Shylock’s downfall. Thacker conceived Belmont as a modern equivalent of Renaissance pastoral: ‘the soul which Venice has lost’.149 Portia (Penny Downie) was particularly sensitive to the Prince of Morocco’s hurt feelings and the line, ‘Let all of his complexion choose me so’ was cut. In some respects the casket scenes were rather unusual, Paul Lapworth remarking:150 ‘those who fail the test, Ray Fearon’s Morocco and Robert Portal’s Arragon, are brilliantly conceived portraits of mistaken attitudes to life. Their discomfiture held the audience spellbound with scarce a hint of a laugh’. Deborah Findlay had obviously struggled with the cynical portrayal required of her in Bill Alexander’s production, and Frances Tomelty’s insensitive Portia was unable to connect with her hapless suitors. Penny Downie decided, ‘you cannot play this part with a sense of cynicism. It is not part of Portia’s make-up. To make sense of the person that she is in this 1993 version any signs of cynicism or prejudice have been jettisoned.’151 However, as a modern woman, Downie wished to suggest a feminist approach. Portia wore a full-length black evening dress, glossing respectful mourning for her father but also indicating the imposition of his will (a black wedding dress) on her freedom. The trial of the caskets would liberate both Portia and her suitors. Bassanio (Owen Teale) would arrive as an unregenerate fortune hunter but be transformed through love. Calder argued that Portia found love and learned to take responsibility: ‘Her function is to battle for Shylock’s humanity and she fails. Shylock is a man deeply




flawed.’152 Morocco and Arragon were given the freedom to test themselves without being judged for their failure. Portia took responsibility by sharing their disappointment, acknowledging their human need for acceptance and love. When Morocco entered he touched her face, admiring her beauty without a trace of aggressive acquisition (as in Sher’s production). Portia’s line, ‘Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair’ (2.1.20) was spoken with genuine warmth. Morocco did not produce an actual sword at the line ‘By this scimitar’ (25), altered to the scimitar, allowing the rhetorical language to appear ardent if somewhat exaggerated but certainly not inviting derisive laughter. During the speech Morocco gestured with his hands to give emphasis but spoke with dignity. As she advised him of the terms of her father’s will Portia spoke solicitously, advanced towards him and offered her hand. Portia’s line, ‘The one of them contains my picture, Prince./If you choose that, then I am yours withal’ (2.7.11–12), was spoken with absolute sincerity. At this sign of encouragement Morocco clapped his hands and knelt. The production enabled the playgoer to see a little drama unfolding in the choosing as Morocco paced between the caskets and at the line ‘some god direct my judgment’ (13) breathed out heavily in nervous anticipation. At the line ‘this mortal breathing saint’ (40) he drew out a handkerchief to wipe perspiration from his brow and in the nervous gesture of bringing his arms to the back of his neck, showed that he was undergoing a thoroughly emotional experience. The audience’s laughter at ‘O hell! What have we here?’ (63) was a natural relief of tension but the scene ended in pathos. Portia seemed visibly affected by Morocco’s ordeal and moved forward in sympathy but his resolute quick exit told its own story. Portia followed her sympathetic treatment of Morocco and Arragon by a final show of feeling at Shylock’s defeat. However, the decision to ‘soften’ Portia did not go unchallenged. Michael Billington urged: Isn’t it time we also had a harder look at Portia? Penny Downie plays her, with glowing intelligence, as a decent woman visibly upset by Shylock’s forced conversion to Christianity. But isn’t there something a bit sinister about the way Portia sets the trap for Shylock telling him his suit’s so strong ‘that the Venetian law cannot impugn you as you do proceed’? It’s a bit late for handwringing when she is the one who leads him on with a blatant lie.153





Penny Downie’s Portia has toughened up her act a bit since the Stratford premiere. Then she was too much the traditional romantic heroine. Now she leaves Bassanio in no doubt as to his financial dependence: ‘since you were dear bought, I will love you dear’.154 Thacker’s production in 1993 was at enough of a distance to reflect on Thatcher’s ‘yuppie’ culture (as Bill Alexander’s The Taming of the Shrew did in 1992) and to present a critique of capitalism that could also imagine new possibilities. Thacker argued, ‘Belmont offers us something that can renew and reform. It allows the quality of mercy to spread throughout the whole civilization and heal.’155 Thus Belmont fulfilled its original pastoral function to unravel and reconfigure the painful contradictions of its society’s economic base in 1993. A discernible difference in the sympathetic treatment of Shylock and Morocco suggested a new sensitivity to questions of ‘alien’ co-existence in British cultural life. Loveday Ingram’s production at The Pit (2001) attracted some disappointing London reviews. Surprisingly, a number of critics failed to pick up on the clear reference to Miller’s version. I saw the production at The Swan in Stratford and on its regional tour at Haden Hill, Dudley, and was struck by Jessica’s ‘elegy’ for Shylock in Act 5. The production went on world tour and played to packed houses in the RSC’s first ever performances in China. Act 1, Scene 1 was set in an Edwardian gentleman’s club where Antonio (Ian Gelder) smoked a cigar languidly and pressed a little gift on to Bassanio (Paul Hickey) who sported a loud check jacket, quoting Miller’s version. Antonio kissed his benefactor on the mouth, glossing the homoerotic tensions in this scene in Miller’s production. Antonio signed for the bill, and the waiter proffered a fresh cigar, a ‘speaking property’ that characterized the merchant’s assured manner. Paul Taylor (Independent (8 November 2001)) remarked: ‘Antonio has surrounded himself with pretty boys and picks up the tab for their company.’ However, the production remained ambiguous in respect of Antonio’s relationships, enabling Bassanio to transfer his affections to Portia. Colin Falconer’s set design was a wall of revolving doors that looked like gold ingots. When opened, their blue-lit, dark interiors suggested the canals of Venice. The production registered an English view of



Billington seemed to prefer the production after its transfer to the Barbican :

Jewish history for Shylock (Ian Bartholomew) through the set location, and through his costume, a gaberdine coat and yarmulke. As Salingar points out, ‘wealthy Venetian Jews and Jewesses dressed resplendently’.156 Gaberdine was ‘possibly a standard theatrical costume for Jews, but unknown to social historians’.157 However, in every other respect Bartholomew played against the figure of the Jew of Christian tradition. His measured delivery was free of suggestive ‘Jewish’ intonations and gestures, drawing attention to the discrepancy between the character’s representation in performance history and modern attitudes to the play. The production kept the full text of Shylock’s aside, ‘How like a fawning publican he looks’ (1.3.38) and so included the controversial line (cut by Thacker), ‘If I can catch him once upon the hip’ (43), thus refusing to dodge the play’s difficulties. Shylock turned away when Antonio interrupted him with his quip, ‘The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose’ (1.3.95). After Shylock’s diatribe against him, ‘You call me misbeliever, cut-throat, dog’ (108), Antonio advanced on Shylock, warning him, ‘I am as like to call thee so again’ (126). Antonio enjoyed the audacity of Shylock’s ‘merry bond’ and laughed over long, suggesting his prurient relish of the joke. Shylock held out his hand to seal the bargain and after a pause, Antonio took it. Shylock was obviously amused as he exited laughing. Michael Billington (Guardian (8 November 2001)) saw the production at The Pit in London and felt it ducked the emotional climaxes. In his performance at Stratford and Dudley, Bartholomew certainly seemed less emotional than Calder in Thacker’s production and therefore drew less sympathy. Preparing for rehearsals, Bartholomew indicated that he had no preconceived ideas about the part but believed Shylock was ‘not a tragic figure all the way through – the text is ambiguous and allows you to make decisions depending on the production’.158 Asked if Shylock was sympathetic he commented, ‘I would say he’s misunderstood, and his behaviour is ill-advised.’159 In his relationship with Jessica (Isabel Pollen), Shylock appeared to live up to her assessment that ‘our house is hell’ (2.3.2). Dutifully, she brought him a bowl and a napkin to wash his hands. Looking up, he saw that she wore lipstick and promptly used the napkin to rub it off. A little later, Shylock returned with a ring (presumably Leah’s). He kissed it and, in a mood of contrition perhaps, gave it to Jessica and kissed her brow. Giving her the keys to the house, he was strict in his instruction but then kissed her hand. Jessica chimed in with the lines of the proverb, ‘Fast bind, fast find’ (2.5.53), indicating that she had




heard it once too often. The scene established the underlying tension between father and daughter but also conveyed the idea that he acted from a misguided parental concern, probably rooted in his distrust of the Christian Venetians. His mistrust was well founded. Not only did they plot against him (the elopement) but they also deceived each other. Graziano (Dickon Tyrrell) pocketed some of the coins thrown down by Jessica when Lorenzo (Ben Turner) wasn’t looking. These scenes were important in suggesting that Jessica might come to regret her decision and wish to reclaim a sense of family and a Judaic tradition. They also explained Shylock’s outrage at the loss of the ring, which symbolized the continuance of this tradition. Bartholomew suggested that the play was about ‘hypocrisy, from everybody’s point of view’, and this is true in Belmont as well as Venice.160 The Prince of Morocco (Chris Jarman) entered in a white, jeweled turban and long white robe, together with his page, playing the drums. Morocco raised his scimitar and gyrated sexually, drawing Portia (Hermione Gulliford) onto his knee. Clearly Morocco was to be viewed as the exotic stranger and as a figure of fun, posing no real threat to Portia. Indeed he approached the caskets apprehensively, took time to puzzle out the riddles and seemed philosophical though hurt at his failure. He raised his scimitar to bid ‘adieu’, and unexpectedly presented it to Portia, an act of disempowerment and emascula-

Figure 6. Portia (Hermione Gulliford) and the Prince of Morocco (Chris Jarman) in Loveday Ingram’s The Merchant of Venice (2001).




tion. In face of his obvious defeat, Portia (unlike Downie) lost no time on sympathy but dismissed him, keeping the line, ‘Let all of his complexion choose me so’ (2.7.79). In Act 3, Scene 5, Jessica entered with a book, presumably the Bible, suggesting her new conversion. Launcelot (Darren Tunstall) pulled her onto his lap and Lorenzo seemed displeased to find them together. He was not wholly amused at the quip suggesting that in converting Jews to Christians he had raised the price of pork. Lorenzo gave Launcelot short shrift for ‘getting up of the Negro’s belly’ and rounded on him, ‘Go in, sirrah, bid them prepare for dinner’ (43–4). The exchange left an uneasy tension between husband and wife, as it revealed Christian anxieties about the conversion of Jews and Muslims. It showed Jessica a different side of Lorenzo and indicated to the audience that these tensions might be too great for the marriage to survive. The production followed these ambiguities in the courtroom scene that followed, where Morocco doubled as the court officer. When Shylock attacked the Christians for having ‘many a purchased slave’ (4.1.89), he raised his hand and gestured in the court officer’s direction. It was intriguing to find ‘Morocco’ and Shylock in a scene together, both having insider and alien status. At this point Morocco was acting on behalf of the court and Shylock was acting lawfully in proceeding with his suit. Racist tensions flared in Act 3, Scene 1 when Solarino and Solanio played catch with Shylock’s large-brimmed hat, removed his yarmulke and threatened to hit him. The climactic courtroom scene seemed likely to erupt into violence at several points. At one point Graziano had to be restrained by the court officer. Shylock chanted in Hebrew as he prepared to use his knife, echoing Sher’s ritual in the scene. Antonio was stripped to the waist and lay prostrate while Shylock fingered the flesh around the heart, ready to strike. When Portia stopped him, the audience laughed. Shylock picked up his knife and made to stab Antonio. This action gave Portia justification for accusing him of being an ‘alien’ who sought to take the life of a Venetian citizen. Before leaving the stage, Shylock took off his yarmulke and held it out to Antonio who took it reluctantly. Shylock exited sobbing and his Olivier-like cry of despair was heard off-stage, silencing the audience. Immediately, the Christians applauded Portia’s ‘success’. The seeds of discord sown earlier now bore fruit in the exchanges between Jessica and Lorenzo at Belmont. After the allusions to lovers of mythology, Jessica countered with her lines: ‘In such a night/Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,/Stealing her soul with many




vows of faith’ (5.1.16–18) but at the concluding line, ‘And ne’er a true one’ (19), the mood changed. At Jessica’s line, ‘I am never merry when I hear sweet music’ (69), Jessica sang in Hebrew and began to sob. Lorenzo tried to comfort her and they embraced but the scene established a rift between them. When Portia returned, Jessica stood upstage observing the lovers’ tiffs and reconciliation. When Nerissa handed Lorenzo the ‘special deed of gift’ from Shylock, he put a hand on Jessica’s arm but she pulled away. Lorenzo gave Jessica the document and she appeared to exit with it but at the last moment held it out to Antonio, patterning Shylock’s gesture at the end of the courtroom scene when he held out his yarmulke. Jessica’s gesture registered her refusal to accept the court’s ruling as a moral outcome and it was also an accusation. Antonio had achieved the outcome he wanted. The production ended with him alone on stage, smugly smoking his cigar. This was a departure from those modern productions, which have shown Antonio as a solitary figure, bereft of Bassanio’s love, at the close. Unequivocally, Ingram’s take on Edwardian ‘English’ aliens returned sympathy to Shylock. However, it was in China, where Shakespeare was described as ‘the Confucius of the theatre’, that performances seemed most to reap their reward. In an interview, Bartholomew commented: I have never encountered such sympathy playing Shylock before. In England, the audience tends to laugh at Shylock’s humiliation. Here they seemed stunned into silence. Maybe performing The Merchant of Venice in a non-Christian country creates a more even-handed response.161




II Enter Ophelia, with flowers in her hand, singing (Hamlet (4.5.155)) Enter [KING] RICHARD and YORK [with Officers bearing the crown and sceptre] (King Richard II (4.1.162))



Prop




4

A historic photograph of the present Queen Elizabeth shows her seated in a blue suit at Westminster Central Hall flanked by her Household Cavalry, sharply dressed in red military tunics and white-plumed helmets.1 The occasion is her golden jubilee speech to the Lords and Commons. The Queen’s striking blue outfit (including matching hat) draws the spectator’s gaze to her centrality in the construction of nation through the symbolism of the colours of the British flag, the Union Jack. As a counterpoint to this austere public setting in which she sits, enthroned at the foot of a wide staircase, regal blue delphiniums rise from a tall stone urn in the corner behind her. Quentin Letts remarked in the Daily Mail: ‘Amid the scent of blue delphiniums and the honk of Household Cavalry State Trumpeters, the Queen took a cue from Gloria Gaynor and declared, in so many words, I Will Survive.’2 The photograph and the comment furnish me with echoes of performance and pastoral associated with another Queen Elizabeth who was determined to survive, and to the challenges to the body politic made by Ophelia as ‘pastoral speaker’ in Hamlet. In his essay, ‘“Eliza, Queene of Shepheardes”, and the Pastoral of Power’, Louis Adrian Montrose shows how Elizabeth I ‘used pastoral forms as instruments of policy’, drawing on feminine symbolism from classical mythology, Petrarchan love poetry and Marian devotion.3 In progresses and pageants, Elizabeth I became the ‘Good Shepherd’ associated with Christ, her nation’s spiritual mother (the Virgin Mary) and the beldame of Medieval chivalry, desired and immortalized by poets. Helen Hackett argues that Elizabeth’s public persona as ‘virgin mother’ and ‘maiden Queen’ drew on ‘the cult of the Virgin Mary’ but erased its Marian application (bride of Christ) to produce a new identification with the nation and the Protestant Church.4 Susan 103



Ophelia’s Flowers


Her virginity allowed her to be cast in portraits and literature as the moon goddesses Diana, Phoebe and Cynthia, as well as Astraea, the virgin who in Virgil’s poetry had once presided over the Golden Age and would return again to restore it. Her virginity also enabled her to exploit the coincidence of her birth date, 7 September, with the feast of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary and claim a symbolic kinship with the mother of Christ.5 Montrose describes how the Queen fashioned herself as shepherdess to her flock at the Sudbury entertainments (1591) in a drama that reconfigured rural workers involved in the wool trade as shepherds of an idealized pastoral mythology: ‘Cotswold has become Arcadia. Elizabeth is the queen of this pastoral and sylvan domain.’6 The symbolic union of Pan (Henry VIII and Christ) and Syrinx (Anne Boleyn) in Edmund Spenser’s The Shepheardes Calendar (1597) gives Elisa of the Aprill eclogue a genealogy both royal and divine: she is supreme governor of the English church and state, ‘the idealized personification of the body politic’.7 However, as Doran points out, Elizabeth’s public persona was ‘incompatible with marriage’ and her parliaments repeatedly pressed her to marry and produce an heir.8 The Queen’s attitude to marriage has been a subject of academic debate and arguments have been made on the basis of psychoanalysis (she was a victim of sexual abuse), on grounds of policy (taking a husband would undermine her authority), and on the evidence of failed matrimonial negotiations (no suitor had the overwhelming support of her councillors).9 Marina Warner suggests: ‘The cult of Mary is inextricably interwoven with Christian ideas about the dangers of the flesh and their special connection with women.’10 In Elizabeth’s reign, the Virgin Queen’s natural sexualized body caused speculation including wild stories that her frequent progresses throughout the countryside enabled her to leave court and give birth to numerous illegitimate children by Lord Dudley.11 I would argue that Elizabeth’s symbolic relation to her subjects embodies a contradiction. While the Virgin Queen’s ‘body politic’ resides in royal pastoral, her natural sexualized body belongs outside: in ‘the countryside’. In fact, of course, the countryside as place of rural work, sex and fertility (plants, crops, animals, people) forms the ‘base’ upon which royal pastoral draws its strength.



Doran details some of the pastoral and Marian symbolism associated with the Virgin Queen but argues that Elizabeth may still have wished to marry:

The legal metaphor of the ‘Queen’s two bodies’ has been explored by Marie Axton drawing on Ernst Kantorowicz’s study of an idea of kingship found in Edmund Plowden’s Reports (collected and written under Queen Elizabeth I) that ‘the King has in him two Bodies, viz., a Body natural, and a Body politic’.12 By making the ‘Body politic’ separate from the ‘Body natural’, the Crown lawyers emphasized the continuance of the Body politic for the ‘Direction of the People’ over and above the claims of the Body natural, that is, the body belonging to the individual ruler.13 Axton explores the significance of this idea in relation to the succession question, showing how Plowden utilized the concept to press the ‘right of succession of Mary Queen of Scotland’.14 Axton argues that the legal metaphor of the ‘Queen’s two bodies’ influenced ‘writers, polemicists and playwrights’, for example, where Warwick in 3 Henry VI no longer recognizes Edward IV as king and it is reported that Edward has suffered ‘the loss of his own royal person’ (4.4.5) or ‘body politic’.15 In 1600, at the height of the succession crisis (and, incidentally, a year which saw publication of ‘the great Elizabethan pastoral anthology, England’s Helicon’), Shakespeare wrote Hamlet, a play in which the body politic transfers from old Hamlet to Claudius, is promised to Hamlet, is claimed for Laertes and is taken (albeit with Hamlet’s consent) by Fortinbras.16 Ophelia is closely connected to the trajectory of these events and Shakespeare identifies her with the contradictory elements found in royal pastoral as a prospective queen who is both virginal ‘rose of May’ (Hamlet, 4.5.159) and a woman with knowledge of ‘country matters’ (3.2.108). A woodcut illustration accompanying Spenser’s Aprill eclogue shows Queen Elizabeth at the centre of a group of court attendants (figured as Muses with musical instruments) in a pastoral landscape in which the sun tries vainly to outshine her, Pan plays a pipe and two shepherds with crooks mind their sheep. However, as Raymond Williams has argued: ‘A working country is hardly ever a landscape.’ 17 Cultural geographers (drawing on the cultural studies of Williams, John Berger and Stuart Hall) have referred to ‘the duplicity of landscape’, remarking upon the tensions between an elitist (and illusory) idea and a vernacular (and realistic) place of work. 18 The literary figuration of pastoral can be viewed as creating an elite landscape in Montrose’s study, and works to define power relationships between Elizabeth and her subjects. However, Paul Alpers emphasizes a tradition of social critique embedded in pastoral forms. Spenser’s poem is a version of Virgil’s fourth Eclogue and keeps open ‘the possibility that the “queen of shepherds” is herself to be seen as a shepherdess’. 19 While pastoral has often evoked the idea of an



Ophelia’s Flowers 105


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106 Shakespeare’s Culture in Modern Performance Figure 7. The woodcut ‘Aprill’ from Edmund Spenser’s The Shepheardes Calender, 1579. This item is reproduced by permission of The Huntington Library, San Marino, California.


M.

You, Tityrus, under the spreading, sheltering beech, Tune woodland musings on a delicate reed; We flee our country’s borders, our sweet fields, Abandon home; you, lazing in the shade, Make woods resound with lovely Amaryllis.21

Alpers argues, ‘Tityrus is secure in the way of life he has known, while Meliboeus has been dispossessed of his farm and is going into exile’.22 Virgil has brought about ‘a modification of pastoral song’, the convention through which ‘literary herdsmen’ meet to hear each other’s complaints and share sentiments and pleasures.23 Alpers suggests that pastoral can be ‘historically diversified’ and may use a range of speakers who draw on pastoral conventions. For example, Alpers notes that the gravemaker in Hamlet is figured as the literary shepherd who traditionally speaks plain truths when questioned by courtiers. Perdita takes on a similar role in The Winter’s Tale. We first meet Ophelia in Act 1 of Hamlet where Laertes casts his sister as the beautiful virgin associated with the moon goddesses: ‘The chariest maid is prodigal enough/If she unmask her beauty to the moon’ (1.3.36–7). She replies in pastoral and biblical images, evoking an image of Christ’s crown of thorns: Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, Whilst like a puffed and reckless libertine Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own rede. (47–51) Shakespeare’s use of the ‘primrose’ on the road to destruction is curious since the flower is associated with spring and purity. Perdita in The Winter’s Tale speaks of pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength – a malady Most incident to maids (4.4.122–5),



idyllic landscape, cut off from political and social realities, in fact a truer idea of pastoral is elicited by attending to ‘herdsmen and their lives, rather than landscape or idealized nature’.20 Alpers shows how Virgil’s exchange between the shepherds, Meliboeus and Tityrus, reveals a historical (Roman) situation:

referring to the ‘green sickness’ or ‘chlorosis, an anaemic condition affecting pubescent girls’.24 However, the symbolism of virginity in Hamlet is overlaid with the symbolism of desire figured through the encroachment of the sexualized girl into the pastoral idyll. Carroll Camden explored the classical symptoms of erotomania or lovesickness and, more recently, Kaara L. Peterson has extended this discussion.25 She describes the commonly held view in the period that females produced larger amounts of seeds or sperm than males and that this would build up in the womb causing an imbalance and ensuing illness.26 Thus ‘green sickness’ figures duplicitously as a sign of virgin purity and unregulated desire: ‘Ophelia’s illness seems like the indisposition commonly attributed to virgins desiring but not experiencing sexual release’.27 In Hamlet, however, Ophelia’s desire has political significance because it is directed towards Denmark’s prince and heir and has consequences for the succession. Laertes warns her: His greatness weighed, his will is not his own, For he himself is subject to his birth. He may not, as unvalued persons do, Carve for himself, for on his choice depends The sanity and health of the whole state. (1.3.17–21) Polonius reports to Claudius how he reprimanded her: ‘“Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy star./This must not be”’ (2.2.140–1). Within royal pastoral, desire is sublimated to design, a strategy evident in Sir Philip Sidney’s The Lady of May, which ‘lays claim to being the first English pastoral drama’.28 The play was performed in 1579 during the Queen’s visit to Wanstead Garden near her royal palace at Greenwich (home of her favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester). Elizabeth was invited by the old shepherd Lalus to assist the May Queen in her choice of suitor and despite (and perhaps, because of) the play’s obvious association of Therion the forester with Robin Hood (the Queen called Robert Dudley ‘Robin’), she chose the simple shepherd Espilus but would give no reasons for her decision. In Hamlet, Laertes figures political anxiety as pathology – Ophelia must curb her desire and prevent green sickness, ‘Be wary then; best safety lies in fear’ (1.3.43), a manoeuvre evident in The Merchant of Venice where Antonio’s anxieties about his merchandise are sublimated to pathology, ‘In sooth, I know not why I am so sad’ (1.1.1).29 Laertes warns Ophelia that ‘canker’ (Hamlet, 1.3.39) and ‘contagious blast-




ments’ (42) threaten ‘the infants of the spring’ (39) and the ‘buttons’ (40) or ‘buds’ (female genitalia are often figured as ‘roses’), suggesting that she risks contracting the sickness of desire. Polonius, the state adviser, identifies his daughter with an ambiguous pastoral landscape in which virginal beauty is threatened by ‘springes to catch woodcocks’ (1.3.115). Ophelia is the ‘green girl’ (1.3.101) who can easily be caught like a common bird. Polonius sullies the vision of Ophelia wrought in Hamlet’s courtly love poetry, which he reads and belittles: ‘“To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia” – That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase, “beautified” is a vile phrase’ (2.2.109–10). Polonius will ‘loose’ (163) his daughter to Hamlet like a farmer would loose a ram to the ewes or a bull to his cows. At the same time, he would disassociate himself from the real countryside that royal pastoral needs to create the wealth that sustains its power. Polonius is confident that he will keep his privileged position at court, confident enough to risk a wager. If he fails to prove that Ophelia is the cause of Hamlet’s decline, ‘Let me be no assistant for a state,/But keep a farm and carters’ (2.2.165–6). A few lines later, Hamlet builds on the association of Ophelia as an animal loosed for breeding purposes in a horrific description: ‘For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion – Have you a daughter?’ (2.2.181–2). At the same time, the Renaissance idea that the sun could produce life through spontaneous generation (the maggots), coupled with Hamlet’s further comment: ‘Conception is a blessing’ (184), might also associate Ophelia with the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary. Hamlet welcomes the travelling players and insinuates his royal presence into their entertainment (as the monarch would do in royal pastoral) by taking on a tragic role as Aeneas, but Polonius parodies the artifice and conventions of pastoral form and returns its authority to the actors: The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historicalpastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited. (2.2.391–4) Further, through his reference to ‘the law writ and the liberty’ (2.2.395–6), Polonius reminds Hamlet that the players not only provide entertainment to royal command but also frequently play ‘in the liberties’ (the unregulated area outside the jurisdiction of the city officers), without authority.30





Ophelia, walk you here. – Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves. – Read on this book, That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness. Harold Jenkins comments: ‘In iconographic convention a solitary woman with a book represented devoutness’ and the book is ‘traditional in pictures of the Annunciation’.31 However, Hamlet draws on a mythological association when he addresses her: ‘The fair Ophelia. – Nymph, in thy orisons/Be all my sins remembered’ (3.1.90–1). Some editors have glossed the allusions to ‘Nymph’ and ‘orisons’ as pretentious, suggesting that Hamlet speaks ironically, perhaps sarcastically. However, the association between the two words is of further interest since a ‘nymph’ is associated with a beautiful maiden belonging to a pastoral landscape of mountains, groves, fountains and rivers, and its root meaning is ‘bride’. Taken with ‘orisons’ (prayers), Marian iconography would suggest Bride of Christ. In medieval times, the relationship between God and nature was understood ‘through the analogy of nature as a book, requiring attentive reading’.32 Clarence J. Glacken details the belief that God would reveal himself ‘through the Bible (the ultimate book of revelation) and through the book of nature’ (through which God’s handiwork would be revealed).33 Eamon Duffy reminds us that ‘one of the most popular of all prayers in fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century England was the Passion devotion on the last words of Jesus known as the “Fifteen Oes of St Bridget”’, in which the prayers are revealed to ‘a woman solitary and recluse’.34 The story tells of a woodland hermit to whom it is revealed that the wood contains an old woman ‘ful of many holy wordes’ who ‘seyth an Orison’ pleasing to God.35 The Marian association is continued in Hamlet’s admonition to Ophelia ‘Get thee to a nunnery’ (3.1.121) to preserve her virginity but, of course, the association of ‘nunnery’ with ‘whorehouse’ would not have gone unnoticed. Ophelia’s sexuality is figured as deception through the suggestion that she will ‘nickname God’s creatures’ (145–6), altering the ordered (named) world of God’s creation, the Garden of Eden. Her thoughts and actions are associated with sensuality as she imagines Hamlet’s letters to be flowers whose ‘perfume’ is lost (3.1.100) and whose vows of love are ‘honey’ to be ‘sucked’ (157).



Editors have pointed to the Marian iconography at 3.1.45–8, where Polonius instructs his daughter:

When she prepares to watch the play, the conventional language of Elizabethan love poetry in Hamlet’s quip, ‘here’s metal more attractive’ (3.2.103) gives way to ‘country matters’ (108). The indecent quibble on ‘country’, the further allusions to the ‘nothing’ that lies ‘between maids’ legs’ (109–10) and the lewd antics associated with the ‘hobbyhorse’ (3.2.125) render Ophelia’s idealized landscape contradictory. She is pastoral maiden but can offer spirited ‘country’ ripostes, countering Hamlet’s suggestion that she ‘show’ herself with ‘You are naught, you are naught’ (3.2.137). She returns his quibbles in lines 230–8 on ‘keen’ (sexual appetite) and ‘groaning’ (sexual release and loss of maidenhead) with ‘Still better, and worse’ (236), a remark on his wit as well as his obscenity. The Oxford Shakespeare edition of Hamlet includes a stage direction for Ophelia in Act 4, Scene 5: ‘Enter Ophelia, with flowers in her hand, singing’. The editor, G. R. Hibbard concedes: None of the primary texts contains this direction, but Ophelia must bring the flowers with her, so that she can distribute them later; and she should be singing in order to prompt Laertes’ initial question.36 Laertes, of course, heads a rebellion and on hearing Ophelia’s voice exclaims: ‘How now? What noise is that?’ (4.5.156). On seeing his sister, he calls her ‘rose of May’ (4.5.159), associating her with the early white rose, symbolizing virginity and with the May Queen. Ophelia’s ‘noise’ also functions like the ‘confused noise’ in Sidney’s The Lady of May after the supplication to the Queen, as an antimasque. Sidney writes: Herewith, the woman suitor being gone, there was heard in the woods a confused noise and forthwith there came out six shepherds, with as many foresters, haling and pulling to whether side they should draw the Lady of May.37 The dramatic moment relies on the convention referred to by Alpers that shepherds convene that others may hear their laments or arguments. In Sidney’s drama, it is the Queen who is called upon to arbitrate and choose between the two shepherds. She must offer a just solution and give reasons for her decision. In Hamlet, Ophelia (like Perdita in The Winter’s Tale) is a ‘pastoral speaker’ of royal connections. Gertrude hoped Ophelia ‘shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife’ (5.1.233). Like a shepherdess, Ophelia




convenes her listeners to hear her pastoral lament and, crucially, brings a social critique relevant to her contemporary situation. Alpers describes pastoral convening in Virgil’s eclogues where literary shepherds lament the dead shepherd-hero Daphnis: ‘Strew foliage on the ground and shade the springs,/You shepherds – Daphnis calls for rites like these.’38 A pastoral elegy depends on the presence of others and invokes feelings of loss and separation, feelings (as Alpers points out) that are also present in pastoral representations of social injustice.39 Ophelia brings her concerns to the King, the fountain of justice. Ophelia sings: ‘They bore him barefaced on the bier,/Hey non nony, nony, hey nony’ (4.5.166–7). G. R. Hibbard suggests that the refrain is ‘incongruous’, relating (in F. W. Sternfeld’s view) ‘more logically to lads, lasses and springtime than to lamentation and tears’.40 The refrain, ‘Hey non nony’, is heard in the start sequence of Kenneth Branagh’s film, Much Ado about Nothing (1993) where mise en scène (a sunny hillside and girls clad in virginal white) suggests springtime though it is ‘autumnal late afternoon’, and indeed the song insinuates deception: ‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,/Men were deceivers ever’.41 Jenkins notes that it was Rowe ‘who made Ophelia enter “fantastically drest with straws and flowers”’, and suggests an analogy with King Lear.42 However, the flowers are symbolic of not only madness but also rape. Stephen Orgel reminds us that the presence of aristocrats in the rustic world is of the essence of pastoral and can figure as ‘destructive intrusion’.43 In The Winter’s Tale Florizel invokes myths suggestive of a bestial male sexuality. Perdita is figured as Flora, goddess of flowers, who as ‘the simple nymph Chloris’ was beloved of Zephyrus, the west wind, who raped her ‘and then to make amends filled the earth with flowers and gave her dominion over them’.44 Hamlet also figures Ophelia as Flora (violated by Hamlet’s behaviour) but her insertion into the elite space of royal pastoral is overlaid with the ‘vernacular space’ of ‘country matters’, emphasized through popular songs: ‘You must sing “A down, a-down”; and you “Call him a-down-a”’ (4.5.172–3). Hibbard notes that she ‘evidently expected her hearers to join in’.45 In The Lady of May, the Queen would be invited and supplicated to take part and then have the role of arbitrator. In her mad scenes, Ophelia seeks out the Queen who at first refuses to speak to her and, as Flora, Ophelia directs the scene and gives her flowers. Through words and gestures, Ophelia inverts royal pastoral’s power to overwhelm the spectator because she refuses to grant the King and Queen a formal arbitrating role. While, conventionally, royalty ‘intrudes’ into the pastoral world to




bring about a restoration of harmony and order in the court world (As You Like It and The Winter’s Tale are examples), Ophelia brings disorderly ‘country matters’ to intrude upon and contest the symbolic space of royal pastoral. Claudius and Gertrude attempt to reconfigure Ophelia as pastoral’s ‘sweet lady’ (4.5.27), ‘pretty lady’ (40) and ‘pretty Ophelia’ (55) who, like the May Queen, comes ‘larded with sweet flowers’ (37) but her words and gestures contradict the role. Laertes sees that ‘prettiness’ (189) conceals ‘Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself’ (188). Ophelia identifies herself with the forsaken woman of popular song and ballad.46 The songs’ references to young men who will ‘do’t, if they come to’t’ (59), and to being ‘tumbled’ after a false promise of marriage, suggest that they ‘belong to the common world of experience’.47 Of course, it is ‘the common world of experience’ that royal pastoral seeks to mystify. It is perhaps appropriate that Claudius uses the word ‘greenly’ (suggesting either pastoral innocence or, here, inexperience) to suggest his mishandling of Polonius’s murder: ‘and we have done but greenly/In hugger-mugger to inter him’ (4.5.79–80). He uses the word ‘muddied’ to convey the suspicions of his subjects: ‘the people muddied,/Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers’ (75–6). Ophelia gives Laertes rosemary ‘for remembrance’ which may be associated with remembrance of the dead and with lovers’ tokens. However, the reference is not entirely symbolic. Dead bodies were wrapped in flowers, and rosemary, in particular, was used to disguise the smell. Hamlet tells Claudius that if Polonius’s body is not found within a month: ‘you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby’ (4.3.35–6). Ophelia wants to know the truth about her father and threatens Claudius, ‘My brother shall know of it’ (4.5.68). When she sings, ‘They bore him barefaced on the bier’ (4.5.166), she indicates a major breach of decorum for a man of his rank should have been covered and buried with due ceremony. Laertes challenges Claudius: His means of death, his obscure burial – No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite nor formal ostentation – Cry to be heard, as ‘twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question. (4.5.214–18) At the same time Ophelia’s lament removes Polonius to a pastoral world, ‘At his head a grass-green turf,/At his heels a stone’ (4.5.31–2). Pastoral convening is also used here as a surrogate for intercessionary prayers by




the community to assist the soul to ascend to heaven. Duffy argues for the presence of residual Catholicism in early modern England and instances a typical sixteenth-century direction by the senior bedesman at a Berkshire almshouse, that they prayed, ‘For John Isburies sowle, the sowls of his parents, auncestors, frendes, and all christian sowles’.48 Ophelia’s line ‘God ha’ mercy on his soul./And of all Christian souls, I pray God’ (4.5.199–200) seems an attempt to direct those present to bear witness and to take part in intercessionary prayers. Similarly, Ophelia enjoins Laertes to remember the dead: ‘Pray, love, remember’ (4.5.177). The repetition in her song ‘And will he not come again?’ (4.5.190–1) and ‘He is gone, he is gone’ (197) sound like an incantation, and in its suggestive line ‘And we cast away moan’ (197) conveys the idea that lamentation or remembrance of the dead is redundant. However, these references are also conventional in literary pastoral. Spenser’s Colin Clouts Come Home Againe (1597) includes the lines: But since I said he is, he quite is gone, Amyntas quite is gone and lies full low, Having his Amaryllis left to mone. (433–5)49 Spenser’s reference to Astrofell (Sir Philip Sidney) being ‘dead and gone’ (449) is echoed in Ophelia’s lament, ‘He is dead and gone, lady,/He is dead and gone’ (4.5.29–30). There are no stage directions to indicate who should receive Ophelia’s flowers, though editors assume that Laertes receives the rosemary and pansies because of his reply, ‘A document in madness – thoughts and remembrance fitted’ (4.5.179–80). Hibbard agrees with Jenkins that ‘fennel’ and ‘columbines’ signify marital infidelity and should go to the Queen while ‘rue’ (repentance) should go to Claudius who had tried in vain to repent. Equally, as Philip Edwards points out, fennel is appropriate to Claudius ‘because it was a food much liked by serpents’.50 Jenkins suggests that Ophelia’s reference to ‘daisies’ in connection with her father’s death is ‘baffling’ as it is usually associated with a lover while violets signify faithfulness.51 Hibbard suggests that Ophelia connects them with Hamlet and the idea of forsaken love. Of course, there is another way in which the flowers have a special meaning, in a wedding bouquet: ‘Daisies and violets, pansies and roses were more colourful, more aromatic and more common at weddings’ in the period while ‘evergreen rosemary and myrtle’ would be used in colder months.52 Ophelia’s flowers have individual emblematic significance for the King and Queen, and are also associated with burial and marriage rites




according to local customs. As pastoral speaker, Ophelia appeals for justice concerning the death and burial of her father as well as the broken promises made by Hamlet, who has forsaken her. In performance, the effects of Ophelia’s words and gestures often recall Polonius’s comment on Hamlet’s ‘antic disposition’: ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t’ (2.2.204–5). Ophelia brings what is outside into the body politic, symbolic space of royal pastoral. After consideration, the Queen says, ‘Let her come in’ (4.5.16) for fear that ‘she may strew/Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds’ (14–15). The word ‘strew’ (later to be associated with the ‘strewments’ or flowers on her grave) is appropriate for a scene in which Ophelia strews ‘dangerous conjectures’ through her flowers. Gertrude’s elegiac description of Ophelia’s drowning retreads the pastoral symbolism of the early part of the play. The ‘willow’, ‘brook’, ‘glassy stream’, ‘pendent boughs’ and ‘mermaid-like’ (4.7.140–51) seem conventional but in fact the lexis draws on ‘country matters’ in its phallic and disorderly descriptions of ‘dead men’s fingers’, ‘clothes spread wide’ (150) and ‘muddy death’ (158). Gertrude’s words and actions at the graveside add a retrospective gloss on Ophelia’s flowers: Sweets to the sweet. Farewell. I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife. I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, And not t’have strewed thy grave. (5.1.232–45) However, Ophelia is finally reclaimed not by an idealized pastoral landscape but by the gravediggers’ allusions to ‘pickaxe’, ‘spade’ and ‘a shrouding sheet’ (90–1). She is allowed her ‘virgin rites’ (222) and ‘maiden strewments’ (232) and her flesh may give birth to violets but her death cannot be mystified. The final association of Ophelia is with the earth, which her brother bids the gravemaker to ‘hold off’ so that he can hold his sister’s body once more in his arms.53 The moment can seem more eloquent in performance if less ‘tragic’ than Hamlet’s late protestations of love.

Green girls Film directors have identified Ophelia with a ‘vernacular space’, outside and opposed to the ‘elite space’ of the body politic in Hamlet. The space may also be gendered, suggesting a feminine world,




symbolically antagonistic to a masculinist world of public affairs, politics and war. Laurence Olivier’s film (1948) associates Ophelia (Jean Simmons) with a pastoral ‘bower’, closely linked to an idealized painted landscape of hillsides and trees repeatedly glimpsed through sunny arched windows. Grigori Kozintsev (1964) gives Ophelia (Anastasia Vertinskaya) a pretty little bedroom, a private space set apart from the teeming corridors of the court. Franco Zeffirelli (1990) identifies Ophelia (Helena Bonham-Carter) with a traditionally feminine space of work and domesticity in a sewing room. More recently, Michael Almereyda (2000) gives Ophelia (Julia Stiles) a photographer’s ‘dark room’ in a student flat and also creates a specifically modern association with water (a trope connected to the female body and bodily fluids): a public fountain, an urban water feature and a swimming pool. These Ophelias are green girls and the films’ private spaces identify them with girlhood, growing up, imagination, exploration and love. However, although they may be shown as sexually aware, the films remain ambivalent about their sexual activity, preferring to keep a sense of their ‘maiden presence’. In this way the directors can convey the emotional cost of policy in a corrupt Elsinore, through the symbolic connection with Ophelia’s body as innocence betrayed. However, ‘innocence’ doesn’t mean ‘ignorance’, and indeed the power of literary pastoral lies in its ability to question and to challenge. There is a famous exchange in Spenser’s The Faerie Queene where the courtier, Sir Calidore, underestimates the old shepherd who he perceives to be living an idyllic life. Calidore wishes the heavens would alter his own fortunes and place him in ‘low degree’ like the shepherd. However, the shepherd advises him not to blame fortune but to remember: ‘It is the mynd, that maketh good or ill,/That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore’ (Book VI, Canto IX, 30–1).54 In modern films, Ophelia’s role has become more important. Reviewers in 1948 were mostly concerned with Olivier’s role as Hamlet but William Whitebait (New Statesman and Nation (8 May 1948)) remarked that Ophelia’s story came over ‘with a clarity I have never known’. A review of Kozintsev’s film (Monthly Film Bulletin (February 1965)) commented that ‘the most striking single element’ was its treatment of Ophelia: ‘the film contrives to move Ophelia from the periphery towards the centre’. Jonathan Romney (Sight and Sound (May 1991)) found: ‘The only lead to carry real interpretative weight is Helena Bonham-Carter’s Ophelia’. Peter Bradshaw (Guardian (15 December 2000)) thought Julia Stiles ‘excellent, as ever – sensitive, sexy, angry: surely an Academy Award nominee?’




In the 1940s and 1950s deep-focus cinematography was ‘a major stylistic option’, used to effect in Citizen Cane (dir. Orson Welles, 1941) and in Olivier’s Hamlet to suggest an enduring connection between Hamlet and Ophelia.55 Anthony Davies has commented on the ‘longdistance love scene’ created through deep focus where Hamlet (seated on his throne) sees Ophelia framed in an archway that leads outside to the countryside.56 I would argue that the prince’s throne becomes a pivotal space in the film, from Act 1 where a deep-focus shot keeps Hamlet (close plane) in sight of Claudius (distant plane), establishing Hamlet’s relation to the body politic. Subsequently, repeated shots of Ophelia’s view of the throne establishes her connection to the body politic as well as to the prince. She frequently observes the space of the body politic and its vacancy when the seat is empty, prompting a question about the absent heir who from Act 1 was proclaimed by Claudius to be ‘the most immediate to our throne’ (1.2.109). Bearing this in mind, Ophelia’s ‘bower’ only appears to be separate from the power politics at court. Harry Keyishian identifies the film with the stylistic conventions of film noir including ‘low key lighting, shadows and fog’, and ‘slow tracking shots (suggesting the unravelling of a mystery)’.57 Indeed the credits unroll across the gloomy rocks and sea of Elsinore, and the guards appear shrouded in mist. It is therefore a relief when (at the end of 1.2) the camera tracks towards Ophelia’s bower to discover a sunny room whose arched windows and doorway lead out to a painted pastoral landscape. Ophelia’s face and virginal white dress are lit to suggest the warmth of the exterior sunshine, and her mood is playful as she listens to her brother’s advice. Walking outside on the castle ramparts, she listens to Polonius’s (Felix Aylmer) stern advice with amusement and tries to divert Laertes (Terence Morgan) by trying to grab his purse and rapier. These seem surprisingly phallic actions for a maid but apt for the ‘green girl’ who is ready to explode with sexual desire. After a dark atmospheric scene when Hamlet sees the Ghost, the film reports his ‘antic’ appearance to Ophelia through her flashback in voice-over, again casting her as observer of the body politic. The sequence begins with a top-lit view of her face in close-up but the light dims disturbingly to suggest Hamlet’s intrusion as she was sewing alone in her chamber. Hamlet draws her up and his perusal of her face and sighs are shown from her point of view. Ophelia does not run to report the matter to her father but sits thoughtfully afterwards and brings a hand to her cheek, recalling the sensation of his touch.




In the nunnery scene the camera pans past a wall painting of the Annunciation and there is a shot of Ophelia walking forward as instructed before a hand appears in the frame with her father’s voiceover ‘Read on this book’. She moves to the centre of the room and her figure is lit as Hamlet enters down the steps past the wall painting. The iconography associates Ophelia with the transfiguration of the Virgin Mary as she kneels as if at prayer and Hamlet says, ‘Nymph, in thy orisons/Be all my sins remembered’ (3.1.90–1). Olivier casts Ophelia as a Judas to Christ in the act of betrayal. When he asks, ‘Where’s your father?’ (3.1.131), her answer ‘At home, my lord’ is a terrible sin because of the mise en scène which takes on the symbolism of a holy place. However, an earlier shot of Hamlet walking along a balcony qualifies the ‘sin’ if he sees the King with Polonius hurrying towards the arras. In this case he might suspect that she has been forced to comply with their wishes but would not willingly deceive him. Olivier’s Oedipal reading of the play uses Ophelia’s betrayal as a catalyst for the ‘To be’ soliloquy which he places after the nunnery encounter. His violence towards her, throwing her down hard on the stone steps, is hardly mitigated by the romantic gesture of kissing a lock of her hair. The retreating camera picks her out, a small sobbing figure lying at the bottom of the stairwell. Although the editing strikes a connection between her perfidy and Hamlet’s troubled mind (an extreme close-up makes the camera disappear inside his skull), in fact the image of Ophelia also suggests a violent fracture of the body politic. It was a pity that Olivier chose to cut Ophelia’s commentary, ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ (3.1.151). However, Olivier’s version of the ‘Mousetrap’ makes Ophelia an early observer of events. When the player King is poisoned, the camera cuts from a view behind Claudius (Basil Sydney) matching his position as spectator to a close-up of the King gripping the sides of his throne and craning forwards transfixed. The camera shows Hamlet observing the King and cuts quickly to Ophelia observing Hamlet watching the King. She is the first to register the connection between the events Hamlet has set in motion and its effect on the King. Kenneth S. Rothwell remarks that Kozintsev’s film (1964) alternates ‘between a subdued expressionism and a dynamic realism’.58 The expressionist movement in art conveyed intense feelings through distorted images meant to shock the bourgeoisie out of its complacency.59 In film, expressionists used light and shade to achieve dramatic effects as alternatives to realism. The nunnery scene uses these techniques, drawing the small figure of Ophelia out from the




shadows of a long empty hall, from where she walks forward into the rays of light streaming from a high stained glass window, another Virgin Mary, ethereal, afraid, full of grace. An earlier shot shows her forced to take on this role by her father who pushes her towards a dark doorway. Symbolically, she walks into the light, an expression of hope in the ‘prison’ of Elsinore, a motif used by the director throughout. Neil Taylor relates the film’s origins from a 1954 production, staged at the Pushkin Academic Theatre of Drama in Leningrad: The seeds of that production probably go back at least nine years to discussions about the play which Kozintsev was then having with Meyerhold’s most talented disciple, Nikolai Okhlopkov. When, by a coincidence, Okhlopkov came also to direct the play in 1954 (at the Mayakovsky Theatre), his set was dominated by a huge metal grille that clearly indicated that Elsinore was a prison.60 At the start of Kozintsev’s film, there is a long tracking shot of Hamlet (Innokenti Smoktunovksy) on horseback, riding towards Elsinore for his father’s funeral. As he enters the castle, an extreme close-up of the lifting edge of the drawbridge suggests menacingly that he will be trapped inside. Ophelia’s situation is linked with his through shots that emphasize her lack of freedom. Tinkling music conveys the mechanical movements of a music box and Ophelia is shown repeating clockwork dance steps, like a puppet whose strings are pulled by her dour female instructor. Kozintsev shows Ophelia waiting dutifully while Polonius (Yuri Tolubeyev) advises her brother on his future conduct. She sits at her father’s feet while he questions her about Hamlet. The scene ends when she kisses her father’s ring in obedience and recommences the mechanical movements of the dance lesson. However, the film grants her a private space where a young girl’s dreams are kept alive. Ophelia’s chamber has soft furnishings including a tapestry showing deer and a young vulnerable fawn. Her sewing frame is near a window. She is shown alone in her pretty bedchamber, retrieving a framed picture of Hamlet from under her pillow. She rereads the inscription (from 2.2.115–18) on the back of it: Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.




Hamlet enters, disturbed by the Ghost’s visitation, and grasps her hand. She pulls back against the poster bed, bewildered, but stays, unflinching as he peruses her face. The moment suggests a fragile intimacy between them that the corruption of the body politic will betray. Nevertheless, the purity of their love is an ideal to aspire to and it is a call to action. Eleanor Rowe argues that Pasternak’s translation of Hamlet made the prince ‘a dedicated, self-sacrificing hero’ while the portrayal of Ophelia as ‘victimized purity’ was in the mainstream of Russian literary treatment.61 However, Kozintsev rejected the ‘hamletism’ associated particularly with German romanticism, which cast Hamlet as an inactive poet and philosopher. The film’s realistic portrayal of soldiers marching and the hardships facing the peasantry (the crane shot of men pushing the mighty wheel to close the drawbridge) connects with a history of two World Wars and, particularly sharp in Russian memories, the tyranny of Stalinism. In this context, Hamlet plays out an existential conflict in which the hero must make the moral decision to act even in the face of overwhelming odds. Thus the inserted scene in Ophelia’s chamber is significant in establishing the emotional cost of moral action. Frightened, Ophelia rushes to tell her father what has happened and she passes a bird in a cage, a sad prescient symbol of the ensuing events that will ensnare her. Polonius seeks out the King and Queen and forces Ophelia to betray her love. As in Olivier’s film, the set for the nunnery scene establishes the idea of a holy place. Ophelia sees Hamlet through a balustrade. A shot shows Hamlet at first unaware that she is watching him. When he looks around, a reaction shot shows his view of her through the spindles. The alternate shots echo Olivier’s use of the arches. In Kozintsev’s version the balustrade suggests an obstacle to their union, an obstacle that figures prison bars, the portcullis and the birdcage. Hamlet knocks her proffered ring to the ground and grabs her wrist, pulling her round suspiciously as he looks around the hall. He traps her against the balustrade and places his cheek tenderly next to hers at the line ‘I did love thee once’ (3.1.115–16), a moment of tender intimacy, recalling the scene in her chamber. The film cuts to a view of Claudius and Polonius like rats, scuttling away to hide. Hamlet tests Ophelia,‘Where’s your father?’ (131). There is a cut to a view of the sun’s rays through the stained glass, reinforcing the idea that she answers in a holy place. At her betrayal, ‘At home, my lord’, Hamlet lowers his head sadly and pushes her away. Ophelia’s speech at this point is cut, which is appropriate to a reading of her as more acted upon than acting: she is made a figure unable to reflect on her own




position. When Hamlet climbs the stairs in a rage, she reaches feebly through the spindles and clings to his arm, kissing his hand. Her rejection is doubled when Polonius denies her fatherly comfort and exits hurriedly with the King (Michail Nazwanov). Polonius displays the same disregard of Ophelia’s feelings after the ‘Mousetrap’ scene when poignantly she seeks his support but he brushes her aside. Zeffirelli’s film (1990) is an action movie, capitalizing on the star quality of Mel Gibson as an all-action hero. Zeffirelli chose Mel Gibson for exactly those qualities he saw in the Mad Max and Lethal Weapon films, and was particularly impressed by the scene in Richard Dunner’s Lethal Weapon (1987) when the suicidal detective, Martin Riggs, places a gun in his mouth but can’t pull the trigger: ‘When I saw that I said, This is Hamlet! This boy is Hamlet.’62 Superficially, Ophelia is coded as the love interest like Patsy Kensit’s character, Rika Vandenhouse (who also drowns), in Lethal Weapon 2 (1989), a woman positioned at the margins of the action and whose presence confirms the hero’s heterosexuality.63 However, Zeffirelli passes this latter function to Gertrude (Glenn Close), arguing for an Oedipal understanding of Hamlet’s relationship to his mother: He did not really love his father; that was a secondary character in his life. Ophelia? No, there is no love-story possible there, he is always uncertain, ambiguous – because his heart is not come out of mother’s womb! Because there is no safer place in all the earth! 64 Glenn Close’s violent, sexual role in Fatal Attraction (1987) feeds into the screen pairing with Gibson, who is nearer her age, and the closet scene has Hamlet on top of his mother in an aggressive imitation of sex. In the context of an action movie, Ophelia’s early release from the role of love interest gives her autonomy since there are no intimate moments with Hamlet that might help mitigate the later cruelty he displays towards her. Ophelia registers a view of Hamlet as purposeful avenger with little time for sentiment. A high-angle shot shows Hamlet, looking out of a window, observing his mother kiss Claudius (Alan Bates), prior to a hunting trip that sees them both riding out of Elsinore across the sunlit grass above a shimmering sea. Hamlet concludes his soliloquizing angrily, ‘frailty, thy name is woman’ (1.2.146) and slams the windows shut. The next shot of the sewing room connects Ophelia with his remark. Laertes (Nathaniel Parker) embraces his sister and draws her to a window. An




exterior shot shows Polonius (Ian Holm) giving his son advice on his impending travels, and Ophelia follows them out. Hamlet is glimpsed high on the castle ramparts observing all three, and when Polonius quizzes Ophelia he has descended to a lower level, possibly in earshot. Ophelia protests that Hamlet has acted towards her ‘in honourable fashion’ (1.3.111) but Polonius insists that she gives no more ‘words or talk with the Lord Hamlet’ (134) with a final glance above before exiting, suggesting that he intended Hamlet should hear. If Hamlet does see and overhear the exchange this would tend to exonerate Ophelia, for clearly she does not willingly follow her father’s orders and exits considerably distressed. By having Hamlet as observer and possible eavesdropper in this scene, Zeffirelli keeps his action hero apprized of the situation and admits the possibility that his treatment of Ophelia in ‘antic disposition’ is only an amusing game. While she is the green girl, desiring the return of her beloved, Hamlet plays the fool. Her voice is heard singing the ‘Valentine’s Day’ song from the mad scenes and a medium close-up shows her in the sewing room with her tapestry work, threading a needle. The Nordic fabrics in the film are warm and colourful, and Bonham-Carter’s Ophelia is wrapped in smock and embroidered, pretty openwork pinafore that hides her shape, rather than draws attention to her sexuality. She becomes aware that Hamlet is at the far end of the room and begins to smile but he approaches her strangely and she backs away. There is a cut to Polonius watching from a balcony, doubling the duping of Ophelia. Hamlet grabs her wrist and sniffs her, sighs and exits with a searching look. Possibly the scene trades on Gibson’s penchant for jokes on Roger Murtaugh, his police partner in Lethal Weapon, and his treatment of the female psychiatrist, who he constantly ridicules in the films. There is none of the intimacy suggested in Kozintsev’s film. Gibson’s detective skills are highlighted once more as he watches from above when Polonius and Claudius scurry for cover before the ‘nunnery’ scene. Cued to the deception, he attempts to avoid the encounter altogether by walking past Ophelia. She has to use her wits to detain him, calling after him, ‘[Good] My Lord,/How does your honour for this many a day?’ (3.1.92–3). Clearly Hamlet knows what he is about and there is no ambivalence in the scene to suggest his deeper feelings for Ophelia, despite his admission, ‘I did love you once’ (115–16). However, Bonham-Carter’s resistance to his bullying is remarkable. She meets Hamlet’s verbal assaults with a level eye as she




challenges, ‘Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?’ (3.1.110–11). Hamlet grips her jaw viciously and hurls her against the wall but this Ophelia does not crumple and sob out loud. The exchange with Hamlet ends with a long shot of Ophelia, bending to retrieve the pendant he had hurled at her. Her suffering is acute and restrained. There is no attempt to soften Hamlet’s cruelty as Olivier had done with the business of kissing a lock of Ophelia’s hair after flinging her to the ground. Zeffirelli joins Olivier and Kozintsev in robbing Ophelia of her only soliloquy, ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ (3.1.160). Hamlet’s callous treatment of Ophelia continues in the ‘Mousetrap’ scene where lines are transposed from the nunnery scene. Having deliberately elicited her interest with a long searching look, Hamlet enjoys meting out rejection (‘Get thee to a nunnery’), which Ophelia must suffer in silence because of the public nature of the occasion (Ophelia sits at the centre of the court with Hamlet alongside the King and Queen). Where Olivier associates Ophelia with the court’s gradual realization of a failure in the body politic, Zeffirelli isolates Ophelia. The court seems unaware of the danger Hamlet invites as he climbs over seats, desperate to view the King’s every reaction. The scene continues to connect Ophelia with Hamlet. In fact she receives the brunt of Hamlet’s sadistic pleasure. He returns to her full of triumph, ‘Believe none of us. We are arrant knaves all. To a nunnery go, and quickly too’, lines transposed from 3.1.129–30 and 3.1.141. Forcing a final passionate kiss upon her, he leaves with a curt, dismissive ‘Farewell’. A close-up registers Ophelia’s shock and bewilderment but this is a stoical young woman who has not broken yet. It is difficult to believe this Hamlet’s outburst at the graveside, I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. (5.1.259–60) Michael Almereyda’s Hamlet announces that it is ‘New York City 2000’ and from its first low-angle shots of skyscrapers, neon lights, advertisements and a bombardment of images conveys a postmodern world. The director describes his film as ‘an attempt at Hamlet – not so much a sketch but a collage, a patchwork of intuitions, images and ideas’.65 Hamlet (Ethan Hawke), heir of the Denmark Corporation, is a film studies student, and the film drops 1.1 in order to introduce him as the anguished youth who tells us, ‘I have of late, [but wherefore





What a piece of work is a man? How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god, the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals … And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? The voice-over is accompanied by a close-up of Hamlet fooling with a water glass and is backed by a cross-mix of Morcheeba, orchestral music by Niels Gade and intercut images suggesting the ideals of the Renaissance and the modern fall of Man, figured through images of bombing in Bosnia.66 It is an introduction to Hamlet’s mind that fits well with a description by film writer, Patrick Phillips: The postmodern film-maker struggles to make meaning from what appear as a vast and meaningless assembly of detail – visual, verbal and musical signifiers – in contemporary culture.67 Ophelia (Julia Stiles) studies photography and also struggles to understand herself in a world that creates meaning through images and has lost its grasp on the real. We first see her in 1.2 where Claudius’s speech becomes a press conference and Hamlet ridicules the press ‘circus’ by taking video recordings of the photographers. Ophelia is flanked by her father and brother and writes ‘3.30pm’ on a drawing of a fountain. She nudges Laertes (Liev Schreiber) hoping he will pass the note to Hamlet. Laertes pushes back her hand, drawing the attention of Polonius (Bill Murray) who looks up briefly. Ophelia’s life is already in the hands of three men and the fourth, Claudius (Kyle MacLachan), master of ‘spin’ tears a copy of USA Today, underscoring dramatically his contempt for Fortinbras’s bid for the Denmark Corporation. His performance draws thunderous applause. Hamlet and Ophelia are bystanders at the centre of corporate capitalism, subjects of surveillance and power interests (Almereyda acknowledges the influence of Aki Kaurismaki’s Hamlet Goes Business, 1987).68 When the conference is over, Hamlet steals a kiss and she gives him her message but he fails to turn up. There is a cut to Ophelia sitting on a wall by the fountain, waiting with her college bag and cycle. An interior shot of Hamlet’s hotel room shows him fixated on video images of Gertrude



I know not] for reasons I know not, lost all my mirth’. The film’s transposed, stripped down and updated lines from 2.2 are:

(Diane Venora) with his father, Old Hamlet (Sam Shepard) to lines from his soliloquy, ‘O that this too too solid flesh would melt’ (1.2.129). At ‘frailty, thy name is woman’, Hamlet rewinds and freezes an image of Ophelia as she looks up from reading a book. The film cuts to a view of Ophelia still waiting at the fountain, now walking on the wall above the fountain water, holding out her arms for balance. After this long introduction to Ophelia, Horatio (Karl Geary) reports that he has seen the Ghost. The film cuts to 1.3 where Laertes advises Ophelia to be wary of Hamlet. She is seated in their apartment looking at a photograph she has taken of Hamlet and shows annoyance. Polonius enters, picks up the photograph and lets it fall as he turns his attention to Laertes. As he harangues his son with fatherly advice, there is a cut to Ophelia on a level above with her camera trained on them, undercutting their attempts to control her. Ophelia comes down and Laertes embraces her but leaves with a parting shot that she remembers what he has said and he takes out one of her hair clips. The gesture might be sentimental (taking a keepsake) but seems patriarchal (an exercise in power). The film cuts to Hamlet’s encounter with the Ghost and then takes up again from 1.3 where Polonius asks Ophelia what Laertes has said. The disparity between her father’s concerns and her own are highlighted when she looks into ‘a curious diorama – a glass-fronted box featuring a view of a gravel road disappearing into a dim forest glade’.69 Polonius reprimands her, ‘Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence’ (121), takes away her box and insists on tying the lace of her trainer, actions that convey his desire to recover control. There is a cut to Hamlet watching his video of Ophelia, and an amusing shot of the aspiring student poet trying to win her over with lines written at a café table. He walks past a supermarket and crosses the road to her student apartment. A medium shot shows Ophelia in a thin vest top hanging wet photographs in the red safety light of an improvised dark room, festooned with her work. Hamlet enters and joins her in this strangely tented space. He sinks his head on her shoulder and they embrace. He gives her his poem and she reads it with a misty expression, sharing his pain and the risk of intimacy. The film cuts to Polonius climbing the stairs to her apartment with balloons and a cakebox in his hand. Alarmed at his approach, Hamlet kisses Ophelia and rushes out. The poem falls and Polonius picks it up. There is a shot of a video recording of Hamlet with a gun to his head as he intones, ‘To be or not to be’. The film picks up the momentum of a thriller as Hamlet goes to the Corporation building with the intention of killing Claudius. He fingers his gun repeatedly as he walks the corridors looking for his office but is stalled by Polonius with lines from 2.2, ‘Do




you know me, my lord?’ (173) and Hamlet’s reply, ‘Excellent, excellent well. You’re a fishmonger’ (174). At the close of their exchange, Polonius lifts his head towards a CCTV camera knowingly as though talking in person to the King, ‘How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter’ (2.2.187). Hamlet escapes Polonius and takes out his gun, charging into Claudius’s office but finds it empty. The film cuts to a swimming pool on another level where Polonius has Ophelia in tow and Claudius is climbing out of the pool to rejoin Gertrude. Polonius shows them Hamlet’s poem while Ophelia, humiliated and forlorn stands by the edge of the pool staring into its depths. There is a cut to her small figure reflected on the bottom and then with her father’s raised voice washing over her – ‘I did bespeak – “Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy star. This must not be”’, she jumps. There is a shot of her submerged, holding her hands to her head in pain but the next shot shows her still standing by the pool. The ‘jump’ was only in her head. Hamlet’s ‘To Be’ soliloquy is a voice-over in a Blockbuster video store where a screening of Crow: City of Angels (1996) recalls the need to act out his revenge. In his apartment, while watching video images of James Dean (Rebel without a Cause, 1955) and John Gielgud as Hamlet he arrives at the conclusion that ‘The play’s the thing’. The film cuts to Polonius busy securing a wiretap to his daughter who stands, crying, while Claudius and Gertrude make their plans. There is a cut to a cascade of water before Ophelia’s distorted face appears in close-up, viewed through Hamlet’s fish-eye security lens. She enters his apartment and while he fetches a beer, she takes out her letters and a keepsake plastic duck, the ‘remembrances’ she had ‘longèd long to re-deliver’ (3.1.95). After rejecting her, ‘Get thee to a nunnery’, Hamlet places his hands on her shoulders and initiates a kiss to which she responds with longing but as he moves his hand under her jacket, inevitably he finds the wiretap. When she lies that her father is ‘at home’ Hamlet grabs the hidden microphone and shouts down it, ‘Let the doors be shut upon him’ (3.1.133). Distressed, Ophelia tears off the wiretap and bundles it and her keepsakes into her box. There is a cut to Ophelia cycling away and then a surprising cut to her student flat where she stands holding a flaming photograph of Hamlet which she has obviously set light to. She continues to hold it as the edges curl while Hamlet’s abuse spills out unanswered from her answer phone, ‘If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry’ (3.1.136–7) and ‘I say we shall have no more marriages’ (148). Although Ophelia’s soliloquy is cut, the inserted scene restores Ophelia’s autonomy, suggesting that she has had enough of bullying from both her father and





Convening for song My argument has been to demonstrate how the play in performance pulls back to its original history through a study of the conventions of Renaissance pastoral and the echoes of royal pastoral found in Hamlet. I have drawn on the work of Paul Alpers in refuting the idea of pastoral as an ahistorical idealized space and have raised an argument that sees Ophelia as a pastoral speaker in her mad scenes. I base this upon her figuration as Queen of the May and Flora, and her relation to the court. However, in an inversion of royal pastoral where the Queen is invited to take part in a drama, Ophelia intrudes in the body politic through the literary convention of ‘convening for song’. As a literary shepherdess she calls upon those present to join in her songs of lament and mourning for Polonius and Hamlet. The act of giving her flowers is a powerful symbolic gesture in performance, demanding that the recipients acknowledge their part in the ‘drama’. Even where the flowers are not distributed to everyone, they may stand as an indictment to those excluded. I have always felt that the mad scenes rather than Ophelia’s soliloquy raise a tremendously powerful argument. They take an appeal to the highest court in the land, to the monarch, fountain of justice. In Olivier’s film, there is an exterior shot of Claudius at his window, having just decided on ‘the present death of Hamlet’ (4.3.67). There is a fade to black before a shot of a single lily on the water, followed by Ophelia’s reflection and a shot of her hand entering the frame to take the flower. A scream connotes her presence before we see her standing beneath a willow, in her sullied, white dress, flowers in her long hair and a small spray pinned at her breast. As a thought occurs, she runs across a fallen log over a stream. A reverse angle shot from her ‘bower’, shows her as a small figure running in from a pastoral landscape. She runs forward towards the camera and rushes through the archways where Gertrude (Eileen Herlie) and Horatio (Norman Wooland) stand watching her. A reverse angle shot shows Ophelia in medium close-up framed by the archway leading out to her pastoral world. She demands sharply, ‘Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? (4.5.21). The Queen moves forward, cradling Ophelia’s head on her arm as she sings her lament, ‘He is dead and gone, lady,/He is dead and gone’ (29–30). As she completes her verse, ‘At his heels a stone’ (32), Ophelia throws



from Hamlet. The ‘Mousetrap’ is performed as a short film by Hamlet as part of his film studies. Ophelia seems puzzled but composed in this scene, accepting Hamlet’s bawdy humour with aplomb.

herself across the stone flags. When Gertrude tries to comfort her, she shakes her off and rises to a kneeling position with a reproving, ‘Pray you, mark’ (34) to finish her song. Claudius enters and Gertrude appeals to him: ‘Alas, look here, my lord’ (36). Claudius approaches, ‘How do you, pretty lady?’ (39) but backs off perplexed with her answer, ‘Well God ‘ild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter’ (41–2). Ophelia sinks down but rises with awakened interest to address Horatio: ‘God be at your table!’ (43). In an analysis of a preproduction script, Bernice Kliman notes how the film eliminated a shot of Simmons ‘reaching for Horatio’s dagger (much as she had playfully reached for Laertes’ dagger in 1.iii, both gestures possibly for Freudian effect) and trying to kill herself on the spot’.70 This decision removed the explicit sexual associations of the bawdy songs, which were cut, thus preserving a view of Ophelia as a chaste, innocent girl.71 Ophelia moves away from the group, ready to leave, ‘I hope all will be well’ (66), but as she recalls the idea of her father lying ‘i’ th’ cold ground’ (67–8), she turns back and rounds on them: ‘My brother shall know of it’ (68). The effect of Ophelia’s ‘convening’, together with the traumatic closet scene, has a profound effect on Gertrude. While Claudius tells Horatio to watch Ophelia, Gertrude moves forward as if to follow after her. Claudius approaches and reaches for her hand but she turns away, acknowledging the justice of Ophelia’s lament and accusation, together with the corruption at the heart of the body politic. Olivier reinforces this idea when Claudius attempts to comfort Gertrude at the foot of the stairs. Osric brings letters from the sailors and the King and Queen exit reading them on separate staircases. There is a dissolve to Horatio, standing in Ophelia’s chamber watching her through the arched windows gathering flowers. The film cuts to a flashback occasioned by Hamlet’s letter about the pirates followed by the sound of Ophelia singing lines from the Valentine’s Day song. Although it is difficult to identify the words of the refrain (in keeping with Kliman’s argument) Ophelia does enter singing, ‘By Cock, they are to blame’ (60) and, observed by the sailors continues, ‘Quoth she “Before you tumbled me”’ (61). Clearly, the association is with Hamlet, and a tracking shot from behind Ophelia conveys her slow purposeful walk through the archways towards the sound of raised voices. As she draws near, there is a shot of Hamlet’s chair. Ophelia intrudes on a moment of crisis in the body politic as Laertes prepares to ‘dare damnation’ and Claudius defends himself, ‘I am guiltless of your father’s




death’ (151), lines that occur before her entrance and which she does not usually overhear. Olivier makes Ophelia observer of these events and her response is to call for those present to convene in song, ‘You must sing’ (172), lines that occur later in the text. The effect is to raise her status as orchestrator of the scene. Ophelia kisses her brother, ‘Fare you well, my dove’ (169), and takes her rosemary to Hamlet’s chair, placing it on the arm with the invocation, ‘Pray, love, remember’ (177). There is a shot of her retracing her steps before she turns abruptly, ‘And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts’ (178–9) but, appropriately to her disordered state of mind, she drops them. Ophelia gives fennel and columbines to Claudius, suggesting his deception, and rue to the Queen, indicating her sorrow. She gives a daisy to Laertes and informs him without emotion that she would give him violets ‘but they withered all when my father died ‘ (184). Ophelia moves away singing ‘bonny sweet robin’ and walks towards the pastoral landscape viewed through the archways. In long shot she sinks down against an arched wall and a close-up shows her genuflecting with the line ‘And of all Christian souls, I pray God’ (4.5.200). She has granted herself absolution. Her eyes stray towards the court she has left as the idea grows stronger. She is resolved and gives her final blessing, ‘God buy you’ (200). Simmons’s Ophelia suggests that her final act is an autonomous one: she has decided to take her own life or she has envisioned a new journey. The camera tracks slowly through the arches, across her empty room and towards the countryside. Gertrude is heard in voice-over as the scene dissolves to the willow overhanging the stream. There is a realistic shot of Ophelia, ‘clothes spread wide’ (4.7.150), singing, ‘How should I your true love know/From another one?’ (4.5.23). Despite her figuration and consequent objectification as John Everett Millais’s Pre-Raphelite Ophelia, she does not wholly accept her fate.72 She reaches out a hand as if to save herself and her singing turns to muffled cries of distress as she drowns. A cut to a stream of flowers like a wreath on the water’s surface conveys the depths and dangers of the pastoral world beyond its idyllic representation as painted landscape. In her grave, Ophelia appears restored to pastoral beauty in her white dress and covering of flowers but as Laertes enters the castle he looks back to see the gravemaker pressing down the earth that covers her. In Kozintsev’s film, there is an exterior shot of Ophelia’s silhouette against the pane of a window, situated high up in the castle wall. The low regular chants suggest that a service is being conducted for her father. The film cuts to Hamlet riding out of Elsinore leaving the




imprisoned Ophelia behind. A shot of three elderly waiting women locking her into an iron corset and an iron-hooped frame reinforces the sense of her imprisonment in mind and body. Two further waiting women bring a heavy mourning dress and a long black veil. The film cuts to the interior of a small dark, candle-lit chapel where a small group of mourners are gathered, conveying the secrecy and lack of ceremony in the funeral arrangements. An exterior shot shows Hamlet riding towards Fortinbras’s army, a steady stream of foot soldiers, halberdiers and horsemen. The body politic will soon be under attack without and within. Laertes enters Elsinore secretly and heads straight for the chapel, where he raises the coffin lid and takes out his father’s sword. As Laertes begins his assault on the castle, there is a cut to Ophelia in her mourning clothes, wearing a large crucifix. As she walks forward, eyes almost shut, hands raised, the women holding her veil are pulled along with her. She calls, ‘Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?’ (4.5.21) as she enters a doorway and the context suggests she means Hamlet. The waiting women hang back as she enters alone. A long shot shows her as a distant figure at the back of the hall where last she saw Hamlet but this time there is no light from the stained glass window. She moves forward to the balustrade and a reverse angle shot from Hamlet’s earlier position shows Ophelia trapped behind the spindles, which are like the bars of her cage. She sings, ‘How should I your true love know’ (23), and Gertrude (Elza Radzin-Szolkonis) enters enquiring, ‘[Alas] Sweet lady, what imports this song?’ (27). Ophelia’s line, ‘Pray you mark’ (28) seems directed to herself as well as the Queen, as though she is struggling to keep to her task. With difficulty, she recommences her song, ‘White his shroud as the mountain snow’ (35), and moves back, allowing the stained glass window to enter the frame together with Claudius. The shot recalls the ‘sin’ of her role in Hamlet’s deception in the nunnery scene under the orders of the King. The waiting women come forward to assist her as she stands in front of the balustrade singing. The bawdy song on Saint Valentine’s day is cut, keeping the idea of her virgin purity and the sacrifice of noble souls. When Claudius asks, ‘How do you, pretty lady? (40), she answers with her concluding lines, ‘I hope all will be well’ (66). The line ‘My brother shall know of it’ (68) occurs as a comforting thought rather than an accusation, and prompts the spectator’s awareness of Laertes’s insurrection occurring in simultaneous time. Tinkling non-diegetic music recalls the dancing lesson in Ophelia’s mind and she moves across the hall with faltering mechanical movements. As she exits up the stairs alone she starts undressing and there is a cut to the castle ramparts




where Ophelia’s voice is heard singing, ‘Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day’ (47) and a long shot picks her out, a distant figure in her undersmock. Kozintsev pays attention to the details of the insurrection, which includes the sound of gunshots, the overpowering of the palace guards and a cut to soldiers using a heavy table as a battering ram to break down the door to the King’s chambers. Claudius’s personal guard and the Queen rush to protect him but the King brushes them aside and steps forward, ready to confront his adversary. Sounds of disturbance draw Laertes’s attention and he pushes past guards who stand in consternation at the sight below. There is a long shot of Laertes’s view from the gallery of a small figure emerging through an arched doorway into the hall, thronged with armed soldiers. Ophelia comes forward singing, ‘They bore him barefaced on the bier,/Hey non nony, nony’ (166–7). A guard covers her shoulders protectively with a blanket as she moves deeper into the ranks of soldiers, raising her hands to invite them in an addition to the text to ‘Sing, all’. The moment of ‘convening’ is arrested by Laertes who tries to hold her but she rushes away. Ophelia crosses to the fireplace and crouches down to retrieve the spent twigs, muttering, ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance’ (176–7). She rises, ‘Pray, love, remember’ and offers the twigs to a soldier who accepts them. She passes a guard who is constraining a prisoner, a metaphor for her own mental imprisonment. The pansies ‘for thoughts’ (178) seem for herself and she tells one of the guards to wear his rue ‘with a difference’ (183–4). Laertes comes forward to grasp her hands but she addresses him: ‘I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died’ (184–5). As Ophelia exits up a staircase she sings cheerily, ‘For bonny sweet Robin’ (187), but at the top her expression changes to a haunting sadness. The close-up of her face is top-lit suggesting saintliness and death. A retreating camera shows Ophelia’s room, now empty with two lit candles at her altar, suggesting a benediction. A pan across her wall tapestries associates her with a pastoral world of young animals, like the innocent fawn. As in Olivier’s film, the idyllic representations of nature are superseded by the incongruity of actual ‘muddy death’ (158). A cut to a willow over an expanse of water shows the reflection of trees held within their depths with a mist rising above. Tinkling music accompanies a high-angle shot of Ophelia drowned in her smock and a cut to the same position shows only ripples on the water, suggesting she is gone. A long tracking shot of a bird in the sky above and the sound of a bell tolling




Figure 8. ‘I would give you some violets.’ Ophelia (Anastasia Vertinskaya) and Laertes (C. Oleksenko) in Grigori Kozintsev’s Hamlet (Lenfilm, USSR, 1964).

symbolizes her release from Elsinore. There is a long shot of Hamlet on the cliff top looking up at the bird in flight. Ophelia’s challenge to the body politic will now be matched by Hamlet’s. At her graveside, Hamlet kneels by Ophelia’s face, at the head of the coffin, in despair. From this position, his line to Laertes, ‘I loved you ever. But it is no matter’ (5.1.280) appears to be directed to Ophelia. In Zeffirelli’s film, a violent, sexually charged closet scene brings mother and son closer. Gertrude’s allegiance is clear and she comes into the castle courtyard to kiss Hamlet farewell before his exile to England. There is a dissolve to Hamlet’s ship at sea, followed by a dissolve to a rainy Elsinore and a cut to a hand reaching over a wet flagstone. Ophelia pulls herself up, dishevelled and distracted and a high-angle shot shows the Queen observing her walking across the castle ramparts. Ophelia approaches a guard on duty and pushes off his helmet with an abrasive snatch of ‘How should I your true love know’ (4.5.23). She brings her hand down across his chest to his abdomen and pulls hard on his belt in a sexual gesture, singing, ‘Young men will do’t if they come to’t,/By Cock they are to blame’ (59–60). The discomforted guard looks behind her relieved to see that an older guard has come to lead her away. Zeffirelli is not afraid to emphasize the green girl’s sexuality and Bonham-Carter is fearless in her assault on the body





To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt (4.5.17–20). Ophelia’s insistent shout of ‘Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?’ (21) is aimed at Gertrude who recoils in fear. A cut to the castle entrance below shows Ophelia push past the guards, repeating her demand to see the Queen. Courtiers and her waiting women gather to watch her climb the steps towards Gertrude who starts to come down. The Queen attempts to placate her, ‘How now, Ophelia?’ (22) but Ophelia’s lament is forceful and insistent: ‘He is dead and gone, lady,/He is dead and gone’ (29–30). As she confronts the Queen, Ophelia raises both arms menacingly, ‘At his heels a stone’ (32). There is no mistaking her challenge to the body politic, and the frightened Queen runs to escape her. Ophelia is quicker and bars her way, forcing Gertrude against a wall. Ophelia fingers the chain of the Queen’s crucifix, playing with her victim. On seeing Claudius enter, Gertrude flies to him in alarm. It is interesting to speculate why Zeffirelli directs Ophelia’s anger at Gertrude and not at Claudius. The effect is to reinforce Hamlet’s view of women’s perfidy and to associate the failure of the body politic with the natural sexualized body of the Queen. Claudius approaches Ophelia, ‘How do you, pretty lady?’ (40) and she replies with a conspiratorial smile. It seems as if her rage is spent as she sinks down and clutches her head in despair but at the thought of her father in the ‘cold ground’ (68) she looks up at the King. She brings her hand to her mouth, suddenly pleased with a new realization: ‘My brother shall know of it’ (68). She rises and kisses the Queen’s hands, extends a hand to Claudius and tells Horatio, ‘Come, my coach!’ (69). An external shot of the courtyard shows Ophelia saying, ‘Good night, ladies’ (69–70) to all her waiting women before recommencing her song, ‘Quoth she, “Before you tumbled me”’ (61). As her three waiting women rush forward, there is an interior shot of Claudius and Gertrude. Like Olivier, Zeffirelli makes the Queen reject Claudius’s attempts to win her sympathy. She hurries away from him sobbing. A high-angle exterior shot shows Ophelia sink down after fierce shrieks of distress. Horatio gathers her up and carries her away, followed by her women.



politic. A cut to Gertrude and Horatio above shows the Queen’s fear and guilt at this turn of events:

Compared to Kozintsev’s film, it is noticeable that Laertes’s insurrection is a one-man affair. He rides into Elsinore alone and struggles with one or two guards to gain access to the King. A high-angle shot shows Gertrude looking down as he threatens Claudius, bringing the tip of his sword to his throat, but he is deflected by the artful King. Disturbing sounds take Laertes to the great hall where first we saw Claudius and Gertrude enthroned for their coronation. Ophelia sits, curled up on the Queen’s throne, holding up sticks and small bones. In different ways, both Olivier and Kozintsev emphasized Ophelia’s centrality in ‘convening’ her listeners for song and in implicating them in her flower giving. In Zeffirelli’s film, Ophelia’s rage (clearly demonstrated in her first mad scene) seems spent in the second. However, by sitting on Gertrude’s throne she has usurped the Queen’s place in the body politic. Ophelia associates a bone with her rosemary for ‘remembrance’ (176-7), giving it to Laertes who also receives her ‘pansies’ for thoughts. More composed now, she gives the Queen her ‘sticks’ of fennel and columbines, attributing to them the emblematic significance of deception, and gives rue to the King for repentance. Ophelia walks across the hall, pausing for a last look at Laertes before her exit. An exterior shot shows Ophelia as a small distant figure running across the green meadows beyond the castle walls. The scene is sunny and she passes a cluster of yellow flowers. She runs across a wooden bridge over the stream and there is a close-up of her face, intent on something only she can see. A dissolve to Gertrude in black connotes her death for the ‘willow’ speech and a cut to a high-angle shot shows her body lying on the sunlit water in perhaps a picturesque death, more peaceful and less thoughtful than Olivier’s or Kozintsev’s in effect. Ophelia is carried on a bier to her grave surrounded by yellow flowers. However, despite the attempt to restore her to pastoral prettiness, there is a moment when her colourless face falls forward awkwardly as Laertes lifts her body, conveying the presence of the corpse and the reality of the drowning. In Almereyda’s film, Hamlet shoots Polonius through the mirrorfronted wardrobe against which he presses his mother’s face: You shall not budge, You go not till I set you up a glass Where you might see the inmost part of you. (3.4.19–21) Bound for England as a result, Hamlet stares into a mirror in the firstclass cabin, working himself up to carry out his revenge: ‘O from this




time forth,/My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!’ The line concludes Hamlet’s soliloquy from the Second Quarto, ‘How all occasions do inform against me’, and comes after 4.4.8, following the entrance of Fortinbras with an army. The film cuts to the interior of the Guggenheim Museum where a reception is taking place, presumably sponsored by the Denmark Corporation. A high-angle shot picks out Ophelia, steadying herself against the museum’s curved sides at a lower level, heading to crash the party above. A low-angle shot pinpoints Claudius on a higher level being approached by one of his aides. There is a cut to Gertrude mingling with guests, glass in hand, compensating for the turmoil of her inner speech (a voice-over of ‘To my sick soul’ at 4.5.16) with excessive laughter. One of Claudius’s aides approaches and whispers information which makes her turn away momentarily, her composure shaken. As she rallies and turns back to the guests, Ophelia barges through them and addresses her: ‘Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?’ (21). Ophelia follows her surprise advantage by launching into the first line of her song (which is spoken), ‘How should I your true love know from another one?’ As in Zeffirelli’s film, Gertrude becomes the focus of her attack and, despite attempts to manoeuvre her away from the guests, Ophelia is insistent in convening her listeners to hear: ‘He is dead and gone, lady’ (29). There is a cut to Claudius and an aide approaching while an anxious Gertrude tries to placate her, ‘Nay, but, Ophelia’ (33), but Ophelia screams at her, ‘Pray you, mark’ (34). Appalled, Gertrude looks to Claudius for help but Ophelia will not be brushed aside with his attempts at conciliation: ‘How do you, pretty lady?’ (40). In a masterstroke, which certainly convenes the whole museum to hear, Ophelia snaps back, ‘Pray you let’s have no words of this. But when they ask you what it means, say you this’ (45–6), and she launches into a highpitched scream at full throttle. Her success in drawing attention to the corruption and injustice at the heart of the body politic (or corporation) is evidenced through a low-angle cut showing Ophelia above, reaching out to all levels below. Claudius silences her forcibly by putting his hand across her mouth and he and Gertrude grapple with her and pull her away from the edge of the balcony. Gertrude returns to the edge with a reassuring smile and gesture to those below, desperate to show – that despite all evidence to the contrary – everything is under control. There is a cut to concerned figures below and to one of Claudius’s aides trying to drag Ophelia away. However, she continues with her spoken song and, at the memory of her father and the ‘cold ground’, she musters her strength to point an accusing arm at




Claudius: ‘My brother [shall] will know of [it] this’ (68). Stiles, memorable in her feisty performance as Kat in 10 Things I Hate about You (Gil Junger’s 1999 up-date of The Taming of the Shrew) extends her range here. This Ophelia is bundled away only after a fierce struggle but is also moving as the broken, pathetic girl who clings to her brother for support in the next scene. Laertes attacks Claudius and pushes him into a side gallery, his hands at his throat. Ophelia enters and begins to scatter Polaroid prints of flowers and leaves, which she takes out of her bag. She continues a mournful lament, rephrased from 4.5.190–3 as: ‘He will not come again. No he is dead. He will not come again.’ Laertes speaks the earlier lines, ‘O rose of May,/Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!’ (159–60). He holds her close as she selects her ‘flowers’ and the lament is poignantly figured through the physical proximity of brother and sister as Gertrude and Claudius become guilty onlookers. Ophelia gives her rosemary and pansies to Laertes and reaches forward with her fennel and columbines but the King is not in the frame. The effect is to emphasize the importance of the association of the flowers with the recipient in her mind and prevents Claudius from showing outward signs of remorse. At one point Ophelia and Laertes pass between Claudius and Gertrude, conveying the strength of their cause to damage the body politic. When Gertrude reports Ophelia’s death there is a high-angle shot of her body in the fountain at the museum where a security guard leaps in to drag her out. The film cuts to a view of her box and Hamlet’s letters floating on the water. At the cemetery, Laertes jumps in her grave and directs his anger at Claudius in the line: ‘Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,/Till of this flat a mountain you have made’ (5.1. 241–2). In the context of corporate capitalism the ‘pile’ and the ‘mountain’ suggest that he is attacking Claudius’s methods in making his empire and expressing solidarity with his sister’s attempts to make people listen and ‘convene’ for song.




5

At the end of 2002, the Guardian reported the confirmation of the onehundred-and-fourth Archbishop of Canterbury at St Paul’s as a ‘divine rite’, a ceremony viewed as ‘arcane and ceremonial’, smacking of ‘antiquarianism’: For such a solemn moment the CofE [Church of England] wheeled out not only prayers and hymns but also lawyers in wigs and ancient titles, such as the dean of arches, and some rolling archaic English.1 At one point the new archbishop, Dr Rowan Williams, ‘faced a full hand of eight bishops in scarlet robes’. The writer added: ‘Even the pretence that he had been chosen by God rather than the prime minister was maintained.’2 The witty report gives a wry observation of a ceremony that has survived history but lost its powerful symbolic context. In the reign of Elizabeth I, the Archbishop of Canterbury was head of a powerful institution, the supporting pillar of the monarchy, but in modern times this authority has waned. For many, the terms ‘monarchy’ and ‘England’ are problematic concepts, and the idea of a representative church in a society of many faiths and no faiths may appear rather odd.3 Four hundred or so years ago, when Shakespeare wrote King Richard II, the writer’s sentiments would surely have incurred her Majesty’s wrath, and resulted in a spell in the Tower, even execution – or would they? Shakespeare dramatizes the deposition of a divinely appointed king. Richard is ‘God’s substitute,/His deputy anointed in His sight’ (1.2.37–8).4 Richard tells Aumerle: ‘Not all the water in the rough rude sea/Can wash the balm off from an anointed king’ (3.2.54–5). 137



Richard’s Crown

In Anglo-Saxon England royal anointing had been introduced by the eighth century and became the ‘constitutive element in the kingmaking process’, directed by bishops, who ‘as mediators of divine grace made the king’.5 Joseph Canning describes how episcopal anointing resulted in ‘a relative downgrading of other, traditional aspects of inauguration: the consent of the great men of the kingdom, enthronement and the feast’.6 Chris Given-Wilson comments on ‘the bizarre story of the miraculous holy oil’ used to anoint Bolingbroke at his coronation, ‘an example of the lengths to which the new regime went in order to justify Henry’s rule’.7 The story, recounted by Thomas Walsingham, refers to the ‘discovery’ of heavenly oil ‘which the Blessed Mary, the Mother of God, had once given to the Blessed Thomas (Becket) the Martyr while he was in exile’, and to a written prophecy indicating its future use for anointing the new king.8 A rather different perspective emerges from David Starkey’s description of the new Queen Elizabeth I’s revulsion at the chrism or holy cream applied to her shoulderblades, breast, the inside of her arms, hands and head in the coronation ritual of ‘anointing’ in 1558: it ‘was grease and smelt ill’.9 Today, it may be difficult to imagine that Shakespeare’s audiences could have responded to Shakespeare’s play with the ironic, modern inflexion suggested by Elizabeth’s comments on her anointing ‘grease’. After all, as Stanley Wells points out, Richard was the last of a line of medieval kings, ‘the last king of England to rule by direct and undisputed succession from William the Conqueror’.10 Unfortunately, as Fiona Shaw observes, ‘the English sensibility’ somehow treats the plays as holding history for the English rather than being ‘pure theatricality’ and are possessive about the actual content.11 Shaw was criticized for her irreverent approach to kingship in the role of King Richard in Deborah Warner’s production at The Royal National Theatre in 1995. However, Shakespeare’s histories are shaped by their primary function as playhouse material and they are overlaid with Elizabethan concerns. Elizabeth was not a medieval monarch and the mystery of kingship had to some extent begun to unravel in an age that cast doubt on the value of ritual and ceremony. Elizabeth’s coronation was a compromise between tradition and innovation. The epistle was read in Latin and English and it appears she did not attend the Mass that usually followed her consecration.12 The Queen inherited from her father Henry VIII, and particularly from his son, Edward VI, the momentum of Reform and with it a will to sweep away the rituals and ceremony associated with Catholic worship. A. G. Dickens reminds us




that Martin Luther concluded his second famous tract, The Babylonian Captivity (1520), by arguing: ‘the Church is smothered by endless regulations about rites and ceremonies’.13 Duffy relates how the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, delivered a homily to the nine-yearold Edward at his coronation ceremony advising him to see ‘God truly worshipped, and idolatry destroyed, the tyranny of the bishops of Rome banished from your subjects, and images removed’.14 Duffy relates the effects of the 1547 Injunctions, which abolished processions, ordered not only ‘the removal of relics, images, pictures and paintings’ but also the destruction of images including glass windows.15 The reforms sought an end to ‘papistical superstitions and abuses, as of beads, lady psalters, and rosaries … of feigned relics, of hallowed beads, bells, bread, water, palms, candles, fire and such other’.16 While the reign of the Catholic Mary I (1553–58) is often referred to as the ‘Marian reaction’, Duffy finds her reign builds upon what was positive in the reforms while attempting to ‘reconstruct traditional religion’.17 In Elizabeth’s reign, the Act of Uniformity abolished the Mass and reintroduced a slightly modified version of the second prayer-book of Edward VI but traditional religion had not disappeared.18 At Ophelia’s graveside, Laertes asks the priest twice: ‘What ceremony else?’ (Hamlet, 5.1.213–15) and persists, ‘Must there no more be done?’ (225), questions that must have seemed significant to early modern playgoers. However, as Janette Dillon shows in her discussion of performance and spectacle in Edward Hall’s Chronicle (1550), a ‘concentration on spectacle’ was ‘a governing feature of courts across Europe’ in the period.19 Starkey points out: ‘To abolish Church ceremony as the hotter sort of Protestants wanted, was to eliminate royal ceremony as well – or at least to reduce it to a shadow of its former self.’20 I want to explore these ambiguities by suggesting that King Richard II, notwithstanding its ‘tragic’ overtones does indeed cast a wry look at medieval kingship, an opportunity afforded to the actor by the play’s concerns with ceremony, and the functions of the stage props: the throne and the crown. I will consider these ideas in the play generally and in the deposition scene particularly, drawing on Robert Weimann’s distinction between locus and platea, terms that refer both to actual stage space and rhetorical stage space.21 The first term is associated with verisimilitude and authority (likely to be upstage) while the second term would be downstage on the platform, nearer the audience. Weimann suggests that Hamlet’s ‘antic disposition’ associates him with platea through his playful subversion of authority.22 In King Richard II, I



Richard’s Crown 139

want to consider the ‘throne’ as belonging to ‘the representational locus of privileged royalty’, while the ‘crown’ (normally associated with it) belongs to platea, a playful popular space, associated with clowning and capable of subverting the authoritative locus.23 The idea is pursued more obviously in Henry IV Part I, where the court scenes would most likely show the King on his throne, while at Cheapside Hal and Falstaff play at kings with a cushion for a crown. Charles R. Forker argues that in Act 1, Scene 1 of King Richard II: ‘Richard enters processionally with his nobles, and presumably takes his place on a centrally placed (probably raised) throne to hear Bolingbroke’s formal appeal.’24 The play was probably performed in 1595 at James Burbage’s Theatre in Shoreditch and later at the Curtain or the Swan.25 Andrew Gurr and Mariko Ichikawa describe the centrality of the throne on playhouse stages: Besides the gilded wooden chair on which the authority figure sat, they were backed by a ‘cloth of estate’, with the royal arms, and a small canopy overhead. This whole ‘state’ was positioned on a dais several steps high, so that the authority figure’s head could be on a level with the person standing in front of him.26 The formality of the occasion is obvious from Richard’s command: ‘Then call them to our presence’ (1.1.14), requiring the appellants to stand and show duty and deference to the monarch, who acts as judge of the proceedings. When Mowbray throws down his gage, Bolingbroke picks it up, looking to the king ‘to assign our trial day’ (1.1.151). Despite appeals from Richard and Gaunt, neither man will forgo the challenge. Mowbray emphasizes his determination to proceed by reminding Richard that there are charges to answer, ‘I am disgraced, impeached and baffled here’ (1.1.170), and kneels in supplication to the king, as fountain of justice. Richard exercises his authority by appointing the day of trial when, ‘we shall see/Justice design the victor’s chivalry’ (1.1.202–3). In Act 1, Scene 3, Richard enters for the lists and would sit on a raised chair as presiding judge of the proceedings, but at Bolingbroke’s request, ‘let me kiss my sovereign’s hand/And bow my knee before his majesty’ (46–7), Richard descends, showing a fatal partiality, ‘We will descend and fold him in our arms’ (54). The scene prefigures Richard’s entry in Act 3, Scene 3 when kingly authority is evoked symbolically through the entrance of the king ‘on the walls’ of Flint Castle before he is forced to descend ‘to the base court’ (176) of Bolingbroke. The locus of authority is literally and figuratively ‘on high’ and Richard raises the




kneeling Bolingbroke: ‘Up cousin, up. Your heart is up, I know,/Thus high at least, [Indicates crown.] although your knee be low’ (194–5). Forker suggests that when Richard stops the tournament by throwing down his warder, he is probably still in his raised chair, descends to confer with his council and mounts the throne once more to announce his decision.27 In Act 3, Scene 2 Richard returns from Ireland and takes the throne in a figurative sense when he says, ‘I weep for joy/To stand upon my kingdom once again’ (4–5). The Bishop of Carlisle’s reference to ‘That Power that made you king’ (27) conveys the King’s divinity and the ‘supernatural grace’ conferred through episcopal anointing.28 In the famous lines comparing the King to the sun, Richard imagines that Bolingbroke ‘Shall see us rising in our throne, the east’ (3.2.50). A few lines later, Salisbury brings the news that the Welsh ‘hearing thou wert dead,/Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled’ (73–4). Richard urges his followers: Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a king. Are we not high? High be our thoughts. (87–9) The rhetoric of kingship fails to raise Richard to his throne, for almost immediately comes the news of Bolingbroke’s success in winning support and the deaths of the king’s favourites. Richard’s well-known lines, ‘For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground/And tell sad stories of the deaths of kings’ (155–6), are infused with a sense of meditation associated with a soliloquy. Henry V muses on kingship and ceremony in his famous soliloquy before the Battle of Agincourt in ‘Upon the King’ (Henry V, 4.1.227). In Kenneth Branagh’s film (1989) there is a close-up of the King shedding a tear. Richard’s musings are not solitary and he invites his followers to sit with him, a major breach of decorum which editors insist cannot be played (it would be interesting to try). Forker argues: ‘It is not entirely clear whether Richard sits alone or is joined by his courtiers; but the latter action is improbable since it would violate traditional decorum.’29 Andrew Gurr comments: Here Richard evidently does sit down, judging from Carlisle’s reproof at 178, thus giving up his ‘state’. It is doubtful if the courtiers sit with him, since they maintain the respectful posture of staying hat in hand (171).30




Richard’s action, often played downstage, associates the King with the subversive aspects of platea. Indeed, his musings on the legal profession, ‘Let’s choose executors and talk of wills’ (148), function like Hamlet’s conversation with the First Clown or gravemaker about ‘quiddits’, ‘quillets’, ‘tenures’ and ‘tricks’ (Hamlet, 5.1.94–5) to question whether the power of legal authority or any authority exists in the face of death. In Hamlet, death levels Alexander and Caesar by returning them to the dust of the earth just as the ‘antic’ Death waits for Richard, ‘Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp’ (Richard II, 3.2.163). If the scene becomes grotesque when Richard imagines how ‘a little pin/Bores through his castle wall’ or his mortal body (169–70), it is also playful, ‘and farewell, king!’ Gurr notes that some editors suggest Richard may take off his crown at this point as he invites his on-stage audience to cover their heads, a levelling gesture since normally courtiers should stand bareheaded in the presence of a king.31 Richard tells them, ‘Throw away respect,/Tradition, form and ceremonious duty’ (172–3), which prevents them from seeing the man: For you have mistook me all this while. I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus, How can you say to me I am a king? (174–7) Kantorowicz argues that in these lines ‘the fiction of the oneness of the double body breaks apart’ as Richard’s natural body becomes separated from the ‘immortal body politic’.32 However, Richard’s insistence that his listeners imagine ‘bread’ as common food does not entirely banish the association of ‘bread’ and ‘king’ with the sacrament. It is entirely appropriate that the Bishop of Carlisle recalls Richard to duty, upbraiding the King for giving death ‘servile breath’ (185), restoring an echo of Richard’s confident assertion a little earlier that ‘The breath of worldly men cannot depose/The deputy elected by the Lord’ (3.2.56–7). At Flint Castle, Bolingbroke receives a report that Richard has been seen with ‘a clergyman/Of holy reverence’ (3.3.29), emphasizing the bishop’s function in making a king. The Bishop of Carlisle and the Abbot of Westminster appear in the Parliament scene in Act 4 where the throne represents the locus of kingly and judicial power. Historian Michael A. R. Graves describes the pre-Tudor relationship of the monarch to Parliament as ‘King and Parliament’, a phrase meant to emphasize their separateness.33 The King ‘remained outside and apart from parliaments’.34 Gradually this




relationship changed as Henry VIII ‘secured his objectives through Parliament’, and ‘King-in-Parliament’ became ‘the sovereign authority in England’.35 The throne is a focal point in this scene since the proceedings are not legal without the King in Parliament but Bolingbroke has not been declared king. Forker suggests that Bolingbroke ‘must either stand in front of it or sit elsewhere’.36 The authority of the throne is not diminished if it is empty since the body politic is greater than the natural body sitting in it. However, the crown as it attaches to the wearer seems more personal, sharing the life cycle of the natural body through life and death: For within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court. (3.2.160–2) Jean Froissart’s Chronicle reports that Richard kept the crown with him in the Tower and it is possible that it accompanies his entry into Parliament.37 Gurr argues that the royal regalia would be carried at the head of a procession into Parliament before the new judge, Bolingbroke. The stage direction is: ‘Enter as to the Parliament Bullingbrook, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, Surrey, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, Herald, Officers, and Bagot.’38 Forker points out that the Herald might carry the regalia but it is also possible that the regalia accompanies York’s later reference to the ‘high sceptre’ (4.1.110), at which point York invites Bolingbroke to ascend the throne.39 Forker gives a stage direction on Richard’s entrance after 162 ‘to account for the presence of the crown and sceptre’: ‘Enter [King] Richard and York [with Officers bearing the crown and sceptre].’40 Obviously the iconography of Richard’s entrance with or accompanied by the crown casts a doubt over Bolingbroke’s authority as King-inParliament. The quartos published in Queen Elizabeth’s lifetime all lack the full deposition scene from Act 4, Scene 1, an omission that is usually explained as an act of censorship by the Master of the Revels. Queen Elizabeth drew an analogy between King Richard’s situation and her own (probably in respect of perceptions of the power wielded by her court favourites and anxieties over the succession question) and it is reported that she told William Lambarde, the keeper of the records of the Tower, ‘I am Richard II, know ye not that?’41 She appeared concerned that the tragedy ‘was played forty times in open streets and




houses’.42 Elizabeth made these comments some months after the Essex conspirators apparently agreed to pay the players an additional £2 to perform a play about the deposing of Richard II on the day before the uprising in February 1601. As Wells points out the Queen’s reference to a ‘tragedy’ is ‘not an undisputable reference to Shakespeare’s play, particularly since the actors had complained that the play they performed was “long out of use”’.43 The deposition scene finally appeared in print in 1608 (five years after Elizabeth’s death) when it was published by Matthew Lawe in the fourth edition (Q4) ‘with new additions of the Parliament Scene, and the deposing of King Richard, as it hath been lately acted by the King’s Majesty’s Servants, at the Globe’. The reference to ‘the King’s Majesty’s servants’ is a reminder that the scene had been staged by the acting company who now enjoyed the royal patent of King James I. It is also the earliest proof that the full deposition scene had been performed on stage. In some ways Elizabeth’s concerns are curious since other potentially damaging texts had already appeared. In 1562, Gorboduc made an explicit plea for the ruler to work with Parliament to determine the succession, for where ‘No ruler rests within the regal seat’ (5.2.184) Britain is ‘left an open prey’ (191) to foreign invasion.44 The Mirror for Magistrates (printed 1559) has Richard admit (lines 31–3): I am a Kyng that ruled all by lust, That forced not of vertue, ryght, or lawe, But always put false Flatterers most in trust.45 The anonymous Woodstock (written 1592–93) depicts Richard’s uncle, the Duke of Gloucester (Thomas Woodstock), as a patriot murdered on Richard’s behest. Richard is too late to stay the execution and tells his favourites: ‘Oh my deere Freends, the fearful wrath of heaven/Sitts heavey on our heads for Woodstock’s death’ (2899–900).46 Elizabeth was probably more concerned with the analogies with Richard in the later years of her reign when the succession question became a crucial issue. Gurr notes that in 1595 Samuel Daniel ‘was more open and wrote a direct address to Essex at the end of Book II of The Civil Wars, calling him a leader capable of supplying better material for a poem than Bullingbrook’.47 Sir John Hayward’s The First Part of the Life and Raigne of King Henrie IIII (published in 1599) was dedicated to Essex and earned Hayward a sentence to the Tower. A deposition scene is staged in Christopher Marlowe’s Edward the Second, which was written in 1591 or 1592 and reprinted in 1598,




perhaps suggesting further interest. Marlowe’s scene seems less ceremonial although the presence of a bishop and Sir William Trussel, the procurator for Parliament, formalizes the proceedings. Edward’s personal attachment to the crown is moving as he takes it off, exclaiming: ‘But stay awhile; let me be king till night,/That I may gaze upon this glittering crown’ (5.1.59–60).48 Edward puts his crown on again but later resigns, allowing the Bishop of Winchester and Trussel to exit with it. Winchester arrives with the crown in 5.2 and presents Queen Isabella with the document of abdication, which suggests that the body politic no longer resides with Edward but is literally in the hands of the Bishop. A rather different effect is achieved in Shakespeare’s play since the Bishop of Carlisle ends up being barred from the legal proceedings. Carlisle puts the case for the divinity of the king: And shall the figure of God’s majesty, His captain, steward, deputy elect, Anointed, crowned, planted many years, Be judged by subject and inferior breath, And he himself not present? (4.1.126–30) Carlisle suggests that the assembly has already adopted Bolingbroke as king even though he has not been consecrated by the bishops: ‘My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,/Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king’ (4.1.135–6). Carlisle warns that if Parliament agrees to his coronation, ‘And if you crown him’ (137), civil war will ensue. Northumberland urges that Carlisle be arrested for ‘capital treason’ (152) and Carlisle is promptly taken into custody so that there is no representative of the Church able to take a prominent part in the abdication proceedings (the Abbot is silent). It is noticeable that Bolingbroke determines the date for his own coronation: ‘On Wednesday next we solemnly set down/Our coronation. Lords prepare yourselves’ (319–20). The matter is not settled by the bishops, and the Abbot of Westminster and Carlisle raise a plot against him immediately upon his exit. In King Richard II, Shakespeare creates a phantasmic scene: he brings before an Elizabethan Parliament the spectre of the King’s return from the Tower of Medieval history. It would appear that Richard was captured and taken to the Tower of London and that, following meetings in the Tower on 28 and 29 September 1399, the record of the king’s resignation was presented to the assembled estates in Westminster great hall on 30 September.49 Given-Wilson argues that Henry could




well have presented the estates with a fait accompli: ‘it is in fact entirely credible that there was no public opposition to Henry’s plans in this assembly’.50 Shakespeare’s added scene alters history to make the Medieval king subject to the laws of an Elizabethan Parliament. Richard’s entrance conveys the idea of ‘King-in-Parliament’ (a Tudor doctrine), a role that would usually make him judge of the proceedings. Northumberland is increasingly insistent that Richard accept his role as ‘accused’ by reading the accusations made against him, ‘My lord, dispatch. Read o’er these articles’ (243). The king’s evasions challenge the Court’s right to judge him. When Bolingbroke finally intervenes to tell Northumberland, ‘Urge it no more’ (271), the Earl’s reply suggests that he has a legitimate cause of concern, ‘The commons will not then be satisfied’ (272). The deposition scene insists upon Parliament’s power to call a monarch to account for misdeeds and to name a successor: ‘And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!’ (113). If the locus of royal authority lies with the new King-in-Parliament, it is Bolingbroke (as has often been noticed) who is cast as the ‘silent King’ in the proceedings. The ‘regal throne’ (so markedly authoritative in Act 1) takes second place to Richard’s occupation of platea, from where he effectively disrupts the locus, playing his on-stage and theatre audiences with consummate skill. In Edward II, the king is shown complying with the bishop’s demands to abdicate and giving up the crown in the face of intense personal grief. In Shakespeare’s play it is Richard who initiates the ceremony of decoronation by making it appear an illegal act. When York calls for, ‘The resignation of thy state and crown’ (4.1.180), Richard defamiliarizes the crown as sacred symbol of kingship by turning it into a stolen object to be ‘seized’ by Bolingbroke: ‘Here, cousin, seize the crown’ (182). Richard turns the ritual consecration of a king into a game (I think Fiona Shaw’s instincts were right about this) and forces Bolingbroke to join in. In performance, Bolingbroke may draw back at this point (Anton Lesser does this in Ron Daniels’s RSC production in 1990) but to do so invites admission that to take is to ‘seize’. In addition, depending on whether Bolingbroke has indeed ascended to the regal throne, he will have to descend or come forward, leaving the locus of kingly authority for the platea that Richard occupies. In this stage position Bolingbroke is an extra brought on to hold the prop of ceremony, the crown, while Richard demonstrates its utility. In Barry Kyle’s ‘Book of Hours’ production for the Royal Shakespeare Company




(1986), Richard (Jeremy Irons) sat on the steps of the elevated throne at one point and Bolingbroke (Michael Kitchen) did not ascend until Richard finally relinquished the crown, which was placed on a cushion. Richard makes the ‘hollow crown’ of Act 3 into ‘a deep well/that owes two buckets’ (4.1.184–5) and it is ‘golden’, which through its defamiliarization suggests ‘painted’ or ‘gaudy’, certainly ‘tarnished’ through the act of seizing. Richard’s ‘play’ does not diminish the seriousness of the moment but brings into relief the ironic shadow now falling across the Medieval world where the rules of chivalry in Act 1 lead to an aborted trial, while the throwing down of gages at the start of the Parliament scene starts to become funny as well as ineffective. In Kyle’s production, which portrayed Richard as the martyred Medieval King, the tug-of-war with the crown when the King replies ‘Ay, no. No, ay ‘(201) to Bolingbroke’s question: ‘Are you contented to resign the crown?’ (200) still made the audience laugh. The symbolic meaning of the well has often been taken to refer to Fortune’s buckets, the one rising as the other falls, an analogy to the situations of Bolingbroke and Richard. However, the image of Christ’s wounds as ‘wells of grace’ recurs in Medieval English devotion.51 This would associate Richard’s bucket with the suffering and tears of Christ, an analogy that makes sense in the context of the reference to Pilate a few lines later. Bolingbroke presses Richard: ‘I thought you had been willing to resign’ (190) to which he replies: My crown I am, but still my griefs are mine. You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs; still am I king of those. (4.1.191–3) Richard suggests that he still wears the symbolic crown of thorns and that he cannot give away his ‘cares’, meaning the responsibility for others’ sins. When, finally he agrees to take ‘this heavy weight from off my head’ (204) he has emptied the ceremonial crown of symbolic meanings which he claims still belong to him: ‘still with me they stay’ (199). Richard’s abdication speech reiterates this position. On the one hand he appears to debase the ritual authority of the coronation ceremony by figuring the mystical body politic as only a list of procedures that can be undone or broken. On the other, he reaffirms the impossibility of separating kingship from the body of the person who has worn the crown.





Bolingbroke’s throne, the locus of royal authority is still ‘Richard’s seat’ (218). David M. Bergeron argues: ‘However brilliant Richard may be in his appearance in Act IV, nothing that he says or does advances the narrative development of the play.’52 The cut versions in Elizabeth’s lifetime would move on from Carlisle’s arrest into the custody of the Abbot of Westminster to an announcement of the coronation date followed by the clerics’ plotting. The Abbot’s reference to the ‘woeful pageant’ seems curious without the deposition scene as it suggests that some kind of ceremonial occasion has just occurred. In fact, the deposition scene casts a long shadow across the rest of the play, undercutting Bolingbroke’s attempts to emphasize the solemnity of the coronation: ‘On Wednesday next we solemnly set down/Our coronation’ (4.1.319–20). When next we see Bolingbroke in 5.3, he is newly crowned but the comic business with the Duchess of York draws the king away from his locus of royal authority into platea subversion where he observes, ‘Our scene is altered from a serious thing,/And now changed to “The Beggar and the King”’ (5.3.78–9). The Duchess of York’s delighted response to the King’s clemency in sparing her son, ‘A god on earth thou art!’ (135), seems – in the familiarity of the situation (asking a personal favour) – to debase the divinity of a king’s royal pardon. It is possible, as Forker suggests, that the line might ‘call attention to the distance between Richard’s divinely ordained legitimacy and Henry IV’s shaky claim to royal authority’.53 It also parodies, through the Duchess’s recourse to the traditional act of penance (associated with pilgrimages) – ‘For ever will I walk upon my knees’ (94), the fealty due from a subject to a king.

The regal throne In 4.1, Bolingbroke announces his intention: ‘In God’s name I’ll ascend the regal throne’ (114) but, stayed by Carlisle’s protest, the actor often demurs. This is a climactic moment when the audience wonders at what point the transfer of sovereign power will be effected. The throne is always symbolic whether occupied or empty, and has



With mine own tears I wash away my balm, With mine own hands I give away my crown, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duteous oaths, All pomp and majesty I do forswear. (4.1.207–11)

been likened to a ‘character’ in the play.54 It is the site of a power struggle, and Bolingbroke or Richard may occupy it at different times during 4.1, signifying the difficult and dangerous processes of deposition and transference of the body politic. Richard’s throne may be a seat of majesty, canopied and resplendent, symbol of a nation’s stability, as in Antony Quayle’s production at Stratford, part of ‘The Cycle of the Historical Plays’ for the Festival of Britain in 1951. It may, like an organic part of the nation, reflect change and decay as in Peter Hall and John Barton’s cycle of seven plays to mark the four-hundredth anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth (1963–64), where ‘the wooden rusticity of Richard’s kingdom was replaced by steel and armour: an iron age of war and political despotism was dawning’.55 My concern is with the pull of history on modern performance. I am arguing that a sense of history attaches to the uses of the throne and the crown as props, associated with the early modern period’s reflexive view of the role of ceremony and ritual in culture. Shakespeare gives King Henry V a soliloquy, ‘Upon the king’ (Henry V, 4.1.227), which becomes a meditation on ‘thrice-gorgeous ceremony’ (263), a word mentioned seven times within a few lines. I have chosen productions from the last two decades of the twentieth century that reveal, through their use of the ceremonial objects, the throne and the crown, attitudes to British history, international politics and the idea of kingship in the modern world. The English Shakespeare Company (ESC) added Richard II (first performed on 8 December 1987 at the Theatre Royal, Bath) to The Henrys trilogy (first performed in November 1986 at the Theatre Royal, Plymouth) for their version of The Wars of the Roses, directed by Michael Bogdanov. They staged all seven plays over a single weekend in Tokyo and toured Japan, USA, Hong Kong, Canada, Australia, Germany, Holland and France during their three-year world tour. A version of The Wars of the Roses was televised at Swansea in 1989 and released on video. I will refer to this production generally and also draw on details from other theatre performances. Bogdanov had a clear political agenda linked to his anger at Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher’s economic policies and the Falklands War, ‘a senseless war of expediency’. He describes the modern parallels he found in the history plays in a book, written with Michael Pennington (who played Richard): A conspiracy of silence and complicity surrounded shuffles, resignations, rise and fall, crash and takeover – the desperate feeling of





In Act 1, Scene 1, the throne of England, locus of kingly authority, is empty and in shadow upstage, ‘symbol of misuse’.57 A crownless Richard, elegantly dressed as a Beau Brummell dandy, occupies a platea position downstage, listening to music, playing cards and enjoying conversations with his favourites and the Queen (seated on a chaise longue). Richard is not in a mood to be bothered with affairs of state and on hearing the dispute between Mowbray and Bolingbroke gives a reluctant command: ‘Then call them to our presence’ (1.1.14). He turns to his courtiers with evident amusement: ‘High-stomached are they both and full of ire’ (18). Irving Wardle (The Times (2 February 1989)) commented on the Old Vic production: ‘The first part of his performance wonderfully conveys the quality of a decadent playboy, trying to convince himself that everything is permitted to the blood royal.’ Richard considers the dispute a form of entertainment until Bolingbroke (dressed in military uniform) accuses Mowbray (informally attired) of the death of the Duke of Gloucester. The whole court reels with guilt and the king struggles to maintain his composure. Recovering, Richard tries a little humour to persuade the appellants to settle their differences but as they persist he flashes angrily: ‘We were not born to sue but to command’ (196). The televised version cuts 1.2 with the Duchess of Gloucester and moves straight to the lists at Coventry, offering an immediate contrast to the laxity of the court in 1.1. The scene emphasizes the authority of the locus by having a large flag of St George as the backdrop to a raised platform. The keynote is the performance of ceremony and a crowned Richard enters in full regalia – a long blue cloak with cape of ermine and carrying the sceptre. Courtiers are already on the platform drinking, ready to enjoy the spectacle, when Richard sweeps downstage, a self-admiring figure radiating confidence, and turns to ascend the steps. From his elevated position, Richard commands his court and descends to demonstrate kingly largesse and fold Bolingbroke (Michael Cronin) in his arms. Richard’s ‘folding’ is a slight pat of kingly regard.58 The set for the Coventry lists suggests that the legacy of Medieval pageantry is to be found in the flag of St George, symbolizing English history and tradition. In Henry V, the Agincourt campaign is celebrated with the unveiling of union jacks and banners, reading ‘Fuck the



manipulation and manoeuvre in the air. One’s life controlled by secret forces and the watching eye. Boardrooms may have replaced the Palace at Westminster, Chairpersons (mainly men) replaced monarchs, but the rules were the same.56

Frogs’, suggesting modern-day zenophobia and parallels with the jingoism that Bogdanov connected with the Falklands War. Costumes are eclectic throughout the cycle with the emphasis on drawing contemporary parallels rather than attempting to recreate ‘fancy-dress history’.59 Bogdanov chose ‘a profligate, dilettante Richard’, drawn from the Regency period, to contrast with ‘the puritan austerity of Bolingbroke Rule’, associated with the Victorian age.60 Pennington reflected that the modern parallels made it difficult for him to engage with the complexities of kingship and the need to build sympathy for Richard in the early part of the performance. However, a reviewer (Scotsman (24 March 1988)) commented: ‘Richard’s eloquence moved me at least once to tears’. In 3.1, Bolingbroke is shown acting with bureaucratic efficiency as he sits behind a large table to judge and pass sentence on Bushy and Green. The scene prefigures the action of 4.1 where Bolingbroke is judge of the proceedings in Parliament, seated at a large desk in front of the flag of St George. Bolingbroke occupies the locus of authority and the appellants throw down their gages on the desk, acknowledging his judicial function. The iconography of the scene suggests that in nineteenth-century England power resides in the boardroom and that Bolingbroke’s ‘boardroom’ seat is the throne. There is no ambivalence about the throne’s occupier. When York brings news of Richard’s abdication and invites the new king to ascend the throne, Bolingbroke gives an approving nod to his supporters to rise with him and declares: ‘In God’s name I’ll ascend the regal throne’ (114). He remains standing when Carlisle raises his objections but clearly the bishop fails to plant doubts in the minds of Richard’s subjects. When Carlisle brands Bolingbroke ‘a foul traitor’ (136), the peers come forward to stop him. Bolingbroke motions them to stay and sits back confidently, allowing the bishop to continue. In this production, when Richard enters Parliament, Bolingbroke is already ‘enthroned’. While the English Shakespeare Company’s empty throne in 1.1 conveyed absent kingship, the throne at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre symbolized the exercise of illusory power in Ron Daniels’s production (1990–91). The production shared Bogdanov’s concern with realpolitik but the focus was not confined to British politics. The theatre programme included a double-page spread on tyrannical regimes throughout history with a printed quote across the centre fold in red: ‘Mussolini would have liked to have been a poet just as Hitler would have liked to have been a great painter – most dictators, it seems, are artists manqués.’61




The tyranny of Richard’s regime was suggested through his personal bodyguard, the Cheshire archers, who trained their crossbows on the audience. The scene presented the monarch of historical knowledge whose bodyguard ‘whithersoever the king went, night and day, as if at war, kept watch in arms around him’.62 Sinister guards in greatcoats and fur helmets recalled East European guards and referenced the tyrannical regime in Romania under Nicolae and Elena Ceausescu who were executed in December 1989. The sombre opening scene marked the authority of the locus through the central positioning of a large gilt-edged throne, upholstered in red and the presence of the nobility in black, assembled in silence. Richard (Alex Jennings) entered ‘magnificently attired’, wearing ‘the kind of crown a Holy Roman Emperor might have worn’.63 His divine authority was emphasized through the presence of the Bishop of Carlisle (John Bott) standing behind the throne in ceremonial robes and bishop’s mitre. Sinking ‘voluptuously into the throne’, Jennings portrayed a monarch ‘utterly entranced with the role, the power, the trappings of kingship’.64 In his discussion of the locus, Robert Weimann associates its authority with ‘a certain amount of verisimilitude, decorum, aloofness from the audience, and representational closure’.65 As a stage picture, the opening of Daniels’s production might suggest aspects of late Victorian and Edwardian ‘pictorial’ Shakespeare, described by Russell Jackson: The actors now moved entirely within the picture-frame of the proscenium arch, and were fully integrated into the graphic interpretation of the play. Any self-conscious theatricality in the texts, and any indulgence of the actors’ ability to play with an audience, were suppressed in the interests of a theatre that imposed its visions on the audience and displayed the leading actor as ruler of a finely organized machine.66 However, the presence of a false white proscenium arch cast Richard as the ‘leading actor’ of an illusory world while eclectic costuming betrayed any attempt to control a world through historical accuracy. Katherine Duncan-Jones (TLS (16 November 1990)) remarked: ‘Though some costumes are vaguely Russian, most are “Jacobethan” – far too many of them black, making quick identification of individuals and factions difficult.’ The audience was being asked to note the discrepancy between Richard’s controlling view of his world and the production’s critique of it. The white proscenium was therefore associated with a discredited bourgeois art form in much the same way that Bogdanov’s





Perhaps most literal is the frame within the frame of the proscenium arch which distances Richard from the action, casts him as an actor in the events of history and underlines the constant visual references to painting. The production conveyed the idea that dictators appropriate images to produce distorted versions of reality, feeding off illusionary visions of themselves. Michael Coveney (Observer (11 November 1990)) described the effect of a huge, extravagant baroque Guido Reni backdrop that mythologized Richard’s ‘tragic’ downfall through the story of Atalanta stooping to retrieve Hippomene’s apples. It created, ‘a pictorial analogue of Bolingbroke’s ascendancy, an image of victory through flight from a diverted opponent. Atalanta stoops just as Richard, the glistering phaeton, descends’. On the walls at Flint Castle, Richard wore golden armour creating another ‘pictorial analogue’ of the sun king’s ascendancy before his defeat. While the English Shakespeare Company’s production showed Bolingbroke ‘enthroned ‘ at his desk in 4.1, the RSC’s version showed Bolingbroke (Anton Lesser) standing beside the throne, his hand resting on the dustsheet covering it. On York’s entrance from ‘plumeplucked Richard’ (109), the sheet was removed, revealing the spotlit empty throne, and the noblemen knelt to Bolingbroke. Carlisle moved to block Bolingbroke as he moved towards the throne. He remained standing for the bishop’s speech and, on Carlisle’s arrest, moved away as Richard entered. This Bolingbroke could not appropriate the throne as confidently as Michael Cronin in the ESC’s production. His inability to do so enabled Richard to reappropriate it during his ceremony of decoronation, creating platea subversion. Clearly the production made much of Richard’s relationship to his throne, referring in the theatre programme to the Medieval king’s curious behaviour in ordering a throne to be made for his chamber, where he would sit ‘unto evensong tyme, spekynge to no man, but overlooking alle menn’.67 In Deborah Warner’s production at the Royal National Theatre (1995) the actual throne did not carry the symbolic weight of kingship in the same way. Rather, the sanctity of kingship suffused the whole experience of performance. Playgoers took their seats in the cathedral-like stalls of the traverse staging at the Cottesloe to ‘the



operatic Italianate set (demolished by Sly) had functioned in The Taming of the Shrew (1978). David Hughes (City Limits (15 November 1990)) commented:

chanting of Latin, the flicker of candles, and the smell of incense’. 68 Hildegard Bechtler’s set defined the locus as the mystical presence of majesty, conveyed through an area separated by a gauze curtain, the gilt interior of the inner sanctum of the royal court. 69 Fiona Shaw’s King Richard appeared swathed in bandages like the embalmed body of a royal mummy, emphasizing ‘the sanctity of the medieval monarch’.70 Shaw explained: ‘I suppose I’m playing into the notion that this pupa has been so fed royal jelly that it has no beard, is soft and female from a life of never having to function as a human – either male or female.’ 71 Despite Shaw’s view of the king’s gender as ‘androgynous’ and her approach as ‘experimental’, some reviewers persisted in reading her performance as feminist (parodying masculine values) or suggestive of a latent homosexuality through her affection for her cousin, Bolingbroke (David Threlfall). The production drew on the historical relationship of the cousins who were brought up together. However, Shaw’s presentation created a ‘bifold authority’ through which the persona of the actor appeared to challenge what was represented.72 She was viewed as playing royally while taking a subversive feminist view

Figure 9.

Fiona Shaw as King Richard in Deborah Warner’s Richard II (1995).




of men in power. Maureen Paton (Daily Express (5 June 1995)) remarked: ‘This refreshing new approach gives us a quizzical female perspective on all those male wargames.’ Less positive reviews criticized comic stage business: ‘Richard skips about and winks, sucks his thumb, and plays pat-a-cake with Bolingbroke prior to handing his cousin the crown.’73 Shaw felt that reactions to her performance were often shaped by a view of the play as representing English history and requiring a serious approach to kingship rather than a theatrical and playful one. She commented: ‘In Paris and Salzburg they had no such possessiveness about the actual content.’74 In Paris the production was feted. Rupert Christiansen (Daily Telegraph (27 January 1996)) remarked: ‘Warner’s spare clean patient style seems to fit into the French and European tradition of theatre more than our own.’ In the Cottesloe production, Richard hid behind the throne in 1.1 like a child playing hide-and-seek and, while hearing the appellants, sat sideways or moved onto another seat. In the televised version, Richard stood by the throne in full regalia, smiling as he enjoyed the occasion. However, when the situation turned ugly – Mowbray (David Lyon) spat at Bolingbroke (Richard Bremmer) and they began to fight – Richard brought his gloved hands to his face and moved behind the throne with his favourites, seeking protection. Both productions conveyed the idea that the child-king did not know how to occupy the locus of authority but played childish games, sucking a thumb and throwing cushions (in the stage version). Benedict Nightingale (The Times (5 June 1995)) thought Richard, ‘an emotional 11-year-old surrounded by adults’. However, Richard’s immaturity did not diminish the sanctity of kingship, emphasized in 1.3 by his triumphal entry with palm leaves waving, carried aloft like a radiant Christ figure, wearing his crown. The King’s divinity was reinforced when the appellants knelt before him for a blessing. Richard dipped his fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross. John Mullan (TLS (16 June 1995)) remarked: ‘The staging concentrates the mind and the eye on the play’s ceremonious, deadly competitions.’ In Act 1, playgoers were positioned as subjects of divine majesty (entering a holy place). For the lists, the traverse staging placed them in opposing camps for the spectator sport. In 4.1, playgoers would become the body of Parliament, listening to debates and would be implicated in the removal of a divinely appointed king. The production showed how Richard’s actions would set in motion a treacherous trail of events. His partiality for Bolingbroke led him to underestimate his opponent. When Bolingbroke made his request to




‘take a ceremonious leave’ (1.3.50), Richard knelt to embrace him but his cousin insisted that the king acknowledge their deeper intimacy, ‘My loving lord, I take my leave of you’ (63). Richard faltered, tears in his eyes, and removed his crown to kiss Bolingbroke on the mouth before replacing his crown and ordering the trial to begin. The combatants took up positions but the clamour of preparations unnerved Richard. As the climactic strains became unbearable, he threw his warder down, removed his crown and seemed to collapse. Recovering locus authority, Richard banished Bolingbroke and Mowbray, commanding their oath of allegiance on a Bible placed on his sword. In 4.1 (in the televised version), Richard stands by the throne, resting an arm along its back as he surveys his subjects: ‘Were they not mine?/Did they not sometime cry “All hail” to me?’(169–70). Richard takes a seat alongside them to announce, ‘God save the King! Will no man say “Amen”?’ (173). Seated in their midst while Bolingbroke stands apart, Shaw’s position invites reflection on The Last Supper and Christ’s betrayal by Judas. For the ceremony of decoration Richard moves back to the throne and sits on the edge of the seat to mime his surrender of the regalia. The imagined crown is difficult to remove, emphasizing the symbolic meaning of ‘heavy weight’ as the responsibilities of kingship. These responsibilities are not Richard’s alone but are shared by his subjects. In the televised version, a reaction shot shows the Bishop of Carlisle (John Rogan) unable to look up as Richard asks forgiveness for his act of blasphemy: ‘God pardon all oaths that are broke to me’ (214). Steven Pimlott’s production at The Other Place (2000), the first play in the RSC’s two-year project, ‘This England: the Histories’ has been called both ‘modernist’ and ‘postmodernist’. The minimalist set of Pimlott’s Richard II, a bare white stage, white bentwood chairs and a small mound of earth, appeared to quote Peter Brook’s white-box A Midsummer Night’s Dream (RSC, 1970), creating a symbolic ahistorical theatre. In its ‘sleek, almost brutal, modernism’, Pimlott’s production suggested the bleak nihilism of Brook’s film of King Lear (1970).75 The production was postmodern in its playful, irreverent quoting of texts (and in reassigning lines from the playtext to other actors). Michael Dobson noted ‘a fastidiously post-modern rediscovery of Brecht’.76 This was evident in the presentational style – debates were directed to the audience and situations were frozen in tableaux. I wondered whether the wooden box Richard (Samuel West) dragged around the stage (dais for his throne, mirror, coffin) might be analogous to the wagon (carrying goods to sell in wartime, family home, death) in




Mother Courage (1938). Of course, for Brecht the important point was that Mother Courage exploited the war and learned nothing.77 The circularity of power play in Pimlott’s production was emphasized when, at the close, Bolingbroke (David Troughton) took Richard’s place on the end of the wooden crate and repeated lines from a ‘Prologue’ (reassigned from 5.5.1–5): I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world; And, for because the world is populous And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I’ll hammer’t out. Against the bare white rectangular space, each prop took on greater significance while coloured lighting could be used to greater effect. The throne, resembling the other chairs but painted gold, was placed centre stage on top of Richard’s crate (or coffin) in 1.1. A jacket hung on its back and a thin gold crown rested on the seat. A purple light associated the set with the royal court as Richard, dressed in smart pullover and trousers, commenced his meditative ‘Prologue’ sitting on the edge of the coffin. He rose to put on the jacket and crown, resuming locus authority as judge of the appellants by sitting on the throne. Earlier, strains of Jerusalem and the sound of marching, followed by bells, offered a pastiche of emblematic associations of ‘England’: patriotism, war, celebration and ceremony. The promptbook refers to a ‘common man’ who sat at the back of the stage, sometimes head in hands, the powerless ‘subject’ perhaps, on whose behalf policy matters were conducted behind closed doors. Richard’s first action on entering was to lock a door. The ‘common man’ and Bolingbroke were the only figures left on stage at the end of the play. Like Pennington in the English Shakespeare Company production, West showed Richard’s amusement by the situation in 1.1, his court favourites heckling Bolingbroke’s attempts to make his case. At the mention of Gloucester’s death, the court fell silent and Richard came forward to reconcile the opponents. Unable to succeed, he flared, ‘We were not born to sue but to command’ (196), standing on his coffin ‘dais’ to order the trial at Coventry. In 1.2, Gaunt (Alfred Burke) in a wheelchair moved across to the mound of earth where the Duchess of Gloucester (Janet Whiteside) lamented her husband’s death. While she remonstrated with Gaunt on the need for action, the empty throne on the coffin was spotlit in




centre-stage position, making her words a glaring rebuke to locus authority. In 1.3, high double doors were opened for Richard’s processional entry in full regalia, including coronation crown, sceptre and ermine cape. The Lord Marshall (William Whymper) was resplendent in a red and gold tunic and coat tails and carried a sword. It soon became apparent, however, that beneath the picturesque rituals of chivalry lay the ugly reality of brutal warfare as a servant unwrapped the weapons taken out of the coffin, not even ‘lances’ but axes. Richard’s treatment of the dying Gaunt was particularly callous and violent. Accusing Gaunt of ‘Presuming on an ague’s privilege!’ (2.1.116), Richard kicked over his throne (still on stage) in his rage and had to be restrained. Richard fell back into the wheelchair on hearing of Gaunt’s death, and Queen Isabel (Catherine Walker) came forward to comfort him. However, he whizzed away in the chair, announcing his plans to take Lancaster’s wealth and lands. At the end of the scene the wheelchair remained in throne position, a reminder of Gaunt’s rebuke: ‘Landlord of England art thou now, not king’ (113). On Bolingbroke’s return from banishment the empty throne (the chair) stood between him and Harry Percy who knelt in allegiance, indicating that Richard had all already forfeited locus authority. On the walls at Flint Castle, Richard appeared in his fur travel coat, wearing the thin gold crown associated with his appearance in 1.1, a modern king presuming on hereditary privilege rather than divine authority. Nicholas de Jongh (Evening Standard (30 March 2000)) remarked: ‘Pimlott cares little for the supposed divinity of 14th century kings.’ Tearfully, Richard clutched his cousin, Aumerle, before descending to the ‘base court’. In 4.1, Northumberland picked up the throne and placed it centre stage. The ‘common man’ sat in the alcove, a bystander of the Parliament scene. The theatre audience was invited to rise with the ‘lords’ as a mark of respect when Carlisle brought news of Norfolk’s death, implicating them in the drama. When York entered from ‘plume-plucked Richard’, the assembly knelt as Bolingbroke faced the theatre audience, taking their permission as granted and sat in the throne. Carlisle (Paul Greenwood) came forward to address the audience and to present the argument for the divinity of kings, a show of empty rhetoric in the face of the political coup. A guard cocked his gun ready to shoot. However, the realpolitik of the production, explored by Michael Bogdanov and Ron Daniels (in the ESC and RSC productions respectively), was returned to postmodern debasement. As Bolingbroke




barked his orders for Richard to be brought before Parliament, the King appeared in the doorway wrapped in the flag of Saint George, whistling the national anthem. Richard’s platea subversion of England, identity and nation debunked the authority of both throne and crown. Patrick Carnegy (Spectator (8 April 2000)) described the director’s approach to ‘This England’, shedding light on the placing of the ‘common man’ as silent choric presence: For Pimlott the issues of Richard II are ‘as amusingly and wittingly relevant as ever – the question of what is England, who speaks for England, who owns England, who speaks for England. It’s a play about power brokers – we don’t see the ordinary people in this play. Other people are speaking on their behalf the whole time.’

The hollow crown At a performance, playgoers experience a period of time during which Richard’s crown can come to symbolize a personal dimension of kingship. John Barton’s innovative production at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in 1973 explored the relationship between the role of king and the person wearing the crown. Richard Pasco and Ian Richardson alternated the roles of Richard and Bolingbroke, drawing attention to the way that identity is constructed through performing a role. In the deposition scene, Richard punched out the glass of his mirror, leaving an empty circular frame. Bolingbroke placed it over Richard’s head, creating ‘the hollow crown’, emptied of kingship.78 The English Shakespeare Company’s emphasis on modern politics reduces this personal aspect of kingship and it is noticeable that Richard wears the crown only on ceremonial occasions such as the lists at Coventry and to emphasize the performance of kingship on the walls of Flint Castle, where he appears in his robes. He does not wear the crown or hold it as an aid to his meditations on ‘the death of kings’ in 3.2. Clearly, the crown belongs to the locus of kingly authority, but clearly (given the empty throne in 1.1) the locus is ineffectual. However, the audience is brought to consider whether it is ineffectual because of one self-serving individual or whether there is some other reason. Given the realpolitik of the historical cycle as a whole, the production suggests that England requires not just a new king (Bolingbroke does not wear the crown in the final scenes) but also a modern form of government. As Michael Billington observed, in an interview with Michael Pennington and Fiona Shaw for BBC Radio 3,




the production called for ‘a tough and militaristic Bolingbroke’ who was ‘surrounded by rifle-toting henchmen’.79 This idea had interesting repercussions in the deposition scene where the solidarity of the new regime isolated Richard, giving his ironic observations on the ‘new order’ a sharper edge. In 4.1, Bolingbroke sits at his desk as Richard enters bareheaded. A Herald enters with the crown, sceptre and orb on a cushion. Richard asks for the crown and holds it out in front of Bolingbroke’s desk, inviting him to leave the locus, ‘Here, cousin, seize the crown’ (182–3). Bolingbroke brings his hand to his chest in a defensive gesture and Richard presses this moment of indecision as he repeats, ‘Here, cousin’. Richard’s actions force Bolingbroke to leave his ‘throne’ to join him on the other side of the desk. From this platea position, Pennington can play with Bolingbroke ‘as a cat with a mouse’.80 Bogdanov recalls: ‘The crown was dangled like a carrot, it was held high, gently offered, snatched away’, with the intention ‘to tease and frustrate, delaying the moment as long as possible’.81 In the televised version, when Bolingbroke holds his side of the crown, Richard presses his advantage by turning from his meditation on the ‘deep well’ to mount a sarcastic attack upon the usurper who would ‘mount up on high’ (189). Annoyed at being caught off guard, Bolingbroke withdraws his hand and with icy control replies, ‘I thought you had been willing to resign’ (190). Richard continues to play with him, bringing the crown down to his chest and holding it close, ‘Ay, no. No, ay’ (201). Before Bolingbroke can react, he begins his ceremony of decoronation, holding out the crown, sceptre and orb which Bolingbroke takes, before returning to his seat. The regalia remains on a cushion on his desk for the rest of the scene, conveying the idea that the body politic lies with Bolingbroke’s new order. After this, Richard’s grief appears to be something of a histrionic performance but is marked by his incisive wit. Pennington felt that the cycle’s emphasis on ‘political realities’ made ‘the problem of playing a lyrical tragic hero that much more difficult’.82 However, he demonstrates a remarkable range in the deposition scene, appearing at times too self-absorbed to win sympathy but able to break free of his reveries to appreciate the irony of his situation. After his introspective lines, ‘O, that I were a mockery king of snow’ (260), he rallies with an incisive jibe at Bolingbroke: ‘Good King; great King’ (and after a deliberate pause), ‘and yet not greatly good’ (263). The televised production cuts the comic scene with the Duchess of York so there is no opportunity to subvert kingly authority or to see




Bolingbroke in lighter mood. The decision to shoot Richard after he has mounted a gallant defence against his murderers suggests that the new regime is brutal and clinical in its exercise of power. Bolingbroke does not wear the crown in the final scene, leaving the association of ceremonial kingship with Richard. The omission does not make Bolingbroke any less a king but suggests that the ideology of the divine right of kings has been demystified and that the modern world is more cynical about the exercise of power. In Ron Daniels’s production, Richard appeared like a spoilt child, jealously guarding his favourite ‘toys’, the orb, sceptre and crown, which he kept in his ‘toy-box’. The box was carried into Westminster for the ceremony of decoronation while Bolingbroke looked on in exasperation. At his line, ‘God save the King!’ (173) Richard knelt before the empty throne, conveying the idea that majesty resided in the locus, from which Bolingbroke was absent (he stood impassively to one side). Still kneeling, Richard opened his box and took out the crown. At his line, ‘Here, cousin, seize the crown’, Bolingbroke put his hand on the crown but started back, as though the act of touching it constituted blasphemy. When he pressed, ‘Are you contented to resign the crown?’ Richard snatched back the crown and put it on his head as if reclaiming his kingship before carrying out his decoronation ceremony, placing crown, orb and sceptre on the ground. Bolingbroke moved upstage to stand by the throne and Richard rose to confront the lords, ‘Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me’ (237). Richard returned to sit on the throne as he accused them: yet you Pilates Have here delivered me to my sour cross And water cannot wash away your sin. (240–2) Having assumed locus authority by sitting on the throne, Richard underlined the ‘sin’ of deposing a divinely appointed king. Rising, arms outstretched, he envisioned himself ‘a mockery king of snow’ before falling to his knees, ‘To melt myself away in waterdrops!’ (262) and called for a looking glass. Richard’s self-dramatization incensed Bolingbroke who suddenly moved forward, crouched down to grab hold of his face and snapped, ‘The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed/The shadow of your face’. However, Richard continued to occupy a platea position of subversion by sitting in the throne again, leaving Bolingbroke in a kneeling position. In this way, Richard subverted the locus authority implied in the line, ‘Being now a subject, I




have a king here to my flatterer’ (307–8), since Bolingbroke’s kneeling position made him appear to be the subject. At the end of the deposition scene, Bolingbroke continued to stand as he announced a date for his coronation but he did not sit on the throne. Northumberland (Paul Jesson) picked up the crown, orb and sceptre and replaced them inside the ‘toy-box’, an ambiguous gesture since the box was associated with Richard’s kingship. Michael Billington (Guardian (9 November 1990)) felt the production sidestepped ‘the really tricky question Shakespeare poses: at what point is it legitimate to rebel against a bad but divinely sanctioned ruler?’ Admittedly the modern East European context, with Richard finally incarcerated in a prison resembling a concentration camp, made the Medieval question seem remote. However, Lesser’s guilt-ridden, stricken Bolingbroke conveyed the idea that usurpation extracted a terrifying emotional cost. In 5.3, the comedy in the Duchess of York’s appeals for her son’s pardon drew laughter from the theatre audience but Lesser’s King Henry seemed perilously close to withdrawing his favour. In her relief at obtaining the pardon, the Duchess (Marjorie

Figure 10. Northumberland (Paul Jesson), King Richard (Alex Jennings) and Bolingbroke (Anton Lesser) in the deposition scene from Ron Daniels‘s Richard II (1990).




Yates) moved forward to embrace the King, ‘A god on earth thou art!’ (135). Lesser drew back as though stung at this line, indicating his fear that he was not a divinely appointed monarch. In 5.6, throne and crown were absent and the King reeled at Exton’s disclosure of Richard’s murder. Exton (Vincent Regan) prostrated himself at the King’s feet but Bolingbroke dragged him upright, exploding that he would receive ‘neither my good word nor princely favour’ (42). The production ended with a bell tolling and the sight of mourners approaching the coffin with candles. This emphasized the sin of deposition and echoed Richard’s accusations in Act 4 when he reappropriated the throne to make his point, constructing an enduring image for posterity. In Warner’s production, the crown was an important signifier throughout the production. Richard’s divided loyalties between his public and private roles were clear in 1.3 when he removed his crown to kiss Bolingbroke and again when he threw the warder down, unable to bear the spectacle of his cousin’s death. Crowned once more, Richard made his public decision to banish the appellants. Richard removed the crown to draw Bolingbroke close on their parting and replaced it before his exit. In the televised version, there is a shot of the crown and robe, stored in the royal quarters in 1.4 where Richard entertains his favourites, indicating the role he must continually seek to fill. In this version there is a cut to the King and his party barefoot on a pebbled beach, returned from Ireland in 3.2. The Bishop of Carlisle in robes and mitre prepares the sacrament for Richard who kneels before him to take the bread and wine. The set and the sound of the ocean gives special emphasis to Richard’s line, ‘Not all the water in the rough rude sea/Can wash the balm off from an anointed king’ (54–5). Carlisle begins a blessing in Latin when Salisbury enters, bringing the news that the Welsh have defected. As Richard’s assurance begins to falter, Aumerle reminds him, ‘Remember who you are’ (82) and proffers the crown. There is a cut to the crown as Richard sinks down for his meditations on kingship, ‘Of comfort no man speak!’ Shaw’s musings on the ‘the hollow crown’ are moments of true revelation as though the ideas have only just occurred to her. Richard rallies and begins to put on armour but news comes that York has joined with Bolingbroke. Aumerle tries to raise the King’s spirits by holding out the crown once more but Richard refuses to take it. In 3.3, Richard enters on the walls at Flint Castle holding his crown, and after agreeing to descend, ‘Down, down I come, like glist’ring




Phaëton’ (178), he slides his crown down a sheet, a playful gesture but with tragic overtones, suggesting his death and end in a funeral ‘winding sheet’. Entering ‘the base court’ in his tunic, Richard looks down at the crown on the ground and indicates Bolingbroke’s real intentions to reach ‘Thus high at least’ (194) by patting his own uncrowned head. In 4.1, at the Cottesloe, Richard entered with the crown in a basket. He placed the crown on the ground between himself and Bolingbroke, turning the line ‘Here, cousin, seize the crown’ into a game, evoking memories of shared childhood. Both clapped their hands and retrieved it. Children’s games had turned into deadly, adult ones with the crown coming between them. At the same time, Richard’s clowning created platea subversion, diminishing Bolingbroke’s lofty aspirations to the realm of child’s play. Richard still held onto his prize as Bolingbroke urged, ‘Are you contented to resign the crown?’ Richard moved upstage to the throne to make his decoronation speech and then moved purposefully downstage to crown his cousin, proclaiming, ‘God save King Henry’. Richard then fell to the floor and prostrated himself before Bolingbroke. Richard rose, casting the Commons (including playgoers) as the ‘Pilates’ who had delivered the King to his ‘sour cross’. Shaw moved back to Threlfall, and her voice rose at the line, ‘And water cannot wash away your sin’ (242). She put a hand to his back and swung herself round against him, stretching out her arms to ‘crucify’ the King on his back. John Lahr described the production as a ‘contest of love and fear in the body politic’: ‘Bolingbroke folds his cousin in his arms as Richard sobs, “I have no name, no title.” It’s a huge moment, which Shaw and Threlfall play off love, not hate.’83 Calling for a glass at Richard’s request, Bolingbroke removed the crown and stood, holding it as Richard asked leave to go. In the stage production Bolingbroke placed the crown on the throne before announcing his coronation and exiting. As Parliament emptied, sacred music played as the ring of candles overhead were doused one by one. In Act 5, York carried out a symbolic coronation, offering Bolingbroke his robes, chain, gloves, sceptre and finally the crown. The televised version showed the approach of the murderers to a terrified Richard and a struggle with his assailants in slow motion to a voiceover of the King’s musings on ‘Time’ in Pomfret Castle, and his final assessment of ‘this all-hating world’ (5.5.66). The scene cut to Bolingbroke kneeling by Richard’s coffin, crown in hand, pressing his face tenderly to the face of his cousin. The final shot picked out the




crown being lifted away from the coffin as Bolingbroke (unseen) rose and moved away. In Steven Pimlott’s production, Richard wore the coronation crown for his processional entry to the lists at Coventry but for other scenes wore a narrow gold band, a personalized accessory for a modern lifestyle. On his return from Ireland in 3.2 he wore this latter crown as he prostrated himself on the mound of earth that symbolized English soil. Laying personal claim to his kingdom, the audience was reminded of the discrepancy between Richard’s illusory authority and the empty spotlit throne in 1.2 when the Duchess of Gloucester urged Gaunt to act. On hearing news of the deaths of Bushy and Green, Richard moved to the mound to ‘talk of graves’ and removed his gold band to meditate on ‘the hollow crown’. He held out the crown and, at the reference to the pin that ‘Bores through his castle wall’ (170), scooped up a handful of sand, pouring it through the hollow, making a sandglass through which time had run out. In 4.1, York entered, bearing the coronation crown, symbol of ceremonial kingship but Richard usurped its authority by taking a platea position, wrapped in a flag of Saint George, wearing a crown of flowers. Richard appeared as a Lord of Misrule and also drew on the symbolism of Christ’s crown of thorns. He proceeded to pick up all the gages from around the stage, undoing the rules and rhetoric of feudal allegiances symbolized in the act of throwing them down. Richard called for the crown and York handed it to him. Bolingbroke turned upstage to face Richard who clicked his fingers, inviting him to join him in front of the throne: ‘Here, cousin.’ The two men held a side of the crown across the empty throne. When Bolingbroke asked if Richard was content to resign the crown, Richard replied, ‘Ay, no’, turning the moment into an unseemly struggle in which the new king was forced to pull the crown away from him. Richard let go and Bolingbroke held it and stepped forward, facing the audience, ready to assert possession of his realm by putting it on. He looked about to speak when Richard timed his interruption to leave him looking foolish: ‘Now mark me how I will undo myself’ (203). Bolingbroke was left holding out the coronation crown as Richard commenced his own ceremony of decoronation at the mound of earth, consigning his crown of flowers, a red (Lancastrian) rose for a sceptre and his flag for ‘kingly sway’ to the earth. He draped the flag across the mound. Richard knelt at the line ‘With mine own tears I wash away my balm’ in a moment of sorrow. He rose quickly to complete the business in hand, reading out the references to




‘manors, rents, revenues’ (212) and ‘acts, decrees and statutes’ (213) as from a legal document (proffered by Northumberland), which he then signed. Believing Richard’s ‘business’ to be at an end, Bolingbroke moved forward once more, holding out the crown to confirm possession of locus authority. Richard pre-empted Bolingbroke in spectacular platea fashion. He pushed him down onto the throne, snatched the crown from him and, at ‘God save King Henry’ (220), forced it onto Bolingbroke’s head. Richard completed his mock coronation by standing back to clap the discomfited Bolingbroke at ‘And send him many years of sunshine days!’ (221). After such a successful subversion of locus authority, Bolingbroke had no option but to remove the crown to disassociate it from Richard’s parody. Bolingbroke continued to sit on the throne, holding the crown as Northumberland (Christopher Saul) urged Richard to read the accusations made against him. At this point, Richard began to lose status when in his attack against ‘you Pilates’ he kicked out at the flag of Saint George on the mound. He knelt in despair at the recognition that his actions had ‘Made Glory base and Sovereignty a slave’ (251), looking up at Bolingbroke who still held the

Figure 11. ‘Ay, no. No, ay.’ King Richard (Samuel West) and Bolingbroke (David Troughton) in the deposition scene from Steven Pimlott’s Richard II (2000).




crown. The line usually suggests that Richard recognizes his personal betrayal of divine kingship but West’s mock coronation of Bolingbroke had drawn a reflexive stage picture of ceremony. Platea subversion effectively debased ‘Glory’. When Richard called for a mirror, Bolingbroke rose and put his crown on the throne. Richard’s coffin was brought on and placed on its end with the mirror inside. At ‘As brittle as the glory is the face!’ (288), Richard pushed the coffin over, picking up a piece of broken glass and starting to cut his left arm with it. The court looked horrified and indeed the action was surprising because it suggested not only that royal blood was spilt but that Richard’s cool, collected character had developed a capacity for self-harm. An angry and exasperated Bolingbroke gave orders for Richard to be conveyed to the Tower and an armed guard accompanied his exit. In 5.3, the humour in the situation of the Duchess of York’s appeal for clemency was undercut by Bolingbroke’s thuggish reactions to her son’s plotting. He knocked Aumerle to the ground and held a gun at his head. On his entry in this scene, Bolingbroke placed the crown on the throne and exited still holding the crown, conveying possession but not undisputed right to wear it. For the scene at Pomfret Castle, Richard entered, dragging his coffin behind him, like Christ carrying his cross. Pulling the coffin upright, Richard stood in it, spot-lit. The ‘prison where I live’, which had become a refrain in the production now harked back to the ‘Epilogue’, equating the crate as dais for the throne (1.1) with the crate as ‘prison’ and ‘coffin’, a symbolic equation of kingship with death, foreseen by Richard in his meditation in 3.2 on ‘the hollow crown’. Realpolitik put an end to these musings as the murderers entered and Richard fell back, shot, into the coffin. More gunfire and a harsh chime of bells might suggest the pomp of a state funeral as well as celebrations for the coronation. However, Bolingbroke entered uncrowned, a military man in his greatcoat, a thug to be feared but also fearful of his role. As he rounded angrily on Exton for murdering Richard, Exton retaliated, quoting Bolingbroke’s line from 4.1, ‘Where’er I wander, boast of this I can,/Though banished, yet a trueborn Englishman’ (308–9). Bolingbroke joined in the lines, admitting how a spurious use of the rhetoric of ‘nation’ fuelled ambition and underwrote the actions of kings. The promptbook shows alternative endings for the production, each attempting to suggest how these ideas might carry over to Henry IV Part I, the next play in the cycle, ‘This England’. In the production, preserved in the archive video footage




(filmed 29 September 2000) at the Shakespeare Centre Library, the play ended where it began with Richard’s coffin/dais upon which a chair was placed. Bolingbroke put his greatcoat on the ‘throne’ and appeared to exit but returned after locking a door. He sat on the end of the coffin and confided to the audience (as Richard had done): ‘I have been studying how I may compare/This prison where I live unto the world’ but his voice rose with an awful fear of the consequences at the line, ‘Yet I’ll hammer’t out’. In the earlier production I saw on 21 April 2000 the performance ended with a terrifying scream from Bolingbroke, expressing his realization that the true cost of kingship would be his sanity, even his life.

Afterword The Globe Theatre Company’s design team created a throne specially for their production of Richard II at Middle Temple Hall in London. The throne was based on the Archbishop’s throne at York Minster, ‘fashioned in 1550 and one of the earliest examples of an upholstered chair in England’.84 The production transferred to Shakespeare’s Globe on Bankside after the short run (16 April to 4 May 2003), which drew on a number of historical associations, referred to in an open letter from Mark Rylance, the Artistic Director, to Anthony Arlidge QC at Middle Temple Hall: We thought of dedicating it to Elizabeth I, who died in March 1603, and the performances you suggest in April 2003, 400 years later, either side of Shakespeare’s birthday (St George’s Day), will be extremely appropriate given the historical links between the Middle Temple and Elizabeth I – and indeed the relationship of both to Shakespeare’s Richard II. The Outer Temple residence of the Earl of Essex adds a powerful resonance, for as you may know the play was performed for his followers on the eve of his rebellion.85 The production wove historicity into the modern performance event and sanctioned the work of the Globe players as legatees of Shakespeare’s public and private stages. The performance venue at Middle Temple Hall (once the property of the Knights Templar) was private and elitist, at one time providing entertainment for gentlemen’s sons of the Inns of Court. Anthony Arlidge describes how ‘many members of the Inns of Court were also members of Parliament, and from 1580 to the end of Elizabeth’s reign the Hall was frequently




assigned as a meeting place for Committees of the House of Commons’.86 Seen in this light, the venue seemed entirely appropriate for the formal Parliament scene in 4.1 of the play. At the same time, the venue drew on a history of revels and ‘misrule’, enjoyed by increasing numbers of the sixteenth-century student body who attended the Inns as ‘a sort of finishing school’ and had ‘no intention of practising at the bar or even qualifying for it ‘.87 I sampled the advertised ‘cakes and ale’, which turned out to be more refined fayre: venison sausages, exquisite apricot sweets, aromatic dates and mulled wine. I tried to process what I was experiencing with difficulty. Was this ‘living history’, a reconstructed past with no purchase on the present? I was allowed to see the Globe players getting ready in their ‘tiring room’ but was asked not to stop but to pass on into the hall itself with its finely carved screen and canopied throne, curtains closed around it, ready for the performance. The atmosphere was festive, an echo of the revels of days gone by. Drinks might be taken to your seat and the trays of sweets were brought to playgoers sitting or standing talking in groups in the traverse stage area. I was intrigued to see whether a synchronic view of Shakespeare’s culture might afford a reflexive view of ceremony in the period. To the sound of trumpets, associated with the locus of represented kingly authority, a player in Elizabethan costume entered to tell us to switch off all mobile phones. It was a curious ‘false start’ and reoriented me to platea, where in Weimann’s thesis the ‘poor player’ (Macbeth, 5.5.24) might be ‘overwhelmed by the “ borrowed robes” of kingship’, and yet create subversion.88 Of course modern Globe players do not wait for a patron’s cast-offs. Their ‘borrowed robes’ are exquisite hand-made costumes, created by the company’s wardrobe team. For the production of Richard II, some of the team visited the Bayerisches Nationalmuseum in Munich and the Germanisches Nationalmuseum in Nuremberg to study their collections of late sixteenth-century clothes.89 The wardrobe team found materials in Italy ‘that for years they had only dreamed about’, including hand-woven silk taffeta and ‘the world’s finest plain weave silk velvet, provided by the Gaggioli family who had been hand-weaving silk on the same looms for four centuries.90 King Richard (Mark Rylance) entered in platea position (from the tiring room), at the opposite end of the traverse from the curtained throne beneath the gallery. Dressed in green silk, Richard entered fresh from the triumph of the hunt, carrying a felled deer whose legs were bound to a wooden pole. He stayed in platea position in 1.1




while Norfolk (Terry McGinity) assumed locus authority (in front of the throne) to defend himself and his king against the charges made by Bolingbroke (Liam Brennan), costumed in black. In history, Richard’s permanent bodyguard of Cheshire archers wore silver brooches of the livery of the white hart.91 The killing of the hart presaged Richard’s deposition and murder. Locus authority was clearly compromised as Richard paid little heed to the quarrel and stroked the deer’s fur idly, sipping from a cup, relaxed after the hunt. He exited downstage, as the Duchess of Gloucester (William Osborne), an imperious figure in mourning black, assumed locus authority in front of the throne at the start of 1.2, calling for vengeance for her husband’s murder. A drum roll accompanied the entrance of the Lord Marshall (Albie Woodington) at the start of 1.3, and the drapes around the throne were pulled back to reveal the red velvet upholstered throne with gold ornament. As befitting the trial by combat, Richard presided in coronation crown and carried a sword. However, he still wore his green silk, suggesting that he preferred to engage in kingly pleasures rather than attend wholly to matters of state. In 1.1 Richard seemed an affable man, not easily roused, but his kingliness was never in doubt. In 1.3, hats were removed as the King took his seat on the throne. The jousting area was fenced off so that when Bolingbroke urged permission ‘to take a ceremonious leave’ (50), Richard descended, walked up to the barrier and greeted him across it, returning to his throne as the trial began. After banishing the appellants, Richard made them take an oath of allegiance, offering his sword across the divide, keeping kingly divinity at a remove from the ugliness of the quarrel. As he exited, the drapes were once more drawn around the throne, preserving its unearthly power. In 1.4, however, a red velvet cushion on a stool mimicked locus authority as Richard, perched, balancing a plate of pie and a cup, as he chatted with his favourites, revealing plans for war in Ireland and his designs on Gaunt’s ‘coffers’ (61). At the start of 2.1, John of Gaunt (John McEnery) entered upstage, assuming locus authority as he criticized the King. Richard entered with Queen Isabel (Michael Brown) at the opposite end of the traverse (platea). The Queen brought a spray of flowers but Richard drew back from the sick Gaunt, protecting himself from the old man’s bout of coughing by covering his face with a lace handkerchief. Whether viewed as a mask against Elizabethan plague or twenty-first century ‘Sars’, his action brought a ripple of amusement from spectators. It was,




perhaps, a rare concession to the modern world and a break with synchronic Elizabethan time. Richard’s petulance was revealed in this scene when he accused Gaunt of ‘Presuming on an ague’s privilege!’ (116), and struck at him repeatedly with the flowers, breaking them all to pieces. Globe Theatre playing attempts to recreate performers’ ‘original practices’, asking audiences to appreciate the company’s success in executing Elizabethan dramaturgy. Thus platea (subversive space of clowning) is captured for the locus authority of the actors, creating a curious ambiguity. The represented play world of Richard’s court became subservient to the world created by the modern actors through sixteenth-century ‘authentic’ costumes and furniture, through the all-male cast and the historic venue. The production was bounded by past and present ‘Globe’ time, protected from the pressures of modernity. I felt I was asked to experience the story of the play, as the players wanted it told, no more, no less. As a female spectator, I was asked not to mind that a history of women’s performance might be occluded by the tall male actor in a striking red dress and rouged cheeks, taking the role of Queen Isabel. Was this a legitimate attempt to reconstruct the acting of the boy players or was it drag or both? A programme note described the association of the venue with the Knights Templar and the Crusades: ‘All around us, this ancient Temple district resonates to the early contact between our peoples and the people of the Middle East’, a muted version of history, offering a sense of the English hand of friendship, belied by the play itself. As Daniel J. Vitkus points out in his edition of Three Turk Plays (2000), the history of the Crusades carries a negative view of Islam.92 Vitkus notes how in Richard II the Bishop of Carlisle refers to Norfolk’s involvement in the Crusades: ‘“Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross, against black pagans, Turks and Saracens” (4.1.95)’.93 Platea subversion works through the discrepancies between versions of history and requires the touchstone of the present. In Adrian Noble’s Henry V (RSC, 1984) the Chorus was a war correspondent, asking playgoers to mark the discrepancy between the rhetoric of battle and the realities for the foot soldiers ‘of rainy marching in the painful field’ (4.3.112). In Steven Pimlott’s Richard II (2000), the ‘common man’ acted as choric presence, marking the sordid power games of kings and the powerlessness of subjects. Platea subversion in the performance at Middle Temple Hall belonged to Rylance’s inventiveness (like Hamlet’s ‘antic disposition’). Although the Globe Theatre




Company has called its season, ‘The Season of Regime Change 2003’, the production of Richard II seems careful not to step too readily into issues of the present. However, this was a thoughtful production. In 3.2 when Richard urged, ‘For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground’ (155), his companions sat quite naturally (despite editors’ arguments regarding the claims of protocol) because, as King, he had commanded them. Richard removed his crown for his meditation on ‘the hollow crown’ (160). His appeal to a shared humanity, ‘I live with bread like you, feel want,/Taste grief, need friends’ (175–6) was sincere and moving. At ‘Cover your heads’ (171) he reached forward to replace one of the hats but met with resistance. Carlisle (William Osborne) upbraided him: ‘My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes’ (178). Urged by Aumerle (Chu Omambala), Richard replaced his crown, ‘Thou chid’st me well’ (187). He rose and rallied, ‘An easy task it is to win our own’ (191), and moved forward to squeeze the hand of a playgoer, a master touch, appealing to the loyalty of his ‘subjects’. Rylance reinforced a sympathetic portrait of Richard in 3.3 when he appeared high up on the gallery for the appearance on the walls of Flint Castle and made the reference to ‘A little, little grave’ (154) into a personal joke. He leaned forward at the suggestion that his tears together with those of Aumerle’s might ‘make foul weather’ (161), a witty suggestion that they might rain tears on those below. Descending to ‘the base court’ (176), Richard entered crowned and holding his sceptre. He remained composed and kingly in defeat and Bolingbroke’s supporters made way for his exit. Rylance’s moving and witty performance paved the way for a conflicted parliament scene in which Bolingbroke (dressed in black) was unlikely to win hearts even though he might win minds. Richard entered uncrowned in white satin and his reflections on his former loyal subjects, ‘Were they not mine?’ (4.1.169) took a further resonance from the stage business in 3.2. The power struggle was signalled at the start of 4.1 when the curtains were drawn back to reveal the empty throne. Bolingbroke sat on a bench at the side of the traverse with the other lords who wore brilliant red cloaks with detachable capes edged with ermine, which served as the ‘gages’. When York (Bill Stewart) entered from ‘plume-plucked Richard’ (109), urging the Duke to ‘Ascend his throne’ (112), Bolingbroke stood and moved forward but was blocked by Carlisle who urged the case for the divinity of kings.




One of the most inventive parts of Rylance’s performance in this scene was to treat the empty throne as a ‘character’ and to personalize his relationship to the locus. He stood at the side of the throne to make his ceremony of decoronation at line 203: ‘Now mark me how I will undo myself’. Talking to the throne, he inclined his head to listen as though he were receiving instructions at each stage, for instance in giving away ‘my crown’ (208), ‘my sacred state’ (209) and ‘all duteous oaths’ (210). His actions were amusing and ambiguous, suggesting platea subversion (clowning) but reinforcing locus authority (only the true King could converse with the seat of divinity). Pointedly, Richard left the crown and sceptre on the throne, suggesting that they belonged to the divine authority of the locus and not to Bolingbroke. Richard’s witty, personal sense of kingship infused his actions. However, his witty sallies gave way to distress at the realization that he had ‘no name, no title’ (255). He clung to Bolingbroke in desperation at the end of the scene and had to be pulled off him. In 5.2, Bolingbroke entered crowned, and the drapes were pushed back so that he could ascend the throne and assume locus authority. After his exit, the curtains were redrawn but this patterning of earlier scenes did not make the two kings interchangeable. Michael Billington (Guardian, 16 May 2003) observed that the Globe Theatre Company had moved away from the ‘recent tradition’ of exploring the play’s duality in the parallel lives of Richard and Bolingbroke (explored by John Barton in 1973 and Pimlott in 2000): ‘Richard is the star, and Rylance is fascinating to watch. He presents us with a winsome dandy who has no sense of realpolitik.’ After fighting his assailants valiantly, Richard was stabbed in the back by Exton (Justin Shevlin). Bolingbroke appeared shocked by the news of Richard’s murder but Exton laid the blame with the King by deliberately placing his dagger, the murder weapon, on top of the coffin before his exit. The cortege exited downstage with the coffin and Bolingbroke was left in the locus. He rose to follow after the coffin but stopped and looked back at the throne. Rylance’s witty platea performance had made the throne so much his own that Bolingbroke could only be a usurper. He removed his crown as if acknowledging the fact.




6

In a discussion of ‘dramatic performativity’, W. B. Worthen draws on Judith Butler’s study of the relationship between language and enactment.1 The text of the marriage service, ‘I do’, is shown not to be ‘under the sovereign control of the speakers or of their text’ but is spoken ‘within ceremonial and ritualized behaviors that cite and reiterate an entire range of heteronormative social institutions’.2 Worthen argues that if the ‘performativity’ of a text is not under sovereign control then ‘dramatic writing alone cannot exert “sovereign” force on its performance’.3 Worthen seeks to ease performance – and the performance of Shakespeare particularly – out of its iterative relation in print culture (the idea that performance repeats the play that is written down). He argues for ‘a much more interactive, performative relation between writing and the spaces, places, and behaviors that give it meaning, force, as theatrical action’.4 This is a compelling argument and extends the scope of performance criticism considerably, taking the page/stage debate into new exciting areas of study. As I reach the end of my book, I am compelled to revisit my findings in the light of new research and I can see that what interests me is a ‘performative relation’ between enactment and sixteenth-century culture. Worthen’s ‘spaces and places’, which (in his argument) may mean Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre as physical ‘place’ and also as global ‘space’, embraces ‘historicized space’ in my argument.5 In Chapter 1, I argued that the discussion of performance does not have to include Shakespeare but that it is difficult to escape the canonical power of the literary text when discussing Shakespeare and performance. Performance may not derive from a dramatic text but ‘Shakespeare’ is already a performative space, not in the sense of a place (stage, film set) where performance is made, but in the sense that 174



Conclusion: Prop and Word

it is a cultural territory staked out by speakers. Volo˘s inov suggests that ‘a word is a territory shared by both addresser and addressee, by the speaker and his interlocutor’.6 To conclude, I thought I would test my own theoretical perspective by considering two performances that entered the cultural territory, ‘Shakespeare’, but had limited use for the sixteenth-century source text. How might such works pull back to an original history if at all? The first is a ballet of The Taming of the Shrew by Independent Ballet Wales, which toured the UK and Eire. I saw a performance at Stourbridge in the West Midlands. The printed programme gave a plot summary, which interpreted Kate’s silence in the ‘wooing’ scene: ‘Although Katherina is intrigued by the handsome stranger and recognised a kindred spirit she makes life hard.’7 This strategy for ‘coerced’ consent suggested that Petruchio would weave his psychotherapist’s magic to humour her and win her. How would Kate react in the wooing scene? How would she ‘make life hard’? Petruchio performed his intention to marry her by pointing repeatedly to the ring finger of the hand, symbolic site of ritual enactment in the marriage service. Like the example of ‘I do’, here was a text not in sovereign control of the speaker or performer. For me, the moment jarred because of its irreducible simplicity. Marriage means ‘this’, but of course modern partnerships are not automatically sanctioned in this way. The ability to signify ‘marriage ceremony’ through the giving of a ring depends on the pull of history on the modern performance.8 In Shakespeare’s day the hotter sort of reformers objected to the ‘popish’ rites associated with the giving of rings. Today, marriages are not automatically solemnized in Church and are not automatically heterosexual. Rings may be exchanged privately and informally. A ring and the text ‘I do’ belong to history. In the ballet, Kate rejected Petruchio’s assumption that they would wed through her dancing and by throwing cushions. Although the ballet moved towards a romantic conclusion, Kate’s actions in the wooing scene recalled the platea subversion performed by Fiona Shaw and Sam West in the deposition scene of Richard II. Instead of securing locus authority, the props associated with ritual enactment, throne, crown, wedding ring became visible as sites of symbolic struggle, carrying the weight of history – in Shakespeare’s day, a modernizing monarchy moving towards absolutism (throne and crown), and changing marriage practice and the construction of ‘family values’ in the early modern period (wedding ring).9 My interest here was to historicize the ‘performative’ relation of the invisible prop, the ring, in modern



Conclusion: Prop and Word 175

culture to its source ‘performative’ relation, the wooing scene in the sixteenth-century play. For my second example, I will start with a description. The stage mat is covered with balloons. A performer in traditional Japanese costume sits against the wall to the right in a pose of meditation. The audience is small, less than a dozen. From the back of the mat comes an eerie, childlike chuckle that grows until a performer emerges from the balloons. A surprise. Three performers move onto the mat, holding out little sticks with flowers: cherry blossoms. I am experiencing Ophelia, a work of highly physical performance art by Loveace Company (Japan Experience) at The Garage in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Apart from one word, ‘Ophelia’, there is no obvious reference to Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet. The performance infuses elements of Japanese Noh Theatre and Chinese Tai Chi. Performers’ bodies explore the conflict between human potential and creativity (represented through the cherry blossoms) and the deadening, competing demands of modern work and consumer culture. Each performer seems stuck in some mimed repetitive task such as wordprocessing or working on a supermarket checkout, an activity that produces some of the few spoken words: ‘Does anyone want cashback?’ The individuals became increasingly hostile towards each other’s efforts at creativity, and the animating spirit appears to wither with the cherry blossoms. Finally, the creative spirit reawakens and tries to help the others to reassess their situations through the refrain: ‘You are deceiving yourself.’ Through physical pain, mental pain, loss, endurance, there remains a semblance of hope. In what ways might this performance pull back to an originating history? What activated this performance? Was it a text? What was the meaning of this performance? Here is a case where a word can never be in the sovereign control of the speaker but brings a story, Ophelia’s role in Hamlet and a history, her representation in performance and culture. In the work of performance art, the signifier ‘Ophelia’ expressed a sense of fragility, suffering (drowning) and hope. The director, Dovo, was kind enough to answer my questions later. The cherry blossoms were ‘flowers of spring’ associated with rebirth, joy, a positive outlook but also death, sadness, negativity. Ophelia inspired her because ‘even in madness she can see the truth’. Ophelia is ‘not a girl who is taken advantage of by Hamlet and country’.10 I saw the performance as another example of Ophelia’s transgressive role in modernity – in this case associated with a challenge to late capitalism, consumerism and identity – adding to the history of her representation.




A ‘performative relation’ is always inside history. For a more extended study of this particular performance event, it would be relevant to include a discussion of place and space, the physical venue and the geographies of performance relative to the status of ‘Festival’ and ‘Fringe’ in 2002. However, my purpose here was to explore the way in which the performance event pulled back to the history of a source text through a single word. I have been exploring the idea that the cultural object of performance may be authentic in itself and yet still pull back to an original history. I have shown that the discussion is complicated by our recognition that ‘original history’ changes and evolves. Nevertheless, I have persevered in trying to show that a dialogic understanding of Shakespeare’s culture in modern performance can produce some kind of record of cultural interaction in modernity. This is important to my understanding of the radical function of art in society.



Conclusion: Prop and Word 177

1. Introduction: performing Shakespeare’s culture 1. John Fletcher, The Island Princess, edition prepared for the Royal Shakespeare Company (London: Nick Hern Books, 2002), p. xiv. All references to this edition. 2. Imelda Whelehan, ‘Adaptations: the Contemporary Dilemmas’, in Adaptations: From Text to Screen, Screen to Text, ed. Deborah Cartmell and Imelda Whelehan (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), pp. 3–19 (p. 3). 3. Lynda E. Boose and Richard Burt, ‘Totally Clueless? Shakespeare Goes Hollywood in the 1990s’, in Shakespeare, the Movie: Popularizing the Plays on Film, TV, and Video, ed. Lynda E. Boose and Richard Burt (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), pp. 8–22 (p. 11). 4. Fredric Jameson, ‘Postmodernism and Consumer Society’, in Postmodern Culture, ed. Hal Foster (London and Sydney: Pluto, 1985), pp. 111–25 (p. 125). 5. Walter Benjamin, Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt; trans. Harry Zorn (London: Pimlico, 1999), p. 218. 6. Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, ed. Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann; trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor (London: The Athlone Press, 1997), p. 228. 7. William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. G. R. Hibbard, The Oxford Shakespeare (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987). 8. In his extensive work on the subject, Hugh Grady reminds us that the origins of ‘modernity’ have also been ascribed to the late medieval period and the Enlightenment. See Hugh Grady (ed.), Shakespeare and Modernity: Early Modern to Millennium (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), p. 2. 9. John J. Joughin, ‘Shakespeare, Modernity and the Aesthetic: Art, Truth and Judgement in The Winter’s Tale’, in Grady, Shakespeare and Modernity, pp. 61–84 (p. 63). See also Charles Whitney, ‘Ante-aesthetics: Towards a Theory of Early Modern Audience Response’, in Grady, Shakespeare and Modernity, pp. 40–60 (p. 58). 10. See Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature, ed. Randal Johnson (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993, in association with Blackwell Publishers). 11. Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1980), p. 5. 12. Peter J. Smith, Social Shakespeare: Aspects of Renaissance Dramaturgy and Contemporary Society (Basingstoke: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 1995), writes: ‘there is still a reluctance to consider the political efficacy of modern Shakespearean production’ (p. 6). 13. Terry Eagleton, The Ideology of the Aesthetic (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1990), p. 6.

178



Notes

14. Richard Halpern, The Poetics of Primitive Accumulation: English Renaissance Culture and the Genealogy of Capital (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1991), p. 2. 15. See Greenblatt’s chapter, ‘At the Table of the Great: More’s Self-Fashioning and Self-Cancellation’, Renaissance Self-Fashioning. 16. Halpern, Poetics, p. 2. 17. Ronaldo Munck, Marxism at 2000: Late Marxist Perspectives (Basingstoke: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 2000), p. 139. 18. Ibid., p. 151. 19. J. K. Gibson-Graham, The End of Capitalism (as We Knew It): a Feminist Critique of Political Economy (Maiden, MA, and Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), p. 264. 20. Kiernan Ryan, ‘Measure for Measure: Marxism before Marx’, in Marxist Shakespeares, ed. Jean E. Howard and Scott Cutler Shershow (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), pp. 227–44 (p. 228). 21. Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man (London: Penguin, 1992), p. xii. 22. Catherine Belsey, Shakespeare and the Loss of Eden: the Construction of Family Values in Early Modern Culture (Basingstoke: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 1999), p. 6. 23. Terry Eagleton, The Idea of Culture (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2000), p. 83. 24. Eric Hobsbawm, ‘Old Marxist still sorting global fact from fiction’, The Times Higher Education Supplement (12 July 2002), pp. 18–19. 25. Alison Findlay, A Feminist Perspective on Renaissance Drama (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999). 26. Eagleton, Idea of Culture, p. 129. 27. Barbara Hodgdon, The End Crowns All: Closure and Contradiction in Shakespeare’s History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991), p. 3. 28. Barbara Hodgdon, ‘Looking for Mr. Shakespeare after “The Revolution”: Robert Lepage’s Intercultural Dream Machine’, in Shakespeare, Theory, and Performance, ed. James C. Bulman (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 68–91 (p. 69). 29. See Alan C. Dessen, Elizabethan Stage Conventions and Modern Interpreters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 30. Michael Bristol and Kathleen McLuskie, with Christopher Holmes (eds), Shakespeare and Modern Theatre: the Performance of Modernity (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), p. 2. 31. Smith, Social Shakespeare, p. 152. 32. Lisa Jardine, Reading Shakespeare Historically (London and New York: Routledge, 1996); James Shapiro, Shakespeare and the Jews (New York: Colombia University Press, 1996); and Belsey, Shakespeare and the Loss of Eden. 33. Bulman, Shakespeare, Theory, and Performance, p. 4. 34. W. B. Worthen, ‘ Shakespearean Performativity’, in Bristol, McLuskie and Holmes, Shakespeare and Modern Theatre, pp. 117–41 (p. 129). See also his excellent study, Shakespeare and the Authority of Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).



Notes, pp. 5–9 179

35. V. N. Volos˘inov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, trans. Ladislav Matejka and I. R. Titunik (New York and London: Seminar Press, 1973), p. 95. 36. The writings of Volos˘inov, Bakhtin and Pavel Medvedev are sometimes treated under separate authorship. See Pamela Morris (ed.), The Bakhtin Reader: Selected Writings of Bakhtin, Medvedev and Voloshinov (London and New York: Edward Arnold, 1994). Sometimes the work of the three authors is attributed to ‘Bakhtinian thought’. See Michael Holquist, Dialogism: Bakhtin and His World (London and New York: Routledge, 1990). 37. Michael D. Bristol, Big-Time Shakespeare (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), esp. pp. 203–34. 38. R. W. Vince, ‘Theatre History as an Academic Discipline’, in Interpreting the Theatrical Past: Essays in the Historiography of Performance, ed. Thomas Postlewait and Bruce A. McConachie (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1989), pp. 1–18. 39. Vince, ‘Theatre History’, p. 15. 40. Ibid., p. 15. 41. Hodgdon, ‘Katherina Bound; or, Play (K)ating the Strictures of Everyday Life’, PMLA, 107:3 (May 1992), pp. 538–53. 42. Kiernan Ryan, Shakespeare, 2nd edn (London and New York: Prentice Hall/Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1995), p. 25. 43. Bristol, Big-Time Shakespeare, pp. 15 and 24. 44. From Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, in Morris, Bakhtin Reader, p. 59. 45. Worthen, Shakespeare and Modern Theatre, p. 133. 46. Alan C. Dessen, Rescripting Shakespeare: the Text, the Director, and Modern Productions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 47. Suzanne Gossett, ‘Political Pericles’, Seventh World Shakespeare Congress (Valencia, 18–23 April 2001). 48. H. R. Coursen, Shakespeare: the Two Traditions (Madison Teaneck: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press; and London: Associated University Presses, 1999), p. 32. 49. Jean-Michel Déprats, ‘Translation at the Intersections of History’, in Bristol, McLuskie and Holmes, Shakespeare and Modern Theatre, pp. 75–92 (p. 76). 50. In Morris, Bakhtin Reader, p. 58. 51. Bernard Lewis, Cultures in Conflict: Christians, Muslims and Jews in the Age of Discovery (Oxford: Oxford University, 1995), p. 30. 52. Frances Teague, Shakespeare’s Speaking Properties (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press; London and Toronto: Associated Universities Press, 1991), pp. 15–34. 53. Paul Alpers, What Is Pastoral? (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1996). 54. Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Hibbard: see editor’s note on p. 305. 55. See Robert Weimann, ‘Representation and Performance: the Uses of Authority in Shakespeare’s Theatre’, in Materialist Shakespeare: a History, ed. Ivo Kamps (London and New York: Verso, 1995), pp. 198–217.

2. Producing consent in The Taming of the Shrew 1.

William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew, ed. H. J. Oliver, The Oxford Shakespeare (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982).



180 Notes, pp. 10–19

2.

3.

4.

5. 6. 7. 8.

9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23.

Ann Jennalie Cook, Making a Match: Courtship in Shakespeare and His Society (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991): ‘Kate must agree to the betrothal for it to be valid, and her uncharacteristic silence – however obtained – marks her consent during the crucial moments of espousal’ (p. 170). Susan Bassnett, Shakespeare: the Elizabethan Plays (Basingstoke: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 1993), refers on pp. 78–9 to Louis B. Wright’s discussion of Protestant orthodoxies on domestic harmony. See Wright, Middle Class Culture in Elizabethan England (London: Methuen, 1958). David Cressy, Birth, Marriage, and Death: Ritual, Religion, and the Life-Cycle in Tudor and Stuart England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 476. Ibid., p. 344. H. Edward Symonds, The Council of Trent and Anglican Formularies (London: Oxford University Press, 1933), p. 145. See Cressy, Birth, p. 338. Revd H. J. Schroeder, Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent: Original Text with English Translation (St. Louis and London: B. Herder Book Company, 1941), p. 183. Ibid., p. 183. Art Cosgrave, ‘Consent, Consummation and Indissolubility: Some Evidence from Medieval Ecclesiastical Courts’, Downside Review, 109 (1991), pp. 94–104 (p. 94). Ibid., pp. 94–5. Ibid., p. 94. Peter Meredith (ed.), The Mary Play: From the N. Town Manuscript (London and New York: Longman, 1987), p. 60. Martin Ingram, ‘Spousals Litigation in the English Ecclesiastical Courts c.1350–c.1640’, in Marriage and Society: Studies in the Social History of Marriage, ed. R. B. Outhwaite (London: Europa Publications, 1981), pp. 35–57 (p. 46). As well as ‘spousals’, the pre-contract is also referred to as ‘espousing, affiancing, betrothing, or handfasting, “sponsion” or “sponsalia” or simply “Making themselves sure”’ (see Cook, Making a Match, p. 154). Cressy, Birth, p. 316. Ibid., p. 322. Graham Holderness and Bryan Loughrey (eds), A Pleasant Conceited Historie, Called The Taming of A Shrew (Hemel Hampstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1992), p. 53. Ingram, ‘Spousals Litigation’, p. 46. Ibid., p. 46. M. Konrath (ed.), The Poems of William of Shoreham, AB.1320 Vicar of Chart-Sutton (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1902), p. 58. Sue Niebrzydowski pointed this out to me. George Wilkins, The Miseries of Enforced Marriage, The Malone Society Reprints (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963). Jen McGowan directed me to this text. Cosgrave, ‘Consent’, p. 101. Ibid., p. 102.



Notes, pp. 19–24 181

24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38.

39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

Paul Salzman (ed.), An Anthology of Elizabethan Prose Fiction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 149–50. Stanley Wells, Gary Taylor, John Jowett and William Montgomery (eds), William Shakespeare: The Complete Works (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988). Unless stated, references to Shakespeare are from this edition. Henry Smith, A Preparative to Marriage: The Summe Whereof was Spoken at a Contract and Inlarged After (1591; STC 1693:5), p. 37. Ibid., p. 40. Cressy, Birth, p. 320. Ralph A. Houlbrooke, The English Family 1450–1700 (London and New York: Longman, 1984), p. 86. Ingram, ‘Spousals Litigation’, p. 56. Houlbrooke, English Family, p. 86. John Strype, The Life and Acts of John Whitgift, Vol. III (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1822), p. 380. Cressy, Birth, pp. 298 and 310. Roderick Phillips, Untying the Knot: a Short History of Divorce (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 19–20. Houlbrooke, English Family, p. 119. Lawrence Stone, The Family, Sex and Marriage in England, 1500–1800 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1977), p. 137. The source of the sub-plot is George Gascoigne’s Supposes (1566), translated from Ariosto’s Il Suppositi. Perhaps Kate carries out the theme of ‘supposing’ or mistaking one thing for another in her final speech. William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew, ed. Ann Thompson, New Cambridge Shakespeare (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 22. David Garrick, Catharine and Petruchio (London: 1756), a facsimile (London: Cornmarket Press, 1969), p. 14. Tori Haring-Smith, From Farce to Metadrama: a Stage History of The Taming of the Shrew, 1594–1983 (Westport, CT : Greenwood Press, 1985), p. 73. Ibid., p. 73. In RSC performances directed by Michael Bogdanov (1978), Gale Edwards (1995) and Lindsay Posner (1999). Scott Eyman, Mary Pickford (London: Robson, 1990), p. 192. R. Windeler, Sweetheart: the Story of Mary Pickford (London and New York: W. H. Allen, 1973), p. 161. Hodgdon, ‘Katherina Bound’, p. 543. Ibid., p. 543. Manchester Guardian (4 May 1929). Liverpool Daily Courier (19 July 1929). Daily Mirror (10 September 1929). Daily Herald (24 October 1929). Mary Pickford, Sunshine and Shadow, foreword by Cecil B. de Mille (London, Melbourne and Toronto: William Heinemann, 1956), p. 311. See Haring-Smith, From Farce to Metadrama, p. 62. Ibid., p. 62. Birmingham Despatch (11 June 1929); Stratford-upon-Avon Herald (10 May 1929).



182 Notes, pp. 24–32

55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63. 64. 65.

66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77.

78. 79. 80. 81.

82. 83. 84.

Eyman, Mary Pickford, pp. 192–3. Ibid., p. 193. Eileen Whitfield, Pickford: the Woman Who Made Hollywood (Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky, 1997), p. 267. Pickford, Sunshine, p. 311. Eyman, Mary Pickford, pp. 194 and 197. Stratford-upon-Avon Herald (13 July 1928). Daily News (15 November 1929). Kevin Brownlow, Mary Pickford Rediscovered: Rare Pictures of a Hollywood Legend (New York: Harry N. Abrams in Association with The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, 1999), p. 222. Daily Mail (13 August 1929). Star (24 December 1928). Maria Jones, ‘“His” or “Hers”?: the Whips in Sam Taylor’s The Taming of the Shrew’, Shakespeare Bulletin, 18:3 (Summer 2000), pp. 36–7. See Vsevolod Pudovkin’s explication of leitmotif as a category of relational editing in, ‘From Film Technique: On Editing’ (Film Technique and Film Acting (London: Vision Press, 1929)), in Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings, ed. Gerald Mast and Marshall Cohen (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), pp. 83–9 (p. 89). Teague, Shakespeare’s Speaking Properties, p. 85. Garrick, Catharine and Petruchio, p. 17. Observer (17 November 1929). Eyman, Mary Pickford, pp. 195–6. Stratford-upon-Avon Herald (23 August 1929). Brownlow, Mary Pickford, p. 235. Franco Zeffirelli, Zeffirelli: the Autobiography of Franco Zeffirelli (London: George Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1986), p. 216. Graham Holderness, Shakespeare in Performance: The Taming of the Shrew (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1989), p. 69. Hodgdon, End Crowns All, p. 545. Ibid., p. 545. The RSC promptbook (1978) (Shakespeare Centre Library). Michael Foucault writes in ‘The Birth of the Asylum’ from Madness and Civilization of the case of a girl of 17 who is subjected to ‘a regime of strict authority’ and ‘tamed’ after showing disorderly behaviour and bitterness towards her parents. See The Foucault Reader, ed. Paul Rabinov (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1984), p. 161. RSC promptbook (1978). Ibid. Ibid. Carol Rutter, Clamorous Voices: Shakespeare’s Women Today: Carol Rutter with Sinead Cusack, Paola Dionisotti, Fiona Shaw, Juliet Stevenson and Harriet Walter, ed. by Faith Evans (London: The Women’s Press, 1988), p. 23. Leah Marcus, ‘The Shakespearean Editor as Shrew-Tamer’, ELR, 22:2 (Spring 1992), pp. 177–200 (p. 178). I saw productions at The Swan, Stratford-upon-Avon, on 18 December 1999, and at Wrekin College Sport Hall, Telford, on 22 February 2000. Time Out (3 November 1999).



Notes, pp. 32–45 183

85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

97.

98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103.

104. 105. 106.

Daily Telegraph (29 October 1999). See Sheridan Morley, Spectator (6 November 1999). The Times (29 October 1999). RSC promptbook, The Taming of the Shrew (1999–2000). Ruth Nevo, Comic Transformations in Shakespeare (London and New York: Methuen, 1980), p. 47. Chris Dunkley, Financial Times (24 October 1980). Robert Hewison, Sunday Times (5 April 1992). Irving Wardle, Independent on Sunday (5 April 1992). Dunkley, Financial Times (24 October 1980). Tim Hallinan, ‘Interview: Jonathan Miller on Shakespeare’s Plays’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 32:2 (1981), pp. 134–45 (p. 140). John Wilders, The BBC TV Shakespeare: The Taming of the Shrew (London: BBC, 1980), p. 11. Susan Willis, The BBC Shakespeare Plays: Making the Televised Canon (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1991), p. 109. E. H. Gombrich, The Story of Art (Oxford: Phaidon, 1950; 1984), p. 180. Interestingly, Miller included the Arnolfini portrait in ‘The 1998 Esso Exhibition at the National Gallery’ entitled ‘Mirror Image: Jonathan Miller on Reflection’ (16 September–13 December 1998) where the exhibition plaque beside the painting read: ‘It has been suggested that it represents a marriage ceremony’. Stanley Wells, ‘Commentary: Television Shakespeare’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 33:3 (1982), pp. 261–77 (p. 276). RSC promptbook (1992). Robert Weimann, ‘Representation and Performance: the Uses of Authority in Shakespeare’s Theater’, PMLA, 107 (May 1992), pp. 497–510. RSC Promptbook (1992). Garry O’Connor, Plays and Players (May 1992), p. 47. Robert Smallwood, ‘Shakespeare Performed: Shakespeare at Stratfordupon-Avon, 1992’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 44:1–4 (1993), pp. 343–62 (p. 346). Ruth Garnault, Wales Actors’ Company programme: The Taming of the Shrew (2002). I am grateful to Paul Garnault’s replies to my questions. Words and music by Harry M. Woods, James Campbell and Reginald Connelly. Originally recorded by Ruth Etting in 1933.

3. Defining the alien in The Merchant of Venice 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

‘Destination Timbuktu’, Sahara with Michael Palin, directed by John Paul Davidson (BBC1, 20 October 2002). William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, ed. Jay L. Halio, The Oxford Shakespeare (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). Ibid., p. 127. Halio notes ‘the Prince of] Capell; not in Q, F’. Lewis, Cultures in Conflict, p. 30. Ibid., p. 31.



184 Notes, pp. 45–57

6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32.

33.

Allan Harris Cutler and Helen Elmquist Cutler, The Jew as Ally of the Muslim: Medieval Roots of Anti-Semitism (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame, 1986), p. 82. Lewis, Cultures in Conflict, p. 33. Published by Continuum Books. Lewis, Cultures in Conflict, p. 37. Brian Pullan, The Jews of Europe and the Inquisition of Venice 1550–1670 (London and New York: I. B. Tauris Publishers, 1997), p. 4. Lewis, Cultures in Conflict, p. 38. Pullan, Jews of Europe, p. 203. Ibid., p. 19. Cutler and Cutler, Jew as Ally, p. 116, cite Joshua Trachtenberg, The Devil and the Jews: the Medieval Conception of the Jew and Its Relation to Modern Anti-Semitism, 2nd edn (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1983), p. 185. All references are to H. S. D. Mithal (ed.), An Edition of Robert Wilson’s Three Ladies of London and Three Lords and Three Ladies of London, in The Renaissance Imagination Volume 6, ed. Stephen Orgel (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1988). Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta, ed. N. W. Bawcutt, The Revels Plays (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1978). Margaret Hotine, ‘The Politics of Anti-Semitism: The Jew of Malta and The Merchant of Venice’, Notes and Queries, 38 (March 1991), pp. 35–8 (p. 37). Ibid., p. 37. Ibid., p. 3. Richard H. Popkin, ‘A Jewish Merchant of Venice’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 40 (Fall 1989), pp. 329–31 (p. 330). Ibid., p. 330. Lisa Jardine, Worldly Goods: a New History of the Renaissance (London and Basingstoke: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 1996), p. 374. Ibid., p. 374. J. H. Baker, An Introduction to English Legal History, 3rd edn (London, Boston et al.: Butterworths, 1990), p. 530. Ibid., pp. 530–1. Shakespeare, Merchant, ed. Halio, p. 189. Walter Cohen, ‘The Merchant of Venice and the Possibilities of Historical Criticism’, ELH, 49 (1982), pp. 765–89 (p. 770). Ibid., p. 769. Ibid., pp. 768–9. Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning, p. 203. Baker, Introduction to English Legal History, p. 531. He adds: ‘The principal remaining disability was the incapacity of an alien to own real property. If land were conveyed to an alien, the king could seize it, while in a real action a plea of alienage would abate the writ’ (p. 531). Shapiro, Shakespeare and the Jews, pp. 181–2. Shapiro writes that in 1559 a rumour circulated ‘“that there were now forty thousand strangers in London”, probably ten times their actual number’ (p. 182). Ibid., p. 189.



Notes, pp. 58–63 185

34.

35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

Ania Loomba, ‘Shakespeare and Cultural Difference’, in Alternative Shakespeares: Volume 2, ed. Terence Hawkes (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 164–91 (p. 181). Ibid., p. 181. Helen Hackett, Virgin Mother, Maiden Queen: Elizabeth I and the Cult of the Virgin Mary (Basingstoke: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 1995), p. 100. Jack D’Amico, The Moor in English Renaissance Drama (Tampa, FL: University of South Florida, 1991), p. 165. Loomba, ‘Shakespeare and Cultural Difference’, p. 178. John Rudkin, Commedia dell’arte: an Actor’s Handbook (London and New York: Routledge, 1994), p. 119. Ibid., p. 119. Shakespeare, Merchant, ed. Halio, p. 152. Shakespeare Memorial Theatre programme: The Merchant of Venice (1960). C. B. Purdom, Everyman, 4 August 1932. Pauline Kiernan, ‘Fictional Worlds’, Globe: the Magazine of the International Shakespeare Globe Centre, 8 (Winter 1998), pp. 2–5 (p. 5). Ibid., p. 5. Nicolas Robins, ‘On Fighting the Audience’, Globe, 8 (1998), pp. 22–3 (p. 23). Edward Braun, The Director and the Stage: From Naturalism to Grotowski (London: Methuen, 1982), p. 112. Theodore Komisarjevsky, The Costume of the Theatre (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1931), pp. 113 and 162. Ibid., p. 162. Ibid., p. 165. Rudkin, Commedia dell’arte, pp. 94–5. Ibid., pp. 122–3. Week-end Review (30 July 1932). Birmingham Mail (7 July 1932). Christian World (4 August 1932). Birmingham Mail (7 July 1932). Christian World (4 August 1932). Robert L. Erenstein, ‘Satire and the commedia dell’arte’, in Western Popular Theatre: the Proceedings of a Symposium Sponsored by the Manchester University Department of Drama, ed. David Mayer and Kenneth Richards (London and New York: Methuen, 1977), pp. 29–47 (p. 30). Ibid., p. 36. Ibid., p. 46. Robert C. Toll, On with the Show: the First Century of Show Business in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976), pp. 81 and 86. Ibid., p. 84. Ibid., p. 84. Ibid., pp. 84–6. Virginia P. Scott, ‘The Jeu and the Role: Analysis of the Appeals of the Italian Comedy in France in the Time of Arlequin-Dominique’ in Mayer and Richards, Western Popular Theatre, pp. 1–27 (pp. 8–9).



186 Notes, pp. 64–72

66. 67. 68.

69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75.

76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91.

Toll, On with the Show, p. 87. Clive Davis, ‘Not as Black and White as We Think’, Sunday Times (29 October 1995). Toll, On with the Show, p. 121. He writes: ‘Neither Bob Cole nor William Marion Cook, both classically trained musicians could freely express their talents. To earn livings they had to write caricatured sketches and “coon songs” that perpetuated negative images of Negroes.’ See also John Blair, ‘Blackface Minstrels in Cross-Cultural Perspective’, American Studies International, XXVIII:2 (October 1990), pp. 52–65, and James H. Dormon, ‘Shaping the Popular Image of Post-Reconstruction American Blacks: the “Coon Song” Phenomenon of the Gilded Age’, American Quarterly, 40 (December 1988), pp. 450–71. Davis, ‘Not as Black and White as We Think’. Alex Gordon, ‘J for Jewish: From The Jazz Singer to Shoah: Louis B. Mayer to Mel Brooks’, Sight and Sound, 3 (March 1997), pp. 28–30. Star (13 April 1960); The Times (13 April 1960). David Addenbrooke, The Royal Shakespeare Company: the Peter Hall Years, with a foreword by Peter Hall and afterword by Trevor Nunn (London: William Kimber, 1974), pp. 57–8. Shakespeare Memorial Theatre Programme, The Merchant of Venice (1960). Ibid. The Times (13 April 1960). Antoine Watteau (1684–1721) painted ‘visions of a life divorced from all hardship and triviality, a dream-life of gay picnics in fairy parks where it never rains, of musical parties where all ladies are beautiful and all lovers graceful’. See Gombrich, Story of Art, p. 358. John Russell Brown, ‘Three Directors: a Review of Recent Productions’, Shakespeare Survey, 14 (1961), pp. 129–37 (p. 136). Western Daily Press (14 April 1960); Brown, ‘Three Directors’, p. 137. Spectator (22 April 1960). Tribune (22 April 1960). Sunday Times (17 April 1960). Western Daily Press (14 April 1960). Financial Times (13 April 1960). Stage (15 April 1960). Brown, ‘Three Directors’, p. 136. See Homi K. Bhaba, ‘The Other Question: Difference, Discrimination and the Discourse of Colonialism’, in Literature, Politics and Theory: Papers from the Essex Conference 1976–84, eds Francis Barker et al. (London and New York: Methuen, 1986), pp. 148–72 (p. 151). Ibid., p. 152. Ania Loomba and Martin Orkin (eds), Post-Colonial Shakespeares (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), p. 11. Ibid., pp. 11–12. Terry Grimley, Birmingham Post (7 April 1984). The Times (9 April 1984). Ian McDiarmid, ‘Shylock in The Merchant of Venice’, Players of Shakespeare 2: Further Essays in Shakespearean Performance by Players with



Notes, pp. 72–8 187

92. 93.

94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100.

101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110.

111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125.

The Royal Shakespeare Company, ed. Russell Jackson and Robert Smallwood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 45–54 (p. 49). Ibid., p. 48. Howard Jacobson takes a satirical view of his ‘displaced’ urban Jewish English teacher Sefton Goldberg in his novel Coming from Behind (London: Chatto and Windus/The Hogarth Press, 1984). Independent (14 May 1988). RSC Theatre Programme: The Merchant of Venice (1984). Jardine, Worldly Goods, pp. 6–9. Pullan, Jews of Europe, p. 147. McDiarmid, ‘Shylock’, p. 48. Ibid., p. 51. Nicholas Shrimpton, ‘Shakespeare Performances in Stratford-uponAvon and London, 1983–4’, Shakespeare Survey, 38 (1985), pp. 201–13 (p. 209). McDiarmid, ‘Shylock’, p. 50. Financial Times (11 April 1984). Irving Wardle, The Times (11 April 1984). City Limits (16–23 April 1987). Sunday Mercury (3 May 1987). Bristol Evening Post (30 April 1987). Sunderland Echo (24 February 1988). Guardian (16 April 1987). Stanley Wells, ‘Shakespeare Performances in London and Stratford-uponAvon, 1986–7’, Shakespeare Survey, 41 (1989), pp. 158–81 (p. 162). Gregory Doran, ‘Solanio in The Merchant of Venice’, in Players of Shakespeare 3: Further Essays in Shakespearian Performance by Players with the Royal Shakespeare Company, ed. Russell Jackson and Robert Smallwood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 68–76 (pp. 72–3). Ibid., p. 73. Guardian (1 May 1987). Daily Telegraph (1 May 1987). Anita Deshmukh, Birmingham Post (27 April 1987). The Times (28 April 1987). Pullan, Jews of Europe, p. 169. Bulman, Shakespeare in Performance, pp. 118–19. Ibid., p. 119. Guardian (1 May 1987). Deborah Findlay, ‘Portia in The Merchant of Venice’, in Jackson and Smallwood, Players of Shakespeare 3, pp. 52–67 (pp. 58–9). Ibid., p. 63. Ibid., p. 63. Ibid., p. 66. City Limits (16–23 April 1987). Leo Salingar, ‘The Idea of Venice in Shakespeare and Jonson’, in Shakespeare’s Italy: Functions of Italian Locations in Renaissance Drama, ed.



188 Notes, pp. 78–86

126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137.

138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152. 153. 154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159. 160. 161.

Michele Marrapodi, A. J. Hoenselaars et al. (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1993), pp. 171–84 (p. 173). Ibid., p. 176. Cohen, p. 774. Ibid., pp. 776–7. Ibid., p. 777. Peter Ansorge, ‘Director in Interview’, Plays and Players (March 1970), pp. 52–3 and 59 (p. 53). Ibid., p. 53. Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 3rd edn (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1967). John Gross, Shylock: Four Hundred Years in the Life of a Legend (1992; London: Vintage, 1994), p. 303. Ansorge, ‘Director in Interview’, p. 53. Donald Spoto, Laurence Olivier: a Biography (London: Harper Collins, 1991), p. 302. National Theatre promptbook: The Merchant of Venice (1970). James C. Bulman, Shakespeare in Performance: The Merchant of Venice (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1991), p. 84. Anthony Bloomfield and Philip French (producers), The Arts This Week (BBC radio transcript; PLN17/TK1104; transmission 30 April 1970). The British Film Institute. Herbert Kretzmer, Daily Express (29 April 1970). Royal Shakespeare Company Production Pack, The Merchant of Venice (RSC Education, 1993), p. 5. What’s On (9 June 1993). Peter Holland, ‘Shakespeare Performances in England, 1992–1993’, Shakespeare Survey, 47 (1994), pp. 181–207 (p. 197). RSC Production Pack, Merchant, p. 11. Ibid., p. 11. Royal Shakespeare Theatre promptbook: The Merchant of Venice, 1993. Holland, ‘Shakespeare Performances’, p. 196. Alan C. Dessen, ‘The Image and the Script: Shakespeare on Stage in 1993’, Shakespeare Bulletin, 12:1 (Winter 1994), pp. 5–8 (p. 6). Ibid., p. 6. Claire Armitstead, ‘The Trial of Shylock’, Guardian (13 April 1994). RSC Production Pack, Merchant, p. 5. Stratford-upon-Avon Herald (11 June 1993). RSC Production Pack, Merchant, p. 13. The Times (1 June 1993). Guardian (5 June 1993). Guardian (11 April 1994). RSC Production Pack, Merchant, p. 5. Salingar, ‘Idea of Venice’, p. 176. Ibid., p. 176. ‘Ghetto Fabulous’, RSC Magazine (Winter 2001), pp. 22–3 (p. 22). Ibid., p. 22. Ibid., p. 22. Alfred Hickling, ‘Sit Down and Shut Up’, Guardian (12 June 2002).



Notes, pp. 86–100 189

190 Notes, pp. 103–8

1. The photograph by Graham Turner appeared in the ‘The Editor’, Guardian (4 May 2002), p. 5. 2. Ibid., p. 5. 3. Louis Adrian Montrose, ‘“Eliza, Queene of Shepheardes”, and the Pastoral of Power’, in The New Historicism Reader, ed. H. Aram Veeser (New York and London: Routledge, 1994), pp. 88–115 (pp. 90 and 98). 4. Hackett, Virgin Mother, p. 55. 5. Susan Doran, Monarchy and Matrimony: the Courtships of Elizabeth I (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), p. 9. 6. Montrose, ‘Eliza’, pp. 102–4. 7. Ibid., p. 99. 8. Doran, Monarchy, p. 9. 9. See David Starkey, Elizabeth (London: Chatto & Windus, 2000); Hackett, Virgin Mother; Doran, Monarchy; and Carole Levin, The Heart and Stomach of a King: Elizabeth I and the Politics of Sex and Power (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1994). 10. Marina Warner, Alone of All Her Sex: the Myth and the Cult of the Virgin Mary (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1976), p. 67. 11. Levin, Heart, p. 83. 12. Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: a Study in Mediaeval Political Theology (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957), p. 7. 13. Ibid., p. 7. 14. Marie Axton, The Queen’s Two Bodies: Drama and the Elizabethan Succession (London: Royal Historical Society, 1977), pp. 18–19. 15. Ibid., pp. 17–18 and 29. 16. The reference to England’s Helicon is in Montrose, ‘Eliza’, p. 94. 17. Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (London: Chatto & Windus, 1973), pp. 120–1, quoted in Stephen Daniels, ‘Marxism, Culture and the Duplicity of Landscape’, in Human Geography: an Essential Anthology, ed. David N. Livingstone and Alisdair Rogers (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1996), pp. 329–40 (p. 330). 18. Daniels, ‘Marxism’, p. 329. 19. Alpers, What Is Pastoral?, p. 182. 20. Ibid., p. 22. 21. Ibid., p. 23. 22. Ibid., p. 24. 23. Ibid., p. 81. 24. William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale, ed. Stephen Orgel, The Oxford Shakespeare (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). On primroses, see the editor’s note on p. 175. 25. Carroll Camden, ‘On Ophelia’s Madness’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 15 (1964), pp. 249–55. See also Kaara L. Peterson, ‘Fluid Economies: Portraying Shakespeare’s Hysterics’, Mosaic: a Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature, 34:1 (March 2001), pp. 35–59. 26. Ibid., p. 39. 27. Ibid., p. 45.



4. Ophelia’s flowers

28. Sir Philip Sidney, ‘The Lady of May’, in Renaissance Drama: an Anthology of Plays and Entertainments, ed. Arthur F. Kinney (Malden, MA, and Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999), pp. 35–44 (p. 37). 29. See Lisa Jardine’s discussion, Reading Shakespeare Historically, pp. 112–13. 30. William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Harold Jenkins, The Arden Shakespeare (London and New York: Routledge, 1982), p. 475. 31. Ibid., p. 276. 32. Phil Macnaghten and John Urry, Contested Natures (London: Sage Publications, 1998), p. 9. 33. Ibid, p. 9. The reference is to Clarence J. Glacken, Traces on the Rhodian Shore: Nature and Culture in Western Thought from Ancient Times to the End of the Eighteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), pp. 176–253. 34. Eamon Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England 1400–1580 (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1992), p. 218. 35. Ibid., p. 218. 36. See editor’s note in Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Hibbard, p. 305. Of course, for my argument I have chosen three films where Ophelia does give out ‘flowers’ or substitutes objects but some might argue against such ‘rescripting’ despite its history in popular culture. In Kenneth Branagh’s film, Hamlet (1996), Kate Winslet’s Ophelia does not give out flowers or any object. The screenplay direction reads: ‘She pretends to pass out flowers.’ See Kenneth Branagh, Hamlet by William Shakespeare: Screenplay, Introduction and Film Diary (London: Chatto and Windus, 1996), p. 131. 37. Sidney, ‘Lady of May’, p. 39. 38. Alpers, What Is Pastoral?, p. 83. 39. Ibid., pp. 84 and 92. 40. Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Hibbard, p. 306. 41. Kenneth Branagh, Much Ado about Nothing by William Shakespeare: Screenplay, Introduction, and Notes on the Making of the Film (London: Chatto & Windus, 1993), p. 5. 42. Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Jenkins, p. 536. 43. Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale, ed. Stephen Orgel, The Oxford Shakespeare (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 43. 44. Ibid., pp. 44–5. 45. Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Hibbard, p. 306. 46. Ibid., p. 51. 47. Ibid., p. 52. 48. Duffy, Stripping of the Altars, p. 328. 49. Edmund Spenser, Spenser: Poetical Works, ed. J. C. Smith and E. De Selincourt (London and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970). 50. William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Philip Edwards, The New Cambridge Shakespeare (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. 201. 51. Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Jenkins, pp. 540–1. 52. Cressy, Birth, Marriage and Death, pp. 363–4. 53. For a fine discussion of Ophelia’s body in performance, see Carol Chillington Rutter, Enter the Body: Women and Representation on Shakespeare’s Stage (London and New York: Routledge, 2001).



Notes, pp. 108–15 191

54. Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, ed. Thomas P. Roche, Jr., with C. Patrick O’Donnell, Jr. (London: Penguin Books, 1978), p. 983. 55. David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson, Film Art: an Introduction, 5th edn (New York and St Louis: McGraw-Hill, 1997), p. 221. 56. Anthony Davies, Filming Shakespeare’s Plays: the Adaptations of Laurence Olivier, Orson Welles, Peter Brook and Akira Kurosawa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 49. 57. Harry Keyishian, ‘Shakespeare and Movie Genre’, in The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare on Film, ed. Russell Jackson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 72–81 (p. 75). 58. Kenneth S. Rothwell, A History of Shakespeare on Screen: a Century of Film and Television (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 184. 59. Gombrich, Story of Art, p. 449. 60. Neil Taylor, ‘The Films of “Hamlet”’, Shakespeare and the Moving Image, ed. Anthony Davies and Stanley Wells (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 180–95 (p. 184). 61. Eleanor Rowe, Hamlet: a Window on Russia (New York: New York University Press, 1976), p. 150. 62. Taylor, ‘Films of “Hamlet”’, p. 193. 63. See Yvonne Tasker, Spectacular Bodies (London and New York: Routledge), 1993), p. 15. 64. Michael Church, ‘Franco Goes to Elsinore’, Independent on Sunday (14 April 1991). 65. William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, adapted by Michael Almereyda (London: Faber and Faber, 2000), p. xii. 66. Ibid., p. 135. 67. Patrick Phillips, ‘Genre, Star and/Auteur – Critical Approaches to Hollywood Cinema’, in An Introduction to Film Studies, ed. Jill Nelmes, 2nd edn (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 161–208 (p. 176). 68. See Dennis Harvey, Variety (31 January–6 February 2000). 69. William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, p. 36. 70. Bernice W. Kliman, ‘A Palimpsest for Olivier’s Hamlet’, Comparative Drama, 17 (1983), pp. 243–53 (p. 246). 71. Ibid., p. 246. 72. See Elaine Showalter, ‘Representing Ophelia: Women, Madness and the Responsibilities of Feminist Criticism’, Shakespeare and the Question of Theory, ed. Patricia Parker and Geoffrey Hartman (New York and London: Routledge, 1985), pp. 77–94, and Rutter, Enter the Body, who feel that the artist’s skills (Showalter) and the director’s ingenuity (Rutter) rather than the subject dominate the scene.

5. Richard’s crown 1. Stephen Bates, Guardian (3 December 2002). 2. Ibid. 3. The Sunday Times (15 December 2002) published the results of a survey showing that fewer than 15 per cent of the population planned to watch the Queen’s speech at Christmas. On the same page, Jack Grimston reported that



192 Notes, pp. 116–37

4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

the BBC faced the threat of legal action under the Human Rights Act for failing to include atheists as presenters for Radio 4’s Thought for the Day. All references are to William Shakespeare, King Richard II, ed. Charles R. Forker, The Arden Shakespeare (London: Thomson Learning, 2002). Joseph Canning, A History of Medieval Political Thought 300–1450 (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 54–5. Ibid., p. 55. Christopher Given-Wilson (ed.) Chronicles of the Revolution 1397–1400: the Reign of Richard II (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1993), p. 200. Ibid., p. 201. Starkey, Elizabeth, p. 274. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Stanley Wells, The New Penguin Shakespeare (London: Penguin Books), p. 10. Letter from Fiona Shaw to Helen Potter, 22 August 2000. I am grateful to Helen for allowing me to use this material. Starkey, Elizabeth, p. 276, and see his note on pp. 359–60. A. G. Dickens, The Age of Humanism and Reformation: Europe in the Fourteenth, Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries (London: Prentice-Hall International, 1977), p. 149. Duffy, Stripping of the Altars, p. 448. Ibid., pp. 448–51. Ibid., p. 448. Ibid., pp. 524–6. Ibid., p. 566. Janette Dillon, Performance and Spectacle in Hall’s Chronicle (London: The Society for Theatre Research, 2002), p. 7. Starkey, Elizabeth, pp. 300–1. Weimann, ‘Representation’, in Kamps, Materialist Shakespeare, p. 208. Ibid., p. 208. Ibid., p. 208. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Forker, note 1.1, p. 179. Ibid., pp. 120–1. Andrew Gurr and Mariko Ichikawa, Staging in Shakespeare’s Theatres (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 57. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Forker, p. 217. Canning, Medieval Political Thought, p. 55. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Forker, p. 329. William Shakespeare, King Richard II, ed. Andrew Gurr, New Cambridge Shakespeare (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 121. Ibid., p. 122. Kantorowicz, King’s Two Bodies, pp. 30–1. Michael A. R. Graves, Elizabethan Parliaments, 1559–1601 (London and New York: Longman, 1987), p. 3. Ibid., p. 3. Graves, Elizabethan Parliaments, pp. 9–10. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Forker, p. 372. Ibid., p. 393. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Gurr, p. 137.



Notes, pp. 137–43 193

39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70.

Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Forker, pp. 373 and 386. Ibid., p. 393. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Wells, p. 13. Ibid., p. 13. Ibid., p. 13. Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton, Gorboduc or Ferrex and Porrex, ed. Irby B. Cauthen, Jr. (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press; London: Edward Arnold, 1970). Lily B. Campbell (ed.), The Mirror for Magistrates. Edited from Original Texts in the Huntington Library (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1938), p. 113. Geoffrey Bullough (ed.), Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Volume III Earlier English History Plays: Henry VI, Richard III, Richard II (London and New York: Routledge and Kegan Paul; Columbia University Press, 1966), p. 490. Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Gurr, p. 6. References are to Christopher Marlowe, Edward the Second, ed. Charles R. Forker (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1994). Given-Wilson, Chronicles, p. 42. Ibid., p. 42. Duffy, Stripping of the Altars, p. 245. David M. Bergeron, ‘The Deposition Scene in Richard II ‘, Renaissance Papers (1974), pp. 31–7 (p. 36). Shakespeare, Richard II, ed. Forker, p. 456. Gurr and Ichikawa, Staging in Shakespeare’s Theatres, p. 57. Ronald Bryden, New Statesman (24 April 1964). Michael Bogdanov and Michael Pennington, The English Shakespeare Company: the Story of The Wars of the Roses 1986–1989 (London: Nick Hern Books, 1990), p. 24. Ibid., p. 108. Michael Cronin took over the role from John Castle for the 1988/89 tour. Andrew Rissik, ‘The Henry Trilogy’, Plays and Players (March 1987), pp. 8–11 (p. 11). Bogdanov and Pennington, English Shakespeare Company, p. 107. RSC programme: Richard II (1990). The quote is from Christopher Hibbert, Benito Mussolini: a Biography (London: Longmans, 1962; Penguin, 1975). RSC programme: Richard II. The quote is from Marie Louise Bruce, The Usurper King: Henry Bolingbroke 1366–99 (London: Rubicon, 1986). Harry Eyres, Times (13 September 1991) (Barbican production). Ibid. Weimann, ‘Representation’, in Kamps, Materialist Shakespeare, p. 208. Russell Jackson, ‘Shakespeare on the Stage from 1660 to 1990’, The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare Studies, ed. Stanley Wells (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 187–212 (p. 209). Bruce, Usurper King, in RSC programme. John Lahr, ‘Blues for His Majesty’, The New Yorker (10 July 1995), pp. 83–5 (p. 83). Ibid., p. 83. Christian Tyler, Financial Times (9 December 1995).



194 Notes, pp. 143–54

71. Ibid. 72. See my article: ‘“Bifold Authority” in Deborah Warner’s Richard II’, Shakespeare Bulletin, 15:1 (Winter 1997), pp. 28–30. 73. Matt Wolf, ‘“Richard II”’, Variety (12–18 June 1995). 74. Letter to Helen Potter, 22 August 2000. See also Carol Chillington Rutter, ‘Fiona Shaw’s Richard II: the Girl as Player-King as Comic’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 48 (1997), pp. 314–24 (p. 323): ‘Shaw did not see the collapse into comedy that some reviewers complained of in her performance. Rather, comedy intensified and complicated the focus. It was a “demonstration that so many of the games we’re deadly serious about show themselves to be absurd if you slant them, if you skew them just a little obliquely”’. 75. Charles Spencer, Daily Telegraph (31 March 2000). 76. Michael Dobson, ‘Shakespeare Performances in England’, Shakespeare Survey, 54 (2001), pp. 246–82 (p. 276). 77. See John Willett (ed.), Brecht on Theatre: the Development of an Aesthetic (1957; Methuen: London, 1964), p. 229. 78. Margaret Shewring, Shakespeare in Performance: King Richard II (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1996), p. 123. 79. Role Play, BBC Radio 3, 14 July 1997. 80. Bogdanov and Pennington, English Shakespeare Company, p. 106. 81. Ibid., pp. 106–7. 82. Role Play, BBC Radio 3, 14 July 1997. 83. Lahr, ‘Blues for His Majesty’, pp. 83 and 85. 84. The Globe Theatre Company programme, ‘Middle Temple Hall: Richard II’ (2003). 85. Shakespeare’s Globe: Letter from Mark Rylance to Anthony Arlidge QC (undated). 86. Anthony Arlidge, Shakespeare and the Prince of Love: the Feast of Misrule in the Middle Temple (London: Giles De La Mare Publishers, 2000), p. 28. 87. Ibid., p. 28. 88. Weimann, ‘Representation and Performance’, in Kamps, Materialist Shakespeare, p. 209. 89. The Globe Theatre Company programme, p. 23. 90. Ibid., p. 23. 91. See Bruce, Usurper King. 92. See the ‘Introduction’ in Daniel J. Vitkus (ed.), Three Turk Plays from Early Modern England: Selimus, A Christian Turned Turk, and The Renegado (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000). 93. Ibid., pp. 236–7, n. 17.

6. Conclusion: prop and word 1. W. B. Worthen, Shakespeare and the Force of Modern Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 10. 2. Ibid., p. 10. The argument is important to Butler’s idea that gender is performed. See Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990) and Excitable Speech: a Politics of the



Notes, pp. 154–74 195

3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8.

9. 10.

Performative (New York and London: Routledge, 1997). The idea that meaning cannot belong to the speaker is implicit in Volos˘inov’s insight that language is ‘social utterance’, acquiring life and historically evolving ‘in concrete verbal communication, and not in the abstract linguistic system of language forms, nor in the individual psyche of speakers’. See Morris, Bakhtin Reader, pp. 58–9. Worthen, Force of Modern Performance, p. 12. Ibid., p. 12. See Worthen’s striking study of Grupo Galpão’s Romeu e Julieta, where he shows how the performance event is marketed as ‘local’ Brazilian street theatre brought to the Globe stage (i.e. ‘place’) through a policy of globalizing outreach, the ‘Globe-to-Globe 2000’ season (‘space’), reducing the company’s ‘transnational dimension’ of performance practice (p. 162). My attempt to summarize the argument cannot of course do justice to Worthen’s analysis. See Morris, Bakhtin Reader, p. 58. Independent Ballet Wales programme, 2001–2002. See note 2 to Worthen’s ‘Introduction’ (p. 216) where he includes Carol Rutter’s observation that ‘I do’ is ‘actually very rarely spoken as part of a wedding service today’, though it cites ‘the performative dimension of weddings’. See Belsey, Shakespeare and the Loss of Eden. My thanks to Dovo and Loveace Company for the email reply 7 September 2002.



196 Notes, pp. 174–6

Addenbrooke, David, The Royal Shakespeare Company: the Peter Hall Years (London: William Kimber, 1974). Adorno, Theodor W., Aesthetic Theory, ed. Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann; trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor (London: The Athlone Press, 1997). Alpers, Paul, What Is Pastoral? (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1996). Ansorge, Peter, ‘Director in Interview’, Plays and Players (March 1970), pp. 52–3 and 59. Arendt, Hannah, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 3rd edn (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1967). Arlidge, Anthony, Shakespeare and the Prince of Love: the Feast of Misrule in the Middle Temple (London: Giles De La Mare Publishers, 2000). Armitstead, Claire, ‘The Trial of Shylock’, Guardian (13 April 1994). Axton, Marie, The Queen’s Two Bodies: Drama and the Elizabethan Succession (London: Royal Historical Society, 1977). Baker, H., An Introduction to English Legal History, 3rd edn (London, Boston et al.: Butterworths, 1990). Bassnett, Susan, Shakespeare: the Elizabethan Plays (Houndmills: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 1993). Belsey, Catherine, Shakespeare and the Loss of Eden: the Construction of Family Values in Early Modern Culture (Basingstoke: Macmillan now Palgrave Macmillan, 1999). Benjamin, Walter, Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt; trans. Harry Zorn (London: Pimlico, 1999). Bergeron, David M., ‘The Deposition Scene in Richard II’, Renaissance Papers, (1974), pp. 31–7. Bhaba, Homi K., ‘The Other Question: Difference, Discrimination and the Discourse of Colonialism’, in Literature, Politics and Theory: Papers from the Essex Conference 1976–84, ed. Francis Barker et al. (London and New York: Methuen, 1986), pp. 148–72. Blair, John, ‘Blackface Minstrels in Cross-Cultural Prespective’, American Studies International, XXVIII:2 (October 1990), pp. 52–65. Bloomfield, Anthony and Philip French (producers), The Arts This Week (BBC radio transcript, PLN17/TK1104; transmission 30 April 1970). The British Film Institute. Bogdanov, Michael, and Michael Pennington, The English Shakespeare Company: the Story of The Wars of the Roses 1986–1989 (London: Nick Hern Books, 1990). Boose, Lynda E. and Richard Burt, ‘Totally Clueless? Shakespeare Goes Hollywood in the 1990s’, in Shakespeare, the Movie: Popularizing the Plays on Film, TV, and Video, ed. Lynda E. Boose and Richard Burt (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), pp. 8–22. Bordwell, David, and Kristin Thompson, Film Art: an Introduction, 5th edn (New York and St Louis: McGraw-Hill, 1997). 197



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The Taming of the Shrew (USA, 1929) Dir. Sam Taylor Mary Pickford (Kate), Douglas Fairbanks (Petruchio) The Taming of the Shrew (USA, Italy, 1966) Dir. Franco Zeffirelli Elizabeth Taylor (Kate), Richard Burton (Petruchio) The Taming of the Shrew (UK, 1980) Dir. Jonathan Miller Sarah Badel (Kate), John Cleese (Petruchio) The Merchant of Venice (UK, 1973) Dir. Jonathan Miller with John Sichel Shylock (Laurence Olivier), the Prince of Morocco (Stephen Greif) Hamlet (UK, 1948) Dir. Laurence Olivier Ophelia (Jean Simmons), Hamlet (Laurence Olivier) Hamlet (USSR, 1964) Dir. Grigori Kozintsev Ophelia (Anastasia Vertinskaya), Hamlet (Innokenti Smoktunovksy) Hamlet (USA, 1990) Dir. Franco Zefirelli Ophelia (Helena Bonham-Carter), Hamlet (Mel Gibson) Hamlet (USA, 2000) Dir. Michael Almereyda Ophelia (Julia Stiles), Hamlet (Ethan Hawke) Richard II (UK, 1989) Dir. Michael Bogdanov with producer, Tim Milsom Richard (Michael Pennington), Bolingbroke (Michael Cronin) Richard II (UK, 1997) Dir. Deborah Warner with producer, John Wyver Richard (Fiona Shaw), Bolingbroke (Richard Bremmer) 206



Filmography

The Taming of the Shrew Dir. W. Bridges-Adams (Stratford-upon-Avon Festival Company, 1928) Dorothy Massingham (Kate), Wilfrid Walter (Petruchio) The Taming of the Shrew Dir. Michael Bogdanov (RSC, 1978) Paola Dionisotti (Kate), Jonathan Pryce (Petruchio) The Taming of the Shrew Dir. Bill Alexander (RSC, 1992) Amanda Harris (Kate), Anton Lesser (Petruchio) The Taming of the Shrew Dir. Lindsay Posner (RSC, 1999) Monica Dolan (Kate), Stuart McQuarrie (Petruchio) The Taming of the Shrew Dir. Ruth Garnault (Wales Actors’ Company, 2002) Charlotte Rogers (Kate), Paul Garnault (Petruchio) The Merchant of Venice Dir. Theodore Komisarjevsky (Stratford-upon-Avon Festival Company, 1933) Randle Ayrton (Shylock), Stanley Howlett (Prince of Morocco) The Merchant of Venice Dir. Michael Langham (Stratford-upon-Avon Festival Company, 1960) Peter O’Toole (Shylock), Paul Hardwick (Prince of Morocco) The Merchant of Venice Dir. Jonathan Miller ( National Theatre Company, 1970) Laurence Olivier (Shylock), Tom Baker/Stephen Grief (Prince of Morocco) The Merchant of Venice Dir. John Caird (RSC, 1984) Ian McDiarmid (Shylock), Hepburn Graham (Prince of Morocco) 207



Theatre Company Credits

208 Theatre Company Credits

The Merchant of Venice Dir. David Thacker (RSC, 1993) David Calder (Shylock), Ray Fearon (Prince of Morocco) The Merchant of Venice Dir. Loveday Ingram (RSC, 2001) Ian Bartholomew (Shylock), Chris Jarman (Prince of Morocco) Richard II Dir. Michael Bogdanov (English Shakespeare Company, 1987) Michael Pennington (King Richard), John Castle/Michael Cronin (Bolingbroke) Richard II Dir. Ron Daniels (RSC, 1990) Alex Jennings (King Richard), Anton Lesser (Bolingbroke) Richard II Dir. Deborah Warner (Royal National Theatre Company, 1995) Fiona Shaw (King Richard), David Threlfall (Bolingbroke) Richard II Dir. Steven Pimlott (RSC, 2000) Samuel West (King Richard), David Troughton (Bolingbroke) Richard II Master of Play, Tim Carroll (Globe Theatre Company, 2003) Mark Rylance (King Richard), Liam Brennan (Bolingbroke)



The Merchant of Venice Dir. Bill Alexander (RSC, 1987) Antony Sher (Shylock), Hakeem Kae-Kazim (Prince of Morocco)

Addenbrooke, David, 73 Adorno, Theodor W., 3 Alexander, Bill The Merchant of Venice, 77–86 The Taming of the Shrew, 46–53 Almereyda, Michael, Hamlet (US, 2000), 115–36 Alpers, Paul, 15, 105–7, 111–12 Arendt, Hannah, 87 Arlidge, Anthony, 168–9 Axton, Marie, 105 Aylmer, Felix, as Polonius, 117 Ayrton, Randle, as Shylock, 68–70

Brett, Jeremy, as Bassanio, 88 Bridges-Adams, W., The Taming of the Shrew, 27–36 Bristol, Michael D., 8, 10–11 Brown, John Russell, 73, 77 Brownlow, Kevin, 34, 36 Bullough, Geoffrey, 144 Bulman, James C., 9, 85, 89–90 Burt, Richard, 2 Burton, Richard, as Petruchio, 36–40 Butler, Judith, 174 Caird, John, The Merchant of Venice, 77–82 Calder, David, as Shylock, 87, 91–6 Camden, Carroll, 108 Campbell, Lily B., 144 Canning, Joseph, 138, 141 Carroll, Tim, Richard II, 168–73 Catharine and Petruchio (Garrick, 1756), 27, 35 ceremony, 137–73 crown, 159–73 royal anointing, 138 throne, 148–59 Civil Wars, The (Samuel Daniel), 144 Cleese, John, as Petruchio, 46–9 Close, Glenn, as Gertrude, 121–3, 132–4 Cohen, Walter, 62, 86–7 Colin Clouts Come Home Againe (Edmund Spenser), 114 commedia dell’arte, 11, 65–6, 69–72 Cook, Ann Jennalie, 19 Cosgrave, Art, 20 (see note 10), 23–4 Coursen, H. R., 13 Cressy, David, 20–1, 25–6, 114 Cronin, Michael, as Bolingbroke, 150–1, 159–61 cultural criticism, 1–15 cultural history, 6 cultural materialism, 2–5, 7, 9–10 cultural studies, 6–7

Badel, Sarah, as Kate, 46–9 Baker, H., 62–3 Baker, Tom, as Prince of Morocco, 89 ⁄ Bakhtin, Mikhail, 10; see also Volos inov Bartholomew, Ian, as Shylock, 87–100 Barton, John, 159 Bassnett, Susan, 19 Bates, Alan, as Claudius, 121–34 Belsey, Catherine, 6, 9, 175 Benjamin, Walter, 3 Bergeron, David M., 148 Bhaba, Homi K., 77 Biddle, Esme, as Kate, 28 Bloomfield, Anthony, 90 Bogdanov, Michael Richard II, 149–61 The Taming of the Shrew, 36, 40–3 Bonham-Carter, Helena, as Ophelia, 116, 121–3, 132–4 Boose, Lynda E., 2 Bordwell, David, 117 Bourdieu, Pierre, 4 Branagh, Kenneth, 3, 111 (see note 36), 112, 141 Braun, Edward, 69 Bremmer, Richard, as Bolingbroke, 155–6, 164–5 Brennan, Liam, as Bolingbroke, 170–3 209



Index

identity culture, 7 postmodern culture, 2; film, 123 Cutler, Allan Harris, 57–8 Cutler, Helen Elmquist, 57–8 Daly, Augustin, 32 D’Amico, Jack, 65 Daniels, Ron, Richard II, 151–3, 161–3 Daniels, Stephen, 105 (see note 17) Davies, Anthony, 117 Davies, Heather, 1 Dench, Judi, 2 Déprats, Jean–Michel, 13 Dessen, Alan C., 8, 13, 93 dialogism, 10–11, 14 Dickens, A. G., 139 Dillon, Janette, 139 Dionisotti, Paola, as Kate, 40–3 Dobson, Michael, 156 Dolan, Monica, as Kate, 44–6 Doran, Gregory, 1, 82–3 Doran, Susan, 103–4 Davies, Andrew, 9 Downie, Penny, as Portia, 11–12, 94–6 Duffy, Eamon, 110, 114, 139, 147 Eagleton, Terry, 5, 7 Edward the Second (Marlowe), 144–6 Elizabeth I, 61, 103–8, 137–9 English Shakespeare Company, 149–51, 159–61 Erenstein, Robert L., 71 Euphues (John Lyly, 1578), 24 Eyman, Scott, 30–3, 35–6 Faerie Queen, The (Spenser), 116 Fairbanks, Douglas, as Petruchio, 28–36 Fearon, Ray, as Prince of Morocco, 94–6 Findlay, Alison, 7 Findlay, Deborah, as Portia, 85–6 Fletcher, John, 1, 5 French, Philip, 90 Foucault, M., 41 Fukuyama, Francis, 6 Garbisu, Gabriel, as Shylock, 58

Garnault, Paul, as Petruchio, 53–6 Garnault, Ruth, The Taming of the Shrew, 46, 53–6 Garrick, David, 27, 35 Gelder, Ian, as Antonio, 96 German Expressionism, 69 Gibson, Mel, as Hamlet, 121–3, 132–4 Gibson-Graham, J. K., 6 Given-Wilson, Chris, 138, 145–6 Glacken, Clarence J., 110 Gombrich, E. H., 47, 118 Gorboduc (Sackville and Norton), 144 Gordon, Alex, 72–3 Gossett, Suzanne, 13 Grady, Hugh, 4 (see note 8) Graham, Hepburn, as Prince of Morocco, 81 Graves, Michael A. R., 142–3 Greenblatt, Stephen, 5, 10, 62 Greif, Stephen, as Prince of Morocco, 89–90 Gross, John, 88 Gulliford, Hermione, as Portia, 98–9 Gurr, Andrew, 140, 149 Hackett, Helen, 64–5, 103 Hall, Peter, 149 Hallinan, Tim, 47 Halpern, Richard, 5 Hardwick, Paul, as Prince of Morocco, 75–7 Haring-Smith, Tori, 27–8, 35 Harris, Amanda, as Kate, 46–7, 50–3 Hawke, Ethan, as Hamlet, 123–7, 134–6 Herlie, Eileen, as Gertrude, 127–9 Heyme, Hansgünther, The Merchant of Venice, 58 Hickey, Paul, as Bassanio, 96 Hobsbawm, E., 7 Hodgdon, Barbara, 8, 11, 31–2, 38 Holderness, G., 21 (see note 17), 36 Holland, Peter, 91, 93 Holm, Ian, as Polonius, 122 Holquist, Michael, 10 (see note 36) Hotine, Margaret, 60 Houlbrooke, Ralph A., 25–6 Howlett, Stanley, as Prince of Morocco, 69–72



210 Index

Ichikawa, Mariko, 140 Independent Ballet Wales, 175 Ingram, Loveday, The Merchant of Venice, 86–7, 96–100 Ingram, Martin, 21–2, 25 Irons, Jeremy, as King Richard, 147 Irving, Henry, 67 Islam (Islamic lands in the early modern period), 57–67 conversion to; see Three Ladies of London (Robert Wilson), 59–60 crusades, 57 Knights Templar, 168, 171 Morocco, 61 Ottoman Empire, 58–9 Island Princess, The (Fletcher), 1, 5 Jackson, Russell, 152 Jacobson, Howard, 78–9 Jameson, Fredric, 2 Jardine, Lisa, 9, 61, 79–80, 108 (see note 29) Jarman, Chris, as Prince of Morocco, 98–9 Jennings, Alex, as King Richard, 152–3, 161–3 Jews (Judaism; Jewishness; as aliens in early modern England), 57–100 conversion to Christianity, 58–60; to Islam (see Three Ladies of London, 59–60) crypto Jews (Marranos), 58–9 A Discourse Upon Usury (Thomas Wilson), 60 The Jew of Malta (Christopher Marlowe), 60, 62 Lopez, Roderigo, 60 Jolson, Al, 71–2 Jones, Maria, 35, 154 Joughin, John J., 4 (see note 9) Junger, Gil, 14, 136 Kae-Kazim, Hakeem, as Prince of Morocco, 85 Kantorowicz, Ernst H., 105, 142 Keegan, Shelagh, 91 Kentrup, Norbert, as Shylock, 68–9 Keyishian, Harry, 117 Kiernan, Pauline, 68

Kliman, Bernice W., 128 Komisarjevsky, Theodore, The Merchant of Venice, 67–72 Konrath, M., 22 (see note 20) Kozintsev, Grigori (Hamlet USSR, 1964), 116, 118–21, 129–32 Kyle, Barry, Richard II, 146–7 Langham, Michael, The Merchant of Venice, 67, 72–7 Lesser, Anton as Bolingbroke, 153, 161–3 as Petruchio, 46, 50–3 Levin, Carole, 104 Lewis, Bernard, 14, 57–8 Loomba, Ania, 64, 77 Loughrey, Bryan, 21 Loveace Company, 176 Lyly, John, 24 MacLachan, Kyle, as Claudius, 124–7, 134–6 Macnaghten, Phil, 110 Madden, John, 2 Manchot, Melanie, 3 Marcus, Leah, 43 Marlowe, Christopher, 59–60, 62 marriage, 19–56 Betrothal of the Arnolfini, The, 47 clandestine marriage, 20, 25–6 consensualist argument, 14, 20–1 Council of Trent, 20 divorce, 26 Government White Paper, 19 licences, 25 Mary Play, The, 20–1 Miseries of Enforced Marriage, The (George Wilkins), 22–3 pre–contract, 19–24 Preparative to Marriage, A (Henry Smith), 24 Puritan orthodoxy, 26–7 Marxism, 5–7, 10 Massingham, Dorothy, as Kate, 28–36 Mast, Gerald, 35 (see note 65) McDiarmid, Ian, as Shylock, 77–82 McLuskie, Kathleen, 8 McQuarrie, Stuart, as Petruchio, 43–6



Index 211

Meredith, Peter, 20–1 (see note 13) Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 69 Miller, Jonathan The Merchant of Venice (UK, 1973), 86–91 The Taming of the Shrew (BBC, 1980), 46–9 Minstrels, 71–2 Mirror for Magistrates (1559), 144 Mithal, H. S. D., 59 Montrose, Louis Adrian, 103–5 Morris, Pamela, 10 (see note 36), 11 Munck, Ronaldo, 5–6 Murray, Bill, as Polonius, 124–7 Nazwanov, Michail, as Claudius, 120–1, 130–1 Nevo, Ruth, 46 new historicism, 2, 4–5, 9–10 Nicholls, Anthony, as Antonio, 88 Norton, Thomas, 144 Oliver, Richard, The Merchant of Venice, 68 Olivier, Laurence as Hamlet (1948), 115–18, 127–9 as Shylock, 87–91, Orkin, Martin, 77 O’Toole, Peter, as Shylock, 67–77 Palin, Michael, 57 pastoral, 103–36 green sickness, 108–9 Lady of May, The (Philip Sidney), 108, 111–12 see also Spenser, Colin Clouts Come Home Againe, 114; The Faerie Queene, 116; Shepheardes Calendar, 104–6 Penhaligon, Susan, as Bianca, 49 Pennington, Michael, as King Richard, 149–51, 159–61 performance criticism, 8–12 locus and platea, 15, 50, 139–73 performativity, 174–7 Peterson, Kaara L., 108 Phillips, Patrick, 124 Phillips, Roderick, 26 Pickford, Mary, as Kate, 28–36

Pimlott, Steven, Richard II, 156–9, 165–8 Plowright, Joan, as Portia, 89–90 Pollen, Isabel, as Jessica, 97–100 Popkin, Richard H., 61 Posner, Lindsay, The Taming of the Shrew, 40–6 postcolonial criticism, 14, 77 Pryce, Jonathan, as Petruchio, 40–3 Pullan, Brian, 58, 80, 84 Quayle, Antony, 149 Rabinov, Paul, 41 Radzin-Szolkonis, Elza, as Gertrude, 130–1 Rehan, Ada, 32–3 Rissik, Andrew, 151 Robeson, Paul, 75 Robins, Nicolas, 68–9 Rogers, Charlotte, as Kate, 53–6 Rose, Clifford, as Antonio, 94 Rota, Nino, 36 Rothwell, Kenneth S., 118 Rowe, Eleanor, 120 Rudkin, John, 65, 69 Rutter, Carol Chillington, 43, 115 (see note 53), 155 (see note 74), 175 (see note 8) Ryan, Kiernan, 6, 11 Rylance, Mark, as King Richard, 168–73 Sackville, Thomas, 144 Saire, Rebecca, as Bianca, 53 Salingar, Leo, 86, 97 Salzman, Paul, 24 Schreiber, Live, as Laertes, 124 Schroeder, Rev. H. J., 20 (see note 8) Scott, Virginia P., 72 Shakespeare, William Hamlet, 103–36 Henry IV Part 1, 140 Measure for Measure, 23 The Merchant of Venice, 57–100 Much Ado about Nothing, 24, 112 Othello (Carlton Central, 2001), 9–10 Richard II, 137–73 The Taming of the Shrew, 19–56



212 Index

The Winter’s Tale, 107–8, 112–13 Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, 68–9, 174 Globe Theatre Company, 168–73 Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, 28 Rebuilding Fund, 30 Shapiro, James, 9, 63 Shaw, Fiona, as King Richard, 154–6, 163–5 Shepheardes Calendar, The (Spenser), 104–6 Sher, Antony, as Shylock, 77, 82–6 Shewring, Margaret, 159 Showalter, Elaine, 129 Shrimpton, Nicholas, 81 Sidney, Sir Philip, 108, 111 Simmons, Jean, as Ophelia, 116–18, 127–9 Simons, Nick, as Tubal, 91–4 Smallwood, Robert, 53 Smith, Henry, A Preparative to Marriage, 24 Smith, Peter J., 5 (see note 12), 8–9 Smoktunovsky, Innokenti, as Hamlet, 119–21, 129–32 Spenser, Edmund, 104–6, 114, 116 Spoto, Donald, 89 Starkey, David, 104, 138–9 Stiles, Julia as Kate, 14 as Ophelia, 116, 124–7, 134–6 Stone, Lawrence, 26 Strype, John, 25 Sydney, Basil, as Claudius, 117–18, 127–9 Symonds, H. Edward, 20 Taming of A Shrew, The, 21 Tasker, Yvonne, 121 Taylor, Elizabeth, as Kate, 12, 36–40 Taylor, Neil, 119 Taylor, Sam, The Taming of the Shrew (US, 1929), 12, 27–36 Teague, Frances, 15, 35 Teatro de la Abadia, 58 Thacker, David, The Merchant of Venice, 11–12, 86–97 Three Ladies of London (Robert Wilson), 59–60 Threlfall, David, as Bolingbroke, 154–6, 163–5

Toll, Robert C., 71–2 Tolubeyev, Yuri, as Polonius, 119–20 Tomelty, Francis, as Portia, 82 Trachtenberg, Joshua, 59 Troughton, David, as Bolingbroke, 157–9, 165–8 Tutin, Dorothy, as Portia, 74 Ultz, David, 79–80 Urry, John, 110 Venora, Diane, as Gertrude, 124–7, 135–6 Vertinskaya, Anastasia, as Ophelia, 116, 118–21, 129–32 Vince, R. W., 11 Vitkus, Daniel J., 171 ⁄ Volos inov, V. N., 10–11, 14, 175 Wales Actors’ Company, 12, 53–6 Walter, Wilfrid, as Petruchio, 28–36 Warner, Deborah, Richard II, 153–6, 163–5 Warner, Marina, 104 Wars of the Roses, The (ESC), 149 Weimann, Robert, 15, 50, 139–40, 152, 169 Wells, Stanley, 48, 82, 144 Wesker, Arnold, 93–4 West, Samuel, as King Richard, 156–9, 165–8 Whelehan, Imelda, 2 Whitfield, Eileen, 33 Whitgift, John, 25 Whitney, Charles, 4 Wilders, John, 47 Wilkins, George, 22–3 Willett, John, 157 Williams, Raymond, 105 Willis, Susan, 47 Windeler, R., 31 Woodstock (anon.), 144 Worthen, W. B., 9, 11, 174–5 Wright, Louis B., 19 (see note 3) Zeffirelli, Franco Hamlet (USA, 1990), 116–34 The Taming of the Shrew (USA, 1966), 12, 36–40



Index 213

Shakespeare's culture in modern performance

World-Wide Shakespeares: Local Appropriations in Film and Performance

World-Wide Shakespeares Local Appropriations in Film and Performance

Shakespeares Planet

Philosophical Shakespeares

Shakespeares Planet

Shakespeares Planet

Documents of Performance in Early Modern England

Serious Play: Modern Clown Performance

The Performance of Nobility in Early Modern European Literature (Cambridge Studies in Renaissance Literature and Culture)

Studies in Modern Childhood: Society, Agency, Culture

Local Shakespeares Proximations and Power

Cupid in Early Modern Literature and Culture

Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe

Return of the Baroque in Modern Culture

Cupid in Early Modern Literature and Culture

Etwas ueber William Shakespeares Schauspiele

Cupid in Early Modern Literature and Culture

Explaining Traditions: Folk Behavior in Modern Culture

Diplomacy and Early Modern Culture (Early Modern Literature in History)

Spiritual Shakespeares (Accents on Shakespeare)

Russian Culture and Theatrical Performance in America, 1891-1933 (Palgrave Studies in Theatre and Performance History)

Theatre Matters: Performance and Culture on the World Stage (Cambridge Studies in Modern Theatre)

Encyclopedia of Modern Jewish Culture

Crossroads: Performance Studies and Irish Culture

Performance on the Edge: Transformations of Culture

Working Subjects in Early Modern English Drama (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

Radical Comedy in Early Modern England (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

Shakespeare's Companies (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

Shakespeare's Companies (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

Shakespeare's culture in modern performance

World-Wide Shakespeares: Local Appropriations in Film and Performance

World-Wide Shakespeares Local Appropriations in Film and Performance

Shakespeares Planet

Philosophical Shakespeares

Shakespeares Planet

Shakespeares Planet

Documents of Performance in Early Modern England

Serious Play: Modern Clown Performance

The Performance of Nobility in Early Modern European Literature (Cambridge Studies in Renaissance Literature and Culture)

Studies in Modern Childhood: Society, Agency, Culture

Local Shakespeares Proximations and Power

Cupid in Early Modern Literature and Culture

Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe

Return of the Baroque in Modern Culture

Cupid in Early Modern Literature and Culture

Etwas ueber William Shakespeares Schauspiele

Cupid in Early Modern Literature and Culture

Explaining Traditions: Folk Behavior in Modern Culture

Diplomacy and Early Modern Culture (Early Modern Literature in History)

Spiritual Shakespeares (Accents on Shakespeare)

Russian Culture and Theatrical Performance in America, 1891-1933 (Palgrave Studies in Theatre and Performance History)

Theatre Matters: Performance and Culture on the World Stage (Cambridge Studies in Modern Theatre)

Encyclopedia of Modern Jewish Culture

Crossroads: Performance Studies and Irish Culture

Performance on the Edge: Transformations of Culture

Working Subjects in Early Modern English Drama (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

Radical Comedy in Early Modern England (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

Shakespeare's Companies (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

Shakespeare's Companies (Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama)

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