Shakespeare’s daughter

Posted on May 26, 2012 by Sylvia Morris
David Tennant as Jack Lane, Teresa Banham as Susanna, in The Herbal Bed, RSC 1996

May 26 is the anniversary of the baptism of Shakespeare’s first daughter, Susanna. The only fact that most people know about her is that she was conceived before her parents were married. From this slender fact has led much speculation about the marriage of the 18-year old William to the older Anne Hathaway. Was it a “shotgun” wedding in which the unwilling groom was forced to marry a woman he didn’t really love, and was this the reason why he left Stratford?

Whatever the background, it’s impossible to feel that Shakespeare didn’t love his daughter. Fathers and daughters feature over and over again in loving relationships though they always have their ups and downs: Prospero and Miranda, Lear and Cordelia, for instance. When Prospero and Miranda were banished, the little girl was her father’s comfort:
A cherubin
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,
Infused with a fortitude from heaven.

And he’s overwhelmingly protective of her. “I have done nothing but in care of thee, of thee my dear one, thee my daughter”.

Susanna married a man Shakespeare must have approved of, a well-known physician John Hall, respectable and several years older than her. She gave birth to a daughter, Elizabeth. Little else is known of her life. She appears in a 1606 list of recusants for failing to receive Communion of Easter Sunday and in 1613 brought a suit for defamation against John Lane, a local man, who had slandered her by claiming she “had been naught with Rafe Smith”, that is she had committed adultery with him. The court took Susanna’s side.

This episode was turned into a compelling play by Peter Whelan as The Herbal Bed, written for the RSC and performed by them between 1996 and 1998 in Stratford, London and on tour. The original production featured the then little-known David Tennant as Susanna’s accuser Jack Lane (ie John) and Joseph Fiennes as her would-be lover Rafe Smith, alongside Teresa Banham as Susanna. It has since frequently restaged by many other companies.

Susanna and John Hall were executors of Shakespeare’s will, and she inherited most of his property. Like her father, Susanna was buried in the chancel of Holy Trinity Church, in 1649. Her gravestone contains the following epitaph, which says something about her character and her closeness to her father.
Witty above her sexe, but that’s not all
Wise to salvation was good Mistris Hall,
Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this
Wholy of him with whom she’s now in blisse.
Then, Passenger, hast nere a teare,
To weepe with her that wept with all,
That wept, yet set her self to chere
Them up with comforts cordiall.
Her love shall live, her mercy spread,
When thou has’t ner’e a tear to shed.

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Flowers and history in Stratford’s Guild Chapel

Posted on May 24, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

Chelsea’s not the only festival of flowers that’s going on this week. Over the weekend Stratford-upon-Avon has its own flower festival. Every year the little jewel of a building, the Guild Chapel, is decorated by the Avon Evening Flower Club. The Chapel is always beautiful, but can sometimes feel a little bare, so walking inside to find the air full of the scent of fresh flowers and its features decorated with fresh blooms, artistically arranged, is quite an experience, and this year it looks as if it will also offer a welcome retreat from the heat outside.

One of the exhibits from the 2010 Festival

The theme of the display this year is, predictably for 2012, the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and the Olympic Games.

The Guild Chapel is one of Stratford’s most historic buildings, founded as the chapel of the Guild of the Holy Cross around 1269. Elements of that original building are still in existence, but the nave and tower were added in the 1400s. Information about the chapel can be found on the website of the Friends of The Guild Chapel. The Chapel stands on an important junction across the road from the site of New Place, the house which Shakespeare bought when he became prosperous, and where he died in 1616. He would have known the Chapel from his earliest days: the school stands next door and has always been closely associated with it.

Even without the link with Shakespeare the Guild Chapel would be a notable building. Still to be seen above the chancel arch is most of the most remarkable medieval wall paintings still in existence.

The 2010 Flower Festival including some of the Chapel's wall paintings

The main painting is what’s known as a Doom, depicting the scene of Christ at the Last Judgement surrounded by the dead rising from the graves to be either welcomed into heaven or cast into hell. This wasn’t the only painting though: others, still to be seen, though much faded, are of subjects like George and the Dragon and the murder of Thomas a Becket.

The paintings were whitewashed over just months before Shakespeare’s birth during the winter of 1563 and it was John Shakespeare, his father, who as Chamberlain or Treasurer of the Corporation, was responsible for obliterating them. So significant was this event in the history of the world Shakespeare was to inhabit that Michael Wood began his book In Search of Shakespeare with an account of what happened. This is his description.

Reconstruction of the medieval Doom wall painting

At the start of Elizabeth’s reign a royal injunction had instructed town councils to enforce “The removal of all signs of idolatry and superstition, from places of worship, so that there remain no memory of the same in walls, glasses, windows, or elsewhere within their churches and houses”….Whatever his private feelings, it was John’s duty to vandalize images that represented a world of encoded memories built up over the centuries.  

The story had started with Henry VIII’s break from Rome and the reformation of the English Church which began in 1533. It’s strange to think that Shakespeare’s father was one of the last people to see these magnificent murals intact. The Heritage Technology website contains some fascinating 3D digital reconstructions of the interior and exterior of the buildings showing what the wall paintings are thought to have looked like.

If you’re going to be in the area, come and enjoy the Festival. The Chapel is open all day on Saturday, Sunday and Monday and it’ll definitely be worth the modest entrance fee.

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The death of kings

Posted on May 21, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

Henry VI

The 21st May is the anniversary of the murder of Henry VI, according to Shakespeare committed by Richard Duke of Gloucester, later to be Richard III. And 22nd May is the anniversary of capture of Henry VI by the Yorkists.

These two events are both dramatised in Shakespeare’s play Henry VI Part 3, although six years came between them, the king being captured in 1465 and his death in 1471. Earlier in the play, Shakespeare gives Henry an almost hypnotic speech, full of repetition, in which he speaks of his longing for a simple life:
O god!  methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;…
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece…
Ah, what a life were this! How sweet! How lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery? 

When Richard comes to the Tower of London to murder Henry, the image of the shepherd and his sheep, with all its Christian associations, is used again:
So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf;
So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece;
And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. 

Shakespeare returned again to the death of Henry VI. There’s no gap between the end of Henry VI Part 3 and the start of Richard III, and  Henry’s corpse is being accompanied by Lady Anne, the King’s daughter-in-law, to burial. Richard, who has killed not only the King but his son, Lady Anne’s husband, interrupts its journey. In an extraordinary moment, Lady Anne draws back the cloth covering the corpse, which bleeds in the presence of the murderer. This must have been seen by some in the audience as not much short of magic. Then in one of the strangest and most unlikely of scenes, Richard proceeds to woo Lady Anne while the corpse remains on stage.

The killing of Henry VI is much less well known than the murder of Richard II, depicted some years later in a masterful piece of writing. But the story of this gentle, ineffectual king and his violent death seems to have made a great impact on Shakespeare.

Henry’s lasting legacy was in the field of education: he founded Eton College and King’s College Cambridge. On the anniversary of his death an ancient ritual known as the Ceremony of the Lilies and the Roses is still observed: the Provosts of the two colleges and the Chaplain of the Tower of London lay flowers, lilies from Eton and roses from King’s, in the room where Henry was murdered.

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Setting Shakespeare’s drama in context

Posted on May 19, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

I’ve been looking at  the first volume of a new reference work, British Drama 1533-1642: A Catalogue. Volume 1, 1533-1566, and recently met with its author Dr Martin Wiggins, Senior Lecturer and Fellow of the Shakespeare Institute in Stratford-upon-Avon.

It’s a subject he knows well. Back in 2000 he published Shakespeare and the Drama of his Time, and during the writing of the book speculated about what would have made the job of writing it easier. This new book is the answer. It will grow to be the first complete, systematic survey of all British drama dating from 1533, the beginning of the English reformation, to 1642, the start of the English revolution which signalled the closing of the theatres and the suspension of commercial playwriting.

In his preface Dr Wiggins explains the problem he had with the word “and” in the title of the earlier book. Since being elevated to near-divine status in the eighteenth century Shakespeare has been seen isolated above all his contemporaries.
This vast, eclectic body of drama tends to be treated rather like a mountain, with Shakespeare enthroned in solitary magnificence at the peak and other plays at progressively lower levels. It is the only mountain where everyone starts at the top and hardly anyone gets down as far as ground level. I wanted to turn the mountain into a plateau.

This idea of seeing Shakespeare as both above and separate from above fellow-writers is still prevalent. Just in the last few weeks, the idea that Shakespeare may have collaborated on All’s Well That Ends Well has been widely discussed in the media, still uncomfortable with the notion that he was one of a large group of professional writers in the hurly-burly of Elizabethan and Jacobean England, exchanging ideas and often working together.

Knowing exactly what was required, Wiggins planned the book in detail. It will cover every known play, extant and lost, around 2800 in all. The publisher’s blurb explains how the book works:
Each entry contains comprehensive information about a single play: its various titles, authorship, and date; a summary of the plot, a list of roles, and details of the human and geographical world in which the fictional action takes place; a list of sources, narrative and verbal, and a summary of the formal characteristics; details of the staging requirements; and an account of the early stage and textual history.

The first volume, the only one out so far, covers 34 years. The second, being published later this year, will cover 13, the third 8 and the fourth only the five years 1598 to 1602. This progression shows not only that more plays were produced as time went on, but also illustrates the changing status and quality of plays, from those devised for and performed for a specific occasion to ones that people wanted to repeat or to read for themselves.

He treats the plays as primarily theatrical artefacts, and only secondarily as literary. The definition of “drama” is wide including interludes, royal entertainments, masques and biblical puppet shows as well as plays.

Though originally envisaged as a wholly electronic resource, it is to the credit of  Oxford University Press, to be published as a series of  between 10 and 12 hardback volumes as well as online. This massive work of scholarship has already taken around 10 years, and may take another 10 to complete.

The books and online resource, when launched, are set to become a standard work of reference for students of the drama of the period and are sure to stimulate new thinking about how Shakespeare fits in to the theatrical landscape of his period. I look forward to reading the results of work done by students taking advantage of this outstanding piece of scholarship.

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Memory, forgetting, and performance

Posted on May 16, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

Rebekah Brooks and others testifying to the Leveson Inquiry claim to have staggeringly poor memories of events. Zoe Williams, in her Guardian article of 11 May commented “You couldn’t live a life with this bad a memory. Never mind that you’d never be able to do a demanding job, you wouldn’t be able to pass your GCSE’s”.

Without making any assumptions about the reason why those being investigated might have forgotten so much, it’s certainly true that memory does play tricks on all of us.

I’m currently reading Simon Callow’s book Charles Dickens and the Theatre of the World (a great read by the way). Memory took a major part in Dickens’ own life, his own story coming out in those semi-autobiographical novels. Callow points out that Dickens got his love for the theatre from his mother, who also tended to dramatise events from her own life.
She liked to say that she had been dancing all night the day before Charles was born; diligent research has shown that the ball took place four days earlier, which only goes to show what a spoilsport diligent research can be.

Peter Holland’s book Shakespeare, Memory and Performance is a collection of essays in which diligent academics look at memory and its reliability in many different ways.  In his own chapter he finds that the question “How do actors remember all those lines?” is not nearly so simple as you might think. Books on acting offer virtually no tips or advice, yet for ordinary people it’s the greatest mystery of the actor’s art.

He also  addresses the question of how actors often get it wrong, and tells some delightful stories of Harriet Walter substituting “gravy” for “glory” when playing Beatrice, and of Robert Stephens playing Falstaff towards the end of his life when remembering the lines every night was by far the most difficult challenge he faced in performing the role.

Costumes for Oberon and Titania from the RSC's 1981 production of A Midsummer Night's Dream

Other essays look at ways of pinning down performances by looking at material remains like costumes and props, as if these items retain within themselves some vestige of the performance. Official records, the archives such as prompt books, production photographs and even nowadays the archival video, seem to offer certainty, but as anyone who’s done any research into performance knows, all these can be misleading, and in any case don’t offer more than a misty reflection of the thing itself. Memory, whether it’s the actor’s memories of playing the role, the director’s or the audience’s, is in some ways the only real way of getting at the performance. Where would we be now without written down recollections like those of Simon Forman who inadvertently wrote the first review of Macbeth at the Globe?

Shakespeare’s plays are full of memories, whether it’s Oberon’s memory of “where the bolt of Cupid fell”, marking the place where love in idleness grows in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Fluellen reminding Henry V of the garden where leeks grew, or Polonius losing his place in his speech to Reynaldo in Hamlet.

David Tennant in the RSC's 2008 production of Hamlet

At the beginning of the play the Ghost’s command “Remember me” sparks Hamlet’s response “Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat in this distracted globe”.  Hamlet is a play obsessed with memory, from Hamlet’s remembering of his mother’s love of his father “Why she would hang on him”, Horatio’s comparison of old Hamlet with his ghost “I knew your father. These hands are not more like”, Hamlet remembering the Player’s speech about Hecuba, “I heard thee speak me a speech once” and most powerfully, the moment when Hamlet picks up the skull of Yorick and memories of his childhood come flooding back.

Memories of performance can be powerful, and discussing a production from the past goes beyond the “Do you remember the bit where…” chat. Every person who sees a production sees something different because of where they were sitting, and because each performance is different from the next. But we also see productions differently because of who we are at the moment when we see them. Memories, can be deeply personal and may be much more compelling than the facts. Nobody wants their memories shattered.

The Leveson Inquiry is charged with researching diligently, probing deep into the recollections of conversations and events. In remembering performance, though, diligent research can indeed be just a spoilsport.

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Nine Men’s Morris and the English weather

Posted on May 14, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

The Nine-Men's Morris in Stratford

Last week I was contacted by a reader of this blog with a query about the Nine Men’s Morris in the Theatre Gardens in Stratford-upon-Avon. How old, he wondered, was it?

I should explain. Nine Men’s Morris is an ancient game which has been played in one form or another  for thousands of years. It’s played on a square board with marked fixed points, as in the illustration.

In England the layout of the board has been found incised into the stones of some churches, but it’s a game that unlike chess or backgammon, is no longer popularly played, so here’s a link to the rules.

The Nine Men’s Morris in Stratford, though, is marked out on the ground by concrete or stone markers in the grass. The reason why it’s there is of course because Shakespeare mentions the game, in Titania’s speech in A Midsummer Night’s Dream where she talks about that favourite topic of conversation, the weather:
The nine men’s morris is filled up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguishable.
But when did the Nine Men’s Morris get put near the theatre?

The osier beds with Holy Trinity Church beyond

I conferred with expert local historian Mairi Macdonald who suggested it was not earlier than twentieth century, perhaps 1920s or 1930s. A photograph taken around 1870 shows the osier beds which used to grow on this area before they were removed to be turned into decorative gardens. It’s always been a wet area, and the depressions round the markers are still often filled up with mud, (did they put the Morris there deliberately, so people could see that nothing’s changed?). The RSC planned to move the Morris as part of its recent reconstruction for exactly this reason, even quoting Titania’s speech in their application, but it remains where it’s been for so long just opposite The Dirty Duck.

I’ve consulted a few histories of the town, none of which mention it, even a little book dating from 1911 by Reginald Buckley called The Shakespeare Revival, and the Stratford-upon-Avon Movement. The movement referred to was an attempt to build on the current revival of interest in folk art. Frank Benson, the director of the Shakespeare Festivals in Stratford-upon-Avon, had for several years promoted the connection between Shakespeare and the traditions of England, culminating in 1910 in a Folk Festival that ran alongside the summer Shakespeare Festival, featuring Morris dancing, singing, drama and games.

The photograph from this book shows young girls Morris dancing on a raft actually floating in the river. This must have been done for the camera! There is still a link to this tradition in the folk-dancing which is performed by children of the town on the morning of Shakespeare’s Birthday. I’m sure this book would have mentioned the Morris if it had been there in 1911, and my guess is that it was laid out shortly afterwards when the enthusiasm for folk art was still high. I’ve never been quite sure why the game shares its name with Morris dancing, except that both are traditional English pastimes.

April this year was the wettest on record, and the weather has been a reminder of the conditions Titania speaks of:
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge have sucked up from the sea
Contagious fogs which, falling in the land,
Hath every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents.

Over the weekend we have seen the usually gentle River Avon turn into a dangerous and deadly place. Saturday afternoon was sunny, but the river was running high. At Barford, a village not far from Charlecote, a few miles upstream from Stratford, a man and one of his three children lost their lives when their rowing boat capsized in a tragic accident. Even in this normally quiet and tranquil part of England it’s been a sad reminder that we need to be take account of nature’s power.

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The Comedy of Errors

Posted on May 11, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

Stephen Hagan as Antipholus of Ephesus and Felix Hayes as Dromio of Ephesus

The RSC’s Shipwreck trilogy is subtitled “What country friends is this?” and in the production of The Comedy of Errors directed by the Palestinian Amir Nizar Zuabi, it’s a question that the audience might easily find themselves asking. Set in a modern industrial port full of smugglers and traders in dodgy goods, governed by a dangerous and unpredictable ruler, the threat is real. Much is made of the comic potential of oil drums and packing cases, and there’s plenty of slapstick. The violence of the tableau presented at the interval, though, meant that when I saw it the audience remained completely silent until the house lights were fully up.

The grimness of the setting must reflect the Director’s experience, but is it really called for? Surely the play asks enough serious questions about identity and relationships for it to deserve its place, without making it unnecessarily violent. 

The Comedy of Errors is a play usually overlooked in favour of more mature comedies like A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Twelfth Night.  And it sounds both heavy going and inconsequential: an adaptation of Plautus’s Roman comedy Menaechmi, a farce, all plot.

But Shakespeare made some bold changes to the Latin original, not least the addition of a second pair of twins to make the confusion even greater and the questions about identity sharper. Shakespeare’s play is brilliantly plotted, keeping all the balls spinning. In his hand it’s not just a breathless romp: there are wonderful moments where he stops the action of the play and connects with the audience. Here, you can see Shakespeare becoming Shakespeare, and its the success or failure of these moments that for me make a successful production.

The first of those still moments comes early in the play. Shakespeare changes the balance from Plautus: in Menaechmi we first meet the brother who is “at home”. But Shakespeare introduces us first to the other brother, Antipholus of Syracuse, who in the violent setting of this production, like us wants to know “What country friends is this?” In this production Jonathan McGuinness, left alone on stage, steps forward and directly addresses the audience:
I to the world am like a drop of water
That in the ocean seeks another drop,
Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself.
So I, to find a mother and a brother,
In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 

A little later, the wife of the other brother reminds us of that image of the drop of water. Instead of adding a drop to the ocean, she talks about the impossibility of removing one drop to divide man and wife.
For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulf,
And take unmingled thence that drop again
Without addition or diminishing
As take from my thyself, and not me too.

Kirsty Bushell as Adriana, Jonathan McGuinness as Antipholus of Syracuse

In Plautus’s play the Courtesan is the main female part, but Shakespeare chooses to concentrate on Adriana, who instead of a scold, becomes at times a poignantly neglected wife in a largely loveless marriage. It’s this characterisation, combined with the potential for comedy, that has ensured distinguished actresses like Diana Rigg, Judi Dench and Zoe Wanamaker take the part.

Shakespeare introduces a sister for the wife, a counterpoint to her sister with her own serious view of marriage, who also completes the symmetry of the play as the love interest for the visiting Antipholus. I was puzzled by the costuming of Emily Taaffe as Luciana, who appears little more than a child making Antipholus’s declaration of love seem inappropriate. A pity, because although it’s not Romeo and Juliet, you can see how Shakespeare could develop into the author of the great romantic drama:
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
The folded meaning of your words’ deceit….
Are you a god? Would you create me new?
Transform me, then, and to your power I’ll yield….
Sing , siren, for thyself, and I will dote;
Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs;
And as a bed I’ll take them, and there lie,
And, in that glorious supposition, think
He gains by death that hath such mean to die.

Slowing down the frenetic comic scenes, Shakespeare also includes a wonderful comic sequence: the master/servant double act, so like a music hall sketch, where the servant “finds countries” in the fat kitchen wench who is chasing him. In this production Jonathan McGuinness and Bruce Mackinnon thoroughly enjoy this fun exchange.

By the end, the audience for this production has as usual with this play forgotten its earlier seriousness, celebrating the joyous reunion of the family. But The Comedy of Errors is also worth considering for those moments where Shakespeare begins to show his ability as a creator of real characters and situations.

The RSC photographs are taken by Keith Pattison and copyright of the Royal Shakespeare Company

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Painting the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

The Boydell Shakespeare Gallery influenced how many people visualised Shakespeare’s plays for most of the nineteenth century, and I’m going to look at some of the images, following up my post on 20 April. The gallery of images is at the end of the post.

33 painters were commissioned to produce nearly 200 paintings, from which 46 engravers made black and white engravings, large and small. With such a large project, it isn’t surprising that it was unwieldy. Nobody had really decided how the painters should approach Shakespeare’s plays as subjects. Were the artists to represent key moments in the plays, or the inner struggles of the characters? Should the paintings represent the best of stage productions, be portraits of real people, or purely the products of the artist’s imagination?  Should they include scenes which are merely described in the plays, or just the scenes as written? Every variation is represented by paintings in the Gallery.

The painters came from many different backgrounds: some specialised in portraits, others in landscape, some were book illustrators, and at least one was a painter who painted sets for theatres, while another had been the official painter on foreign expeditions. Many had spent years studying the Italian Old Masters, or the great Dutch painter Rembrandt.

The entire enterprise depended on the paintings being turned into black and white engravings, so scenes that use dramatic variations of light and shade were always favoured. The nocturnal image of The Merchant of Venice is a landscape of a classical garden in moonlight complete with temple reminiscent of the Rotondo at Stowe Gardens, which successfully conveys the romantic mood of Shakespeare’s scene.

Scenes of the supernatural were also effective, such as the ghost of Julius Caesar appearing to Brutus, Romney’s picture of The Tempest, which includes individualised portraits of the sailors on the tempest-tossed ship and the controlling figure of Prospero, and John Opie’s fantastic scene of Mother Jourdain conjuring a devil in Henry VI Part 2. These dramatic engravings must have been greatly admired when first produced.

Some of the painters included an extraordinary amount of detail based on Shakespeare’s text, as in Fuseli’s painting of the awakening of Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Reynolds’ Macbeth with the apparitions. I particularly like the way in the Macbeth picture that the apparitions appear as if from underneath a blanket thrown into the air.

Some of the paintings are composed as if the scene was played in a theatre. It’s easy to imagine a stage version of The Two Gentlemen of Verona with the final scene played in front of a forest backdrop just like this, and similarly the scene in Measure for Measure, where Angelo, on the throne, hides his face in guilt from the Duke, could easily be imagined as a stage performance.

There are few attempts at historical authenticity, but several of the characters in The Comedy of Errors wear Eastern costume, and the cluttered Richard II deposition scene revels in the heraldry, armour and religious robes of the medieval setting.

Northcote’s two pictures of Richard III, the smothering of the little princes and the removal of their bodies, are powerful imaginings of awful events in the plot which Shakespeare only hints at. The composition adds to the power of the pictures: the second is drawn from Caravaggio’s Deposition of the body of Christ.

Some paintings were straightforward portraits: Romney’s painting of Cassandra raving is a portrait of Emma Hamilton and she also turns up as Miranda in The Tempest painting.

Humour isn’t easy to convey on canvas, and these paintings rarely managed it successfully. Fuseli seems to want to keep the mood light in his painting of Falstaff and Doll Tearsheet, but Falstaff has more the appearance of an indulgent uncle than a ridiculously lecherous old man, and Doll, perched on his knee, looks respectable rather than comic wearing her jaunty feathered hat.

My favourite picture though is one which makes no attempt to be anything other than a flat image: West’s King Lear on the heath. The characters fill the frame, leaving no room for a historical or topographical setting. The image is full of movement and emotion, and contains telling details like the way Gloucester’s and Lear’s faces are set against their dark billowing cloaks.

These are less then ten per cent of the images in the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery. The scans don’t do the originals justice, but I hope they give you a flavour of these images.

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Shakespeare, Italy and the theatre

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

With so much going on in the World Shakespeare Festival at the moment it’s hard to keep up. I spent last week away, with no TV or internet access and just catching programmes I missed is quite a job. 

One that I didn’t realise I was going to be missing was the first of Francesco da Mosto’s two-part series on Shakespeare in Italy. His interest in Shakespeare is genuine:
Among Italians, Shakespeare is certainly the best-known foreign writer. It’s interesting for us to see how he describes Mark Antony, and how his Octavius resembles Machiavelli’s Prince. But the most important this is the way he described emotions that are universal. It hits you like a punch in the stomach. 

In the first programme he talked about Shakespeare and the universal emotion of love, but the one going out this Thursday looks at the political landscape, visiting Venice’s Jewish ghetto, Rome and Sicily which the Radio Times confidently assures us was the setting for The Tempest. Really? 

The Sunday Telegraph on 6 May ran a three-page piece on the programmes in its Travel section, which in itself tells us something about the aims of the series. It does sound more like an advertisement for the beauties of Venice, da Mosto’s home, than an attempt to find Shakespeare connections, some of which seem a little strained.  In The Merchant of Venice, Launcelot Gobbo gives deliberately confusing directions: “Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the very next turning of all, on your left…turn of no hand but turn down indirectly”. This, the programme suggests, is recognisable as Venice with its maze of alleyways, as if Venice was the only city with a complicated layout. Da Mosto has his own ideas about the identity of Othello which I suspect indicate more about the myths and legends that have sprung up about Shakespeare in the past four hundred years than actual fact. But even if the programme doesn’t provide any new insights into the “did he or didn’t he” question it’ll be worth watching for the images of  this beautiful country, accompanied by the always charming  Francesco da Mosto driving his Alfa Romeo. 

On returning to Stratford I wandered into the Royal Shakespeare Theatre to find a little pamphlet discussing Shakespeare’s life, entitled Alas Poor Yorick, or What if Shakespeare fell off the wall?, written by Peter Brook. The eminent Shakespeare director’s essay has been published to celebrate Shakespeare’s Birthday and as a tribute to Michael Boyd who leaves the RSC later this year after ten years as Artistic Director.

I was quite surprised to see Peter Brook joining the fray surrounding the authorship question, but as the most important figure in theatre in the second half of the twentieth century, nobody is better qualified than he to point out the impossibility of an imposter being able to pass himself off as the author of the plays.
Who was this man, acting, rubbing shoulders in rehearsal, sitting for hours talking to all and sundry in the taverns without anyone suspecting he was a fake! An actor says to an author – “Can’t you change that line?” or “I haven’t enough time for the costume change – could you write a soliloquy or a little scene on the forestage to help?”…

No one smelt a rat amongst all those spiteful and jealous rivals? I’m sorry academics – if you’d been part of any rehearsal process you would think differently. Even today, imagine a phoney writer. The cast would begin to notice and gossip about the fact that every time you ask something, the author slips into the wings with his cell phone. 

Brook’s estimate of Shakespeare’s genius is more cerebral than Francesco da Mosto’s, but does not exclude it:
But Shakespeare was unique. He never judged – he gave an endless multitude of points of view with their own fullness of life, leaving the questions open both to the humanity and to the intelligence of the spectator.

Copies of the essay are being given away in the theatre and there’s an article in The Daily Telegraph giving more details. Later this year it will form part of a new book on Shakespeare by Peter Brook, The Quality of Mercy, being published by Nick Hern Books.

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Remembering Shakespeare at Yale

Posted on May 4, 2012 by Sylvia Morris

I know I’ve written about it before, but if you’re interested in the history of Shakespeare in print you really should take a look at the blog attached to Yale University’s current exhibition Remembering Shakespeare.  The University’s Beinecke Library contains a wonderful collection of early editions, illustrated books and material about Shakespeare on stage, and PhD student Matt Hunter has been doing a great job of putting images of these treasures onto the blog with his informative commentary.

 Following the theme of remembering Shakespeare, I’ve been particularly interested in things that were written about Shakespeare after his death. I’m highlighting three of these, two of which contain manuscript additions to the printed text, making the books unique. 

The first example, in the blog for 18 April, was published in 1687, before Shakespeare’s reputation had begun to rise above the level of a normal man. In his Lives of the Most Famous Poets, William Winstanley wrote of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson in a humorous, informal way.
“Many were the Wit combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson,” he wrote, “which two we may compare to a Spanish Galleon, and an English Man of War; Mr. Jonson (like the former), was built far higher in Learning, solid, but slow in his performances; Shakespeare, with the English Man of War, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all Tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds by the quickness of his Wit and Invention.”

It’s one of the most delightful references to Shakespeare, and comes relatively soon after his death, before, for instance, Nicholas Rowe’s attempt to construct a biography for his edition of the plays which was published in 1709. Incidentally there are also many illustrations of this edition on the blog.

 The second example was published on 20 April, the 1778 Modern Characters of Shakespeare. This little book  prints extracts from Shakespeare’s works, but it’s an irreverent view. To each quotation the author has attached the name of a contemporary figure – leaving a few gaps in the name to avoid getting into trouble. The disguise was never meant to be a hard puzzle to solve, and the owner of the book has gone through it, filling in the names by hand. 

The final one was published on 21 April, and it’s a 1773 volume of poems. This takes a really satirical look at Shakespeare’s poems. Not for the last time, Hamlet’s “To Be or Not To Be” is parodied. In this book, the poem is headed “Hamlet’s soliloquy, imitated” and its first line reads “To print or not to print – that is the question”.

 These examples all illustrate the fact that Shakespeare’s plays and poems were seen as fair game for writers and printers, even in the late eighteenth century when Garrick was promoting the idea of the divine Shakespeare.

 The exhibition catalogue, which the curator David Scott Kastan has very kindly sent me, is a beautiful, highly informative book on the subject of the history of the appreciation of Shakespeare from the earliest days. I haven’t been able to get to the exhibition itself, but he and Matt Hunter are doing Shakespeare-lovers and students a great service by making the holdings of the Beinecke Library available online.

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