My favorite Twelfth Night and my favorite Shakespeare movie in general has for years been Trevor Nunn's 1996 Twelfth Night movie. I'd seen at least a couple of other Twelfth Night productions, not counting the charming half-hour Shakespeare: The Animated Tales version, but that movie was the best. Maybe it still is, but I have a new favorite Feste.
Unless I prove fickle and go back to Ben Kingsley, my new favorite Feste is Trevor Peacock.
I recently finally got around to watching the BBC Complete Shakespeare Plays' 1980 version of Twelfth Night. These productions weren't all good, but I'm more easily pleased than a lot of people when it comes to filmed plays, and I like a lot of them. Their Twelfth Night turns out to be one of the ones I like. I like the Elizabethan costumes and interiors. Felicity Kendal is, as always, cute as a button as Viola. Duke Orsino is much more palatable than he usually is. Sir Toby Belch (Robert Hardy) is good, Sir Andrew Aguecheek is good, and so is Maria (Annette Crosbie, perhaps best known as Victor Meldrew's long-suffering wife, in One Foot in the Grave) . The attractive Robert Lindsay, whom I've mentioned before, is also in this as Fabian and he's good too.
But as you might guess from the title, my favorite here is Trevor Peacock as Feste. Remembering him only from his somewhat less than coherent or pleasant comic character in The Vicar of Dibley, I was surprised the first time he turned up in one of the Complete Shakespeare Plays history plays. He seemed an odd choice. Physically, if for no other reason. But he's actually a good actor and his short, stubby appearance is no impediment to playing a jester. I really like him as Feste. His interplay with Olivia (Sinead Cusack) works very well; I totally buy their relationship--I see why she welcomes him back into her home and why, other than the obvious patronage, he comes back.
But what I especially love are his songs. You can hear them in clips from the YouTube user ShakespeareAndMore. I love best the "sweet and twenty" song from the rowdy three's overnight carousing scene; it is so poignant, it pulls at my heartstrings, corroded with cynicism though they may be. But he's no slouch in the "wind and rain" song, either, which was the part I liked best in Ben Kingsley's performance.
I really, really wish the owners of the rights to these old TV Complete Plays programs would get with the program and make them available individually to viewers at a reasonable price. I would love to own this DVD, but I can only rent it from Netflix. Word to whoever out there is in charge of this: There is an audience, guys. Make your product available to us, somewhere we can actually find it, and at a price that doesn't make us gasp, and we will buy it and you will make a little money from each one we buy. Overprice it and make it hard to find at any price and you might make more per each DVD you manage to sell, but you won't make as much overall.
Only tangentially related to any of this, is an experience that YouTube user gave me. Months ago I found an old (1960) version of The Tempest from American television and starring Maurice Evans (Bewitched) that he'd shared. Remember I've mentioned how I've often been known to "channel" Homer Simpson and at least once channelled Foamy the Squirrel? Well, upon seeing the male playing Ferdinand walk toward the camera in his pantsless costume, I--for the first time ever (and after disagreeing many times with my husband and his bachelor friends about the supposedly always baleful presence of male "parts" in movies)--channelled the bots from MST3K and yelped out an "aaaargh", followed by a "Men should not have 'areas'!" Sorry to any guys who enjoy dancing around the French Quarter in similar costumes on Mardi Gras, but it was a spontaneous reaction.
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, December 18, 2008
You Can (Sometimes) Go Back Again
It can be dangerous to revisit books or movies and TV we loved as a child; there is always the possibility that what seemed so very good back then will be revealed as pretty poor stuff. I can't remember the first time this happened to me, but I do remember that by age 16 or 17 I was afraid to reread any of the Katherine Mansfield stories I'd thought were so great at age 13.
This year I've had two good re-visits though. One book and one TV movie.
The Book
When I was in second grade I fell in very great like with the Five Dolls books by Helen Clare. My elementary school library had three of the five books: Five Dolls in the Snow, Five Dolls and the Duke, and Five Dolls and Their Friends. (The other two books are Five Dolls in a House and Five Dolls and the Monkey.) These books were about an English girl named Elizabeth Small, who had learned the trick of turning herself small so she could visit with the dolls who lived in her dollhouse. Each chapter of the books covered one visit.
I'm not entirely sure what about these books appealed to me so much back then; they are not great books and I did not mistake them as such even then. The dolls and the monkey were fun, as were the black-and-white illustrations, and it was all a bit silly--the dolls' behavior, I mean--and maybe that was enough. Or maybe it was the Englishness, that had me reading new words I'd never seen before--words like pillar box, tam-o-shanter, vicar, hundreds and thousands. Whatever it was, I checked these books out more than once. In fact, I wanted to own them so much that I thought about copying one of them, Five Dolls in the Snow, out longhand. (Cultural note to those under thirty-five or so: This was the late seventies, before the days when everyone had easy access to photocopy machines, not to mention home scanners and printers. In school our pre-copied worksheets or tests came in mimeographed form--purple ink on paper that would still be faintly damp from the machine and redolent of ink when we got them.) I decided that would take too long, though, and settled on copying out one chapter, the one where Elizabeth brought the dolls a truckload of groceries. (Foreign terms there included lorry and treacle.) I did not regret the time spent.
Off and on since the '90s I've tried to find copies of these books from online sellers. (Looking in my local libraries proved fruitless.) I looked under all the titles and under Helen Clare's other pseudonym of Pauline Clarke, and I could usually find some copies, but they were always priced outrageously. Seriously. Until last year I don't think I'd ever seen one under fifty dollars; they usually started higher than that and were frequently over a hundred dollars. Which seems pretty high for children's books that were printed in the USA in the late '60s by a non-obscure publisher (reprints of British books from the '50s and early '60s) and which are not particularly collectible. Especially considering they were often discarded library copies.
So, earlier this year when I finally found one of these listed as a good condition book with somewhat worn dust jacket for under twenty dollars, even after adding on the shipping, I didn't have to think too hard. I figured satisfying a long-felt nostalgic desire was worth that much.
And it was.
The book was Five Dolls and the Monkey, which I'd never read before. You can see the cover art here. I liked the cover as soon as I opened the package and when I opened the book I saw to my pleasure that there was a chapter called "Dressmaking". I read the whole book with pleasure. As an adult with many years of watching British TV shows and reading British books behind me, there was no novelty of terms to be had, but there was an almost eerie strangeness to the little scene where a butterfly--huge and strange to doll-sized Elizabeth--lands among the dolls in their garden. And the whole thing felt like revisiting one of the pleasanter bits of my childhood, except it was a book I hadn't actually had the opportunity to read then. I made up for that by rereading it a couple of times. I think I got my eighteen or so dollars worth of pleasure.
Since then I've found a cheaper still, ex-library copy of Five Dolls and the Duke, which was my least preferred of the three I read as a child. (I had some trouble visualizing part of the theater scene.) I think I was right then, and it is not as good as the others, but it was still nice. I would not mind having the rest of these books, or at least getting the opportunity to reread them some day. Or in the case of the first book, reading it for the first time; I'd especially like to know how Elizabeth's acquiring of the turning small trick was handled.
The TV Show
When I was, I think, fourteen, I turned on the PBS one evening to find something starting called Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice and then Beatrice and Benedick together had me hooked within minutes, and I watched the whole thing with increasing pleasure. When the TV play was over, I went to bed and pulled out the complete volume of Shakespeare that had come from a box of old books my mother had bought me at a garage sale. (With its limp red cover, two columns of text on each page, thin paper, and annoying practice of abbreviating the names of the speaker it is, bizaarely perhaps, a volume I miss in my pruned down library.) I turned to MAAN and read it straight through before I went to sleep.
And that was the beginning of my love of Shakespeare.
It wasn't my introduction. I had seen Zeferelli's justly famous Romeo and Juliet when it was on television near Valentine's Day, even read the play, and had perhaps seen Laurence Olivier's As You Like It by this time. I may even have read a little more than R&J by then, but I don't remember. What I do remember is that that was the first time I fell in love with anything from Shakespeare, and it was the play that ensured I read all the rest (except Troilus and Cressida--I've never managed that) and watched as many live action and filmed versions of the plays as I could. I am not a scholar nor an actor or theater buff, just a lowly audience member and reader. In other words one of the people who help keep Shakepeare alive outside the literary journals (circulation 200) and give the actors someone to perform to. But back to the production in question.
In later years I carried the memory of this with me, but I did not know what production it was--the names of any of the actors or the director or anything. I thought it likely it was part of The Complete Shakespeare Plays, the BBC project (in conjunction with some American group) to film all of the plays, because the time period was right, but it could not be sure. For all that they were put on television for free viewing in the late '70s and early '80s, these plays have not been easy to get hold of since. In the late '90s the VHS were priced at $99 a piece, if you could run down the place to order them from; buying the whole set was something like $2500--a savings, but still expensive. Overpriced, I'd say, especially considering the quality was uneven over the series. For most people, if their library didn't have them, they weren't going to get to see them. But things have improved. They came out on DVD with some mini boxed collections of selected plays--not necessarily the most desirable choices, though--and a couple of years ago Netflix added a few of the more popular titles--the ones high school kids are likely to have to read for school--from the series. And now Netflix seems to have all the titles from this series and this year I have watched many of them I did not get to see on PBS or later from a library I had access to; watching the history cycles in order was especially nice.
A couple of weeks ago that series' MAAN came in the post and I watched it and it was the one I saw back then and, though I had feared it would be otherwise, I enjoyed it all over again. It was not new as it was then, but it had the pleasure of familiarity in the well-worn words and the pleasure of remembering the production as I saw it again. The Beatrice of Cherie Lunghi had a slight edge of bitterness that I was oblivious to when I was a girl (not unsupportable from the text), but all the actors were good, especially Robert Lindsay as Benedick. Okay, Graham Crowden's friar looks a bit crazy and it was hard for me not to think of him in Waiting for God when I saw him, but I'm not sure that actor can help looking a bit crazy in any part--something about his eyes; I had no such problem with Clive Dunn from Dad's Army as Dogberry's doddering assistant. Otherwise I just enjoyed my nostalgic trip ("Oh, there's the orange trees, oh there's Beatrice sneaking behind the trees, just like I remember, oh there's Benedick looking somewhat hangdog and foolish without his beard") and Robert Lindsay's Benedick and the beautifully made costumes. I even kept the disc another couple of days so I could watch it again, all cosy and warm in my chair, working on an afghan. Do I know how to have fun or do I know how to have fun?! The answer to that is yes. And you can have fun too if you add this to your Netflix queue.
This year I've had two good re-visits though. One book and one TV movie.
The Book
When I was in second grade I fell in very great like with the Five Dolls books by Helen Clare. My elementary school library had three of the five books: Five Dolls in the Snow, Five Dolls and the Duke, and Five Dolls and Their Friends. (The other two books are Five Dolls in a House and Five Dolls and the Monkey.) These books were about an English girl named Elizabeth Small, who had learned the trick of turning herself small so she could visit with the dolls who lived in her dollhouse. Each chapter of the books covered one visit.
I'm not entirely sure what about these books appealed to me so much back then; they are not great books and I did not mistake them as such even then. The dolls and the monkey were fun, as were the black-and-white illustrations, and it was all a bit silly--the dolls' behavior, I mean--and maybe that was enough. Or maybe it was the Englishness, that had me reading new words I'd never seen before--words like pillar box, tam-o-shanter, vicar, hundreds and thousands. Whatever it was, I checked these books out more than once. In fact, I wanted to own them so much that I thought about copying one of them, Five Dolls in the Snow, out longhand. (Cultural note to those under thirty-five or so: This was the late seventies, before the days when everyone had easy access to photocopy machines, not to mention home scanners and printers. In school our pre-copied worksheets or tests came in mimeographed form--purple ink on paper that would still be faintly damp from the machine and redolent of ink when we got them.) I decided that would take too long, though, and settled on copying out one chapter, the one where Elizabeth brought the dolls a truckload of groceries. (Foreign terms there included lorry and treacle.) I did not regret the time spent.
Off and on since the '90s I've tried to find copies of these books from online sellers. (Looking in my local libraries proved fruitless.) I looked under all the titles and under Helen Clare's other pseudonym of Pauline Clarke, and I could usually find some copies, but they were always priced outrageously. Seriously. Until last year I don't think I'd ever seen one under fifty dollars; they usually started higher than that and were frequently over a hundred dollars. Which seems pretty high for children's books that were printed in the USA in the late '60s by a non-obscure publisher (reprints of British books from the '50s and early '60s) and which are not particularly collectible. Especially considering they were often discarded library copies.
So, earlier this year when I finally found one of these listed as a good condition book with somewhat worn dust jacket for under twenty dollars, even after adding on the shipping, I didn't have to think too hard. I figured satisfying a long-felt nostalgic desire was worth that much.
And it was.
The book was Five Dolls and the Monkey, which I'd never read before. You can see the cover art here. I liked the cover as soon as I opened the package and when I opened the book I saw to my pleasure that there was a chapter called "Dressmaking". I read the whole book with pleasure. As an adult with many years of watching British TV shows and reading British books behind me, there was no novelty of terms to be had, but there was an almost eerie strangeness to the little scene where a butterfly--huge and strange to doll-sized Elizabeth--lands among the dolls in their garden. And the whole thing felt like revisiting one of the pleasanter bits of my childhood, except it was a book I hadn't actually had the opportunity to read then. I made up for that by rereading it a couple of times. I think I got my eighteen or so dollars worth of pleasure.
Since then I've found a cheaper still, ex-library copy of Five Dolls and the Duke, which was my least preferred of the three I read as a child. (I had some trouble visualizing part of the theater scene.) I think I was right then, and it is not as good as the others, but it was still nice. I would not mind having the rest of these books, or at least getting the opportunity to reread them some day. Or in the case of the first book, reading it for the first time; I'd especially like to know how Elizabeth's acquiring of the turning small trick was handled.
The TV Show
When I was, I think, fourteen, I turned on the PBS one evening to find something starting called Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice and then Beatrice and Benedick together had me hooked within minutes, and I watched the whole thing with increasing pleasure. When the TV play was over, I went to bed and pulled out the complete volume of Shakespeare that had come from a box of old books my mother had bought me at a garage sale. (With its limp red cover, two columns of text on each page, thin paper, and annoying practice of abbreviating the names of the speaker it is, bizaarely perhaps, a volume I miss in my pruned down library.) I turned to MAAN and read it straight through before I went to sleep.
And that was the beginning of my love of Shakespeare.
It wasn't my introduction. I had seen Zeferelli's justly famous Romeo and Juliet when it was on television near Valentine's Day, even read the play, and had perhaps seen Laurence Olivier's As You Like It by this time. I may even have read a little more than R&J by then, but I don't remember. What I do remember is that that was the first time I fell in love with anything from Shakespeare, and it was the play that ensured I read all the rest (except Troilus and Cressida--I've never managed that) and watched as many live action and filmed versions of the plays as I could. I am not a scholar nor an actor or theater buff, just a lowly audience member and reader. In other words one of the people who help keep Shakepeare alive outside the literary journals (circulation 200) and give the actors someone to perform to. But back to the production in question.
In later years I carried the memory of this with me, but I did not know what production it was--the names of any of the actors or the director or anything. I thought it likely it was part of The Complete Shakespeare Plays, the BBC project (in conjunction with some American group) to film all of the plays, because the time period was right, but it could not be sure. For all that they were put on television for free viewing in the late '70s and early '80s, these plays have not been easy to get hold of since. In the late '90s the VHS were priced at $99 a piece, if you could run down the place to order them from; buying the whole set was something like $2500--a savings, but still expensive. Overpriced, I'd say, especially considering the quality was uneven over the series. For most people, if their library didn't have them, they weren't going to get to see them. But things have improved. They came out on DVD with some mini boxed collections of selected plays--not necessarily the most desirable choices, though--and a couple of years ago Netflix added a few of the more popular titles--the ones high school kids are likely to have to read for school--from the series. And now Netflix seems to have all the titles from this series and this year I have watched many of them I did not get to see on PBS or later from a library I had access to; watching the history cycles in order was especially nice.
A couple of weeks ago that series' MAAN came in the post and I watched it and it was the one I saw back then and, though I had feared it would be otherwise, I enjoyed it all over again. It was not new as it was then, but it had the pleasure of familiarity in the well-worn words and the pleasure of remembering the production as I saw it again. The Beatrice of Cherie Lunghi had a slight edge of bitterness that I was oblivious to when I was a girl (not unsupportable from the text), but all the actors were good, especially Robert Lindsay as Benedick. Okay, Graham Crowden's friar looks a bit crazy and it was hard for me not to think of him in Waiting for God when I saw him, but I'm not sure that actor can help looking a bit crazy in any part--something about his eyes; I had no such problem with Clive Dunn from Dad's Army as Dogberry's doddering assistant. Otherwise I just enjoyed my nostalgic trip ("Oh, there's the orange trees, oh there's Beatrice sneaking behind the trees, just like I remember, oh there's Benedick looking somewhat hangdog and foolish without his beard") and Robert Lindsay's Benedick and the beautifully made costumes. I even kept the disc another couple of days so I could watch it again, all cosy and warm in my chair, working on an afghan. Do I know how to have fun or do I know how to have fun?! The answer to that is yes. And you can have fun too if you add this to your Netflix queue.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
I think I've discovered a universal law...
I am, for some reason, really amused by the Helsinki Complaints Choir, in which the complaints of Helsinki residents are set to choral music. There is also a knock-off of the idea done by singers in Birmingham, England. The universal law I think I've found is this: Complaining sounds a lot better when you don't understand the language.
Here's links to a few other interesting things I've read online recently:
"Let's Stop Stereotyping Evangelicals" -- A short article urging exactly what the title says. The money quote:
"Even the Moral Majority in its most belligerent form amounted to nothing more terrifying than churchgoers flocking peacefully to the polls on Election Day."
"How to Cheat at Art" -- The text of an illustrated speech on art "cheats" such as the camera obscura; it even talks about some contemporary artists thinking that not leaving in preliminary, "feeling your way" lines is a cheat. We can't see the slides that would have accompanied this speech and the speech hasn't been copy-edited quite so well as it might have been, but it has some interesting tidbits.
"Scientists claim computer has solved mystery of Shakespeare's 'missing play'" -- Newspaper article I read a month ago that I still had in my temporary folder. Two professors claim their computer analysis shows conclusively that Arden of Faversham was written by Shakespeare. I have to confess I had never heard of this play, but its Wikipedia entry sounds interesting enough I might check it out someday.
Something About Underwear in an Article About Something Else --Here's the quote:
"Mine is only the second generation of males in my family to wear underpants. I wear them, and my Dad wore them. Neither of my grandfathers did, though. They wore shirts with long tails. Before putting on their pants, they tucked the shirt tails round underneath to establish the desideratum — apparently universal in pants-wearing cultures — of having something between pants and fundament."
I'd just been thinking about something along those lines when I read this. I think I'm the third generation of women in my family to wear both underpants and bra. According to my mother, when she was a small child (she was born during WWII) country women commonly did not wear bras and some of the very old women did not wear underpants. On the underpants question, bear in mind this was not just a poor part of the country, but a very humid climate; not having an additional layer underneath your dress and slip--or even just under a dress and apron--had some advantages, even if it wasn't the fashion to go without in other parts of the country.
As for bras, though, it's amazing to think how recent the modern bra is in human history. Stays may have provided some support in some eras, but Guinevere, Isolde, and Eleanor of Aquitaine never had any "cross your heart", "lift and separate" type support, and whatever Anne Boleyn may have done as a maid, she didn't "do it in her Maidenform bra". History is full of, if you'll pardon the expression, bouncing boobies--not that any of us ever think about that when reading Jane Austen.
And all of this means--I don't know really. I just found it interesting to think how recently my family, among other families, have taken to underwear. Something most of us regard as a necessity can be a relatively recent addition to people's lives. I was surprised the first time I saw a medieval illustration of people warming themselves near a fire, tunics hitched up and genitals showing, but it was apparently a not uncommon sight then, just as women nursing babies was a common sight before we decided that bottlefeeding was more "scientific" and hygienic than breastfeeding. Anyway, like I said, I'm not going anywhere with this, I'm just musing out loud. Also, I thought that shirt-wrapping thing was kind of cool, although it sounds rather awkward.
Here's links to a few other interesting things I've read online recently:
"Let's Stop Stereotyping Evangelicals" -- A short article urging exactly what the title says. The money quote:
"Even the Moral Majority in its most belligerent form amounted to nothing more terrifying than churchgoers flocking peacefully to the polls on Election Day."
"How to Cheat at Art" -- The text of an illustrated speech on art "cheats" such as the camera obscura; it even talks about some contemporary artists thinking that not leaving in preliminary, "feeling your way" lines is a cheat. We can't see the slides that would have accompanied this speech and the speech hasn't been copy-edited quite so well as it might have been, but it has some interesting tidbits.
"Scientists claim computer has solved mystery of Shakespeare's 'missing play'" -- Newspaper article I read a month ago that I still had in my temporary folder. Two professors claim their computer analysis shows conclusively that Arden of Faversham was written by Shakespeare. I have to confess I had never heard of this play, but its Wikipedia entry sounds interesting enough I might check it out someday.
Something About Underwear in an Article About Something Else --Here's the quote:
"Mine is only the second generation of males in my family to wear underpants. I wear them, and my Dad wore them. Neither of my grandfathers did, though. They wore shirts with long tails. Before putting on their pants, they tucked the shirt tails round underneath to establish the desideratum — apparently universal in pants-wearing cultures — of having something between pants and fundament."
I'd just been thinking about something along those lines when I read this. I think I'm the third generation of women in my family to wear both underpants and bra. According to my mother, when she was a small child (she was born during WWII) country women commonly did not wear bras and some of the very old women did not wear underpants. On the underpants question, bear in mind this was not just a poor part of the country, but a very humid climate; not having an additional layer underneath your dress and slip--or even just under a dress and apron--had some advantages, even if it wasn't the fashion to go without in other parts of the country.
As for bras, though, it's amazing to think how recent the modern bra is in human history. Stays may have provided some support in some eras, but Guinevere, Isolde, and Eleanor of Aquitaine never had any "cross your heart", "lift and separate" type support, and whatever Anne Boleyn may have done as a maid, she didn't "do it in her Maidenform bra". History is full of, if you'll pardon the expression, bouncing boobies--not that any of us ever think about that when reading Jane Austen.
And all of this means--I don't know really. I just found it interesting to think how recently my family, among other families, have taken to underwear. Something most of us regard as a necessity can be a relatively recent addition to people's lives. I was surprised the first time I saw a medieval illustration of people warming themselves near a fire, tunics hitched up and genitals showing, but it was apparently a not uncommon sight then, just as women nursing babies was a common sight before we decided that bottlefeeding was more "scientific" and hygienic than breastfeeding. Anyway, like I said, I'm not going anywhere with this, I'm just musing out loud. Also, I thought that shirt-wrapping thing was kind of cool, although it sounds rather awkward.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Veteran's Day
St. Crispin's Day was October 25, but Veteran's Day (Remembrance Day to Canadians and British folk) is also a good day to listen to this speech. Another memorable recitation of this occurs in the movie Renaissance Man.
And for a reminder of what some of our veterans have endured for us, see this testimony from a POW. Page down and look for the program dated 05/29/06, that interviews Captain Guy Gruters.
One of my favorite characters in the Gospels is the Roman soldier (see Matthew 8:5-13) whose words we echo in every mass, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." Jesus, who had not disdained to visit the man's house where his servant was dying, was amazed at the man's faith. Any Christians who may be inclined to disdain our military personnel should remind themselves of the Roman centurion whose faith impressed Jesus. We should all pray to have his ability to recognize Jesus; and it's an excellent day to add our soldiers, sailors, and airmen to our prayers, if they aren't there already.
And for a reminder of what some of our veterans have endured for us, see this testimony from a POW. Page down and look for the program dated 05/29/06, that interviews Captain Guy Gruters.
One of my favorite characters in the Gospels is the Roman soldier (see Matthew 8:5-13) whose words we echo in every mass, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." Jesus, who had not disdained to visit the man's house where his servant was dying, was amazed at the man's faith. Any Christians who may be inclined to disdain our military personnel should remind themselves of the Roman centurion whose faith impressed Jesus. We should all pray to have his ability to recognize Jesus; and it's an excellent day to add our soldiers, sailors, and airmen to our prayers, if they aren't there already.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
A Little of What I Like and Hope to Like
Some years back, after rather too much time spent in a library (hard as it is to believe such a thing is possible), I asked my husband, "Does it mean there's something wrong with me that I can't read much literary criticism without feeling sick to my stomach?" His answer: "It means you're a normal person."
But writing about books can be very worthwhile, when it's actually about the book, rather than the author's pet political theory or his desire to sound impressive. I think writing about books is most useful when the author gets us to notice something in the work we wouldn't have otherwise. Case in point: Recently I pulled out my Bevington Shakespeare to look up something in As You Like It, and I looked at the introduction. I've read AYLI many times over the years, but Bevington showed me something in the Ages of Man scene that I'd never noticed.
Jaques gives his speech, dividing the life of man into seven stages. In the sixth, the formerly vigorous man has shrunken muscles and his voice is becoming childish again. And that stage is succeeded by the helplessness of extreme old age, when we become "sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." That final line, delivered by a really good actor, is devastating. But Bevington points out something I'd never noticed: that line is immediately followed by Orlando coming in supporting the old Adam, bringing the old man to food and rest before he would take any himself. Adam is moving rapidly toward the seventh age of man, but he is clearly not "sans everything", because there is human kindness and love working in the hearts of the people around him. Something to think about.
Speaking of AYLI, I just found out not more than a couple of months ago that Kenneth Branagh is releasing a movie version of AYLI later this year. How I missed hearing about it until production was complete, I don't know, but it was welcome news (all the more so because it came at a time when it seemed every headline was about the government doing something incredibly stupid, some celebrity saying something unpatriotic or blasphemous, or some technological "advance" that threatens to chip away the foundation of what it means to be human.) AYLI is one of my very favorite plays, and I have high hopes for this production. For one thing, I loved some of Branagh's previous films; for another, I like Kevin Kline; and for a third, Branagh has brought some Japanese elements into this production and, true-dyed Westerner though I am, I am fond of many things Japanese. Also I like the movie poster; a good movie poster doesn't guarantee a good movie, but it never hurts ticket sales and I'm hoping in this case it shows attention paid to quality throughout.
(Does "true-dyed" count as one of those portmanteau terms Tweedledee and Tweedledum talked about--encompassing both "true blue" and "dyed-in-the-wool"? Either that or I'm just linguistically awkward.)
But writing about books can be very worthwhile, when it's actually about the book, rather than the author's pet political theory or his desire to sound impressive. I think writing about books is most useful when the author gets us to notice something in the work we wouldn't have otherwise. Case in point: Recently I pulled out my Bevington Shakespeare to look up something in As You Like It, and I looked at the introduction. I've read AYLI many times over the years, but Bevington showed me something in the Ages of Man scene that I'd never noticed.
Jaques gives his speech, dividing the life of man into seven stages. In the sixth, the formerly vigorous man has shrunken muscles and his voice is becoming childish again. And that stage is succeeded by the helplessness of extreme old age, when we become "sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." That final line, delivered by a really good actor, is devastating. But Bevington points out something I'd never noticed: that line is immediately followed by Orlando coming in supporting the old Adam, bringing the old man to food and rest before he would take any himself. Adam is moving rapidly toward the seventh age of man, but he is clearly not "sans everything", because there is human kindness and love working in the hearts of the people around him. Something to think about.
Speaking of AYLI, I just found out not more than a couple of months ago that Kenneth Branagh is releasing a movie version of AYLI later this year. How I missed hearing about it until production was complete, I don't know, but it was welcome news (all the more so because it came at a time when it seemed every headline was about the government doing something incredibly stupid, some celebrity saying something unpatriotic or blasphemous, or some technological "advance" that threatens to chip away the foundation of what it means to be human.) AYLI is one of my very favorite plays, and I have high hopes for this production. For one thing, I loved some of Branagh's previous films; for another, I like Kevin Kline; and for a third, Branagh has brought some Japanese elements into this production and, true-dyed Westerner though I am, I am fond of many things Japanese. Also I like the movie poster; a good movie poster doesn't guarantee a good movie, but it never hurts ticket sales and I'm hoping in this case it shows attention paid to quality throughout.
(Does "true-dyed" count as one of those portmanteau terms Tweedledee and Tweedledum talked about--encompassing both "true blue" and "dyed-in-the-wool"? Either that or I'm just linguistically awkward.)
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
St. Crispin and St. Elizabeth, Pray for Us
Today is St. Crispin's Day. You can hear Kenneth Branagh's rendition of Shakespeare's Crispin's Day speech online here. (Link via The Corner.) I highly recommend the movie this is taken from. For that matter I also recommend Oliviers WWII-era version. I just like Henry V; it always makes me proud to be English, which is odd, as I'm not English. We can all cry "God for Harry, England, and St. George!" though, can't we? AT least we can when the English aren't killing Catholics for being Catholic or letting Islamofascism breed unchecked in their cities, that is; and on that last maybe we should be asking St. George to protect them.
EWTN's Almanac is listing today as the day honoring St. Elizabeth, the kinswoman of Our Lady and mother of John the Baptist. I thought her feast day was November 5, and Catholic Online backs my memory up. But what the heck, we can ask her to pray for us both days. She may be a lesser Biblical figure and we may know next to nothing about her, but I'm rather fond of her all the same. I've heard her called a patron saint of those who become mothers later in life, and I haven't given up hope of being one of those myself. I also like that Elizabeth recognized holiness when she saw it, and the Visitation, with its lovely image of two pregnant women embracing, is one of my favorite mysteries of the rosary. Uncle Pookie has suggested that I also like Elizabeth's story because her husband was struck dumb; to that I have to say: "No comment."
EWTN's Almanac is listing today as the day honoring St. Elizabeth, the kinswoman of Our Lady and mother of John the Baptist. I thought her feast day was November 5, and Catholic Online backs my memory up. But what the heck, we can ask her to pray for us both days. She may be a lesser Biblical figure and we may know next to nothing about her, but I'm rather fond of her all the same. I've heard her called a patron saint of those who become mothers later in life, and I haven't given up hope of being one of those myself. I also like that Elizabeth recognized holiness when she saw it, and the Visitation, with its lovely image of two pregnant women embracing, is one of my favorite mysteries of the rosary. Uncle Pookie has suggested that I also like Elizabeth's story because her husband was struck dumb; to that I have to say: "No comment."
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Shake That (Coded?) Stuff
EWTNs World Over has its interview with Clare Asquith, author of Shadowplay: The Hidden Beliefs and Coded Politics of William Shakespeare up on its audio page. (When the sound file comes up, skip forward just over 8 minutes to get to the interview.)
I heard about Asquith's book just over a month ago, and while there does seem to be some evidence to support the speculation that Shakespeare was Catholic, any talk of hidden codes in Shakespeare sets my brain on "Suspicious". I participated off and on for years in a Usenet discussion group about Shakespeare, and between that and my other reading, I'm well aware of the phenomenon of nutcakes and their conspiracy theories about Shakespeare, which often do involve codes hidden in the plays. The author of the plays is secretly Edward DeVere and everyone in England knows it but no one is allowed to say it, so there's a massive number of coded references to DeVere's authorship concealed in the plays (presumably so everyone in the audience can nod knowingly); the author of the plays is Marlowe, the author is Bacon, the author is Queen Elizabeth's illegitimate son, the author is Queen Elizabeth's lover, the author is Queen Elizabeth, etc. Many of the people who hold these views are out-and-out fanatics--can't change their mind and won't change the subject--and are sometimes rather too much like the other conspiracy theorists (for example, Area 51 or obsessive JFK assassination people) for comfort.
Asquith, however, sounds surprisingly sane and well-balanced. She says part of what opened her mind to this view of Shakespeare's plays was seeing how seemingly innocuous plays were used to convey dissident political messages in the Soviet Union. (Other reasons were her own English Catholicism and the new, non-Protestant takes on English history of the time.) She makes the idea of discreet Catholic references seem reasonable. I still don't wholly buy it, because, besides the danger of publically supporting Catholicism over Protestantism (which meant questioning the legitimacy--in both senses of the term--of the Queen), I just don't think playwrights work that way. There may be a little something to what she's alleging and, even if there's not, her book may provide an interesting look at Catholic sympathizers in Elizabethan society, so I am open to reading it--not buying it, but reading it.
For a World Over program about Shakespeare's possible Catholicism, listen to the interview with Dr. Paul Voss (production date 8/17/01.) It provides an easy, enjoyable introduction to the subject and also explains in passing why Calvinists never wrote tragedies.
I heard about Asquith's book just over a month ago, and while there does seem to be some evidence to support the speculation that Shakespeare was Catholic, any talk of hidden codes in Shakespeare sets my brain on "Suspicious". I participated off and on for years in a Usenet discussion group about Shakespeare, and between that and my other reading, I'm well aware of the phenomenon of nutcakes and their conspiracy theories about Shakespeare, which often do involve codes hidden in the plays. The author of the plays is secretly Edward DeVere and everyone in England knows it but no one is allowed to say it, so there's a massive number of coded references to DeVere's authorship concealed in the plays (presumably so everyone in the audience can nod knowingly); the author of the plays is Marlowe, the author is Bacon, the author is Queen Elizabeth's illegitimate son, the author is Queen Elizabeth's lover, the author is Queen Elizabeth, etc. Many of the people who hold these views are out-and-out fanatics--can't change their mind and won't change the subject--and are sometimes rather too much like the other conspiracy theorists (for example, Area 51 or obsessive JFK assassination people) for comfort.
Asquith, however, sounds surprisingly sane and well-balanced. She says part of what opened her mind to this view of Shakespeare's plays was seeing how seemingly innocuous plays were used to convey dissident political messages in the Soviet Union. (Other reasons were her own English Catholicism and the new, non-Protestant takes on English history of the time.) She makes the idea of discreet Catholic references seem reasonable. I still don't wholly buy it, because, besides the danger of publically supporting Catholicism over Protestantism (which meant questioning the legitimacy--in both senses of the term--of the Queen), I just don't think playwrights work that way. There may be a little something to what she's alleging and, even if there's not, her book may provide an interesting look at Catholic sympathizers in Elizabethan society, so I am open to reading it--not buying it, but reading it.
For a World Over program about Shakespeare's possible Catholicism, listen to the interview with Dr. Paul Voss (production date 8/17/01.) It provides an easy, enjoyable introduction to the subject and also explains in passing why Calvinists never wrote tragedies.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Much Ado About a Handkerchief
As best I remember, I haven't read Othello since I was a teenager, but over the past few weeks I've watched two movie versions and listened to an audio version several times. (I like to listen to audio books as I do housework or sew.) The movies were the 1995 Othello, starring Laurence Fishburne and Kenneth Branagh, and Orson Welles' 1950s version. I didn't watch the 1995 one back in the '90s because I hadn't seen a trailer and feared it would be a mishmash of political correctness; to my pleasure, it wasn't . The script seemed to be trimmed pretty close to the bone, but it made a good movie, and the actors, scenery, and costumes were good. I especially liked Branagh's performance as Iago. Orson Welles' version, which was extensively restored in the '90s, is very interesting visually; it looks and sounds something like a horror film--not inappropriate considering what happens in the story is rather horrific.
Some random thoughts about the movies and the play itself:
* Some years ago I tried to watch Laurence Olivier's Othello, but I couldn't get past his blackface. Orson Welles looks boyish at times, but his blackface is much better than Olivier's.
* I don't know if it's a good idea to cast a handsome man like Laurence Fishburne as Othello. His appearance contributes to the erotic appeal of the DVD cover, but it makes all those "why would she choose him" comments hard to understand. Of course, I'm looking at this with 21st century American eyes, not the eyes of an early 17th century English audience, most of whom had likely never seen a black man; perhaps any black man would look odd to them. Still I think I would have chosen a man who's a bit older and less attractive than Fishburne to emphasize the differences between Othello and Desdemona.
* Branagh's Iago is somewhat more convincing that that of MacLiammoir in Welles' film. I can't fault the latter's acting; it's just that it's easier to imagine Othello--or anyone else--trusting the good-looking Branagh than the slimy, devious-looking Wellesian Iago.
* Iago's speeches are textbook studies of how to convince someone of malicious slanders: act very reluctant to cast aspersions, hint more than you say, suggest there may be nothing in it, etc. The same things that worked in Shakespeare's day work today.
* It is hard to like Othello, because jealousy is so unattractive. Still, I think Othello may be, by nature, no more jealous than the average person. His real fault seems to be that he is too willing to trust what others say. Iago says as much when he's planning his revenge. The hell of this is that, once his jealousy is aroused, his trusting nature doesn't extend to trusting Desdemona.
* Some people suggest Othello and Desdemona never consummated their marriage, because of the short time they had together on their wedding night, Iago's later comment that O hadn't yet made sport with D, and D asking Emilia to put her wedding sheets on the bed the night she was murdered (the usual rationale given is "who'd want to put the wedding sheets--presumably blood-stained--back on the bed?"). Both of these movies assume the marriage was consummated. I certainly hope so. The story is too terrible as it is, without thinking they never got to enjoy the physical side of their marriage before it was destroyed.
* Does no one just die in this play, or do they all keep talking after you think they're dead?
* I like the way Othello, before he murders her, tells D that if she can remember any sins she's never repented of, to pray forgiveness of them now, because he doesn't want to kill her soul. In this story it makes the murder all the more poignant to know how much he loves her and doesn't want to kill her, but I like the worldview that allows people (okay, fictional characters) to think of this when they have time before they kill. You used to see it in some older stories or movies. For example in The Cowboys, where even the bad guys allow Roscoe Lee Brown's character to make his peace with God before they string him up. (OTOH, one of them had earlier shot John Wayne in the back. It's a situational thing.) No one in movies does this any more, probably because we're more brutal and because the audience is less likely to understand the gesture.
* This is a very single-minded plot. The military thing is quickly resolved with no trouble to anyone, by an act of God. Who cares what happens to Cassio, except as it impacts O & D? The only other thing resembling a subplot is Iago's exploitation of Roderigo, and that never really amounts to much. Everything is driving toward making Othello jealous enough to punish Desdemona with death. It's very focused. But, now I think about it, is it really more focused than the other tragedies or does it just seem so because of the smallness of its outward action (everything hangs on one small handkerchief)? I'll have to think about this some more.
* Does Iago really think Othello cheated with Emilia? It sounds like mere excuse when he says it himself, but we later hear Emilia allude to Iago having accused her of that. (Also Iago's "It is a common thing" sounds like a slur on Emilia's virtue to me, but once again we're talking my 20th-century bred ears; it could just be a general insult.) The 1995 film suggests it is true, by having Branagh and Fishburne exchange significant looks when Iago says at the end "What you know, you know." I can't decide.
Some random thoughts about the movies and the play itself:
* Some years ago I tried to watch Laurence Olivier's Othello, but I couldn't get past his blackface. Orson Welles looks boyish at times, but his blackface is much better than Olivier's.
* I don't know if it's a good idea to cast a handsome man like Laurence Fishburne as Othello. His appearance contributes to the erotic appeal of the DVD cover, but it makes all those "why would she choose him" comments hard to understand. Of course, I'm looking at this with 21st century American eyes, not the eyes of an early 17th century English audience, most of whom had likely never seen a black man; perhaps any black man would look odd to them. Still I think I would have chosen a man who's a bit older and less attractive than Fishburne to emphasize the differences between Othello and Desdemona.
* Branagh's Iago is somewhat more convincing that that of MacLiammoir in Welles' film. I can't fault the latter's acting; it's just that it's easier to imagine Othello--or anyone else--trusting the good-looking Branagh than the slimy, devious-looking Wellesian Iago.
* Iago's speeches are textbook studies of how to convince someone of malicious slanders: act very reluctant to cast aspersions, hint more than you say, suggest there may be nothing in it, etc. The same things that worked in Shakespeare's day work today.
* It is hard to like Othello, because jealousy is so unattractive. Still, I think Othello may be, by nature, no more jealous than the average person. His real fault seems to be that he is too willing to trust what others say. Iago says as much when he's planning his revenge. The hell of this is that, once his jealousy is aroused, his trusting nature doesn't extend to trusting Desdemona.
* Some people suggest Othello and Desdemona never consummated their marriage, because of the short time they had together on their wedding night, Iago's later comment that O hadn't yet made sport with D, and D asking Emilia to put her wedding sheets on the bed the night she was murdered (the usual rationale given is "who'd want to put the wedding sheets--presumably blood-stained--back on the bed?"). Both of these movies assume the marriage was consummated. I certainly hope so. The story is too terrible as it is, without thinking they never got to enjoy the physical side of their marriage before it was destroyed.
* Does no one just die in this play, or do they all keep talking after you think they're dead?
* I like the way Othello, before he murders her, tells D that if she can remember any sins she's never repented of, to pray forgiveness of them now, because he doesn't want to kill her soul. In this story it makes the murder all the more poignant to know how much he loves her and doesn't want to kill her, but I like the worldview that allows people (okay, fictional characters) to think of this when they have time before they kill. You used to see it in some older stories or movies. For example in The Cowboys, where even the bad guys allow Roscoe Lee Brown's character to make his peace with God before they string him up. (OTOH, one of them had earlier shot John Wayne in the back. It's a situational thing.) No one in movies does this any more, probably because we're more brutal and because the audience is less likely to understand the gesture.
* This is a very single-minded plot. The military thing is quickly resolved with no trouble to anyone, by an act of God. Who cares what happens to Cassio, except as it impacts O & D? The only other thing resembling a subplot is Iago's exploitation of Roderigo, and that never really amounts to much. Everything is driving toward making Othello jealous enough to punish Desdemona with death. It's very focused. But, now I think about it, is it really more focused than the other tragedies or does it just seem so because of the smallness of its outward action (everything hangs on one small handkerchief)? I'll have to think about this some more.
* Does Iago really think Othello cheated with Emilia? It sounds like mere excuse when he says it himself, but we later hear Emilia allude to Iago having accused her of that. (Also Iago's "It is a common thing" sounds like a slur on Emilia's virtue to me, but once again we're talking my 20th-century bred ears; it could just be a general insult.) The 1995 film suggests it is true, by having Branagh and Fishburne exchange significant looks when Iago says at the end "What you know, you know." I can't decide.
Friday, March 04, 2005
A Breath of Air, by Rumer Godden
I should probably refrain from commenting until I've finished it, but this book was a pleasant surprise. I found it in a thrift store and picked it up, knowing nothing about the book, only that I've liked everything else I've read by Rumer Godden. (The Dolls' House, The Kitchen Madonna, In This House of Brede.) It turned out to be a modern re-telling of The Tempest, and surely better than most modern retellings. Not (so far anyway) fantasy or, worse, psychology or, infinitely worse, a PC screed with Caliban as the hero. I used to participate in some online Shakespeare discusssions that kept loose track of Shakespeare re-tellings, adaptations, etc. in modern films and novels, but I don't recall this book ever being mentioned. It was published in 1950, but according to Amazon it is still in print.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Sound and Fury Signifying a Recommendation
While I was convalescing, I spent one afternoon curled into fetal position, watching a Macbeth DVD I picked up a while back. This DVD is the televised version of a Royal Shakespeare Company's production. It was directed by Trevor Nunn (who also directed what may be my favorite Shakespearean movie, his 1996 Twelfth Night) and features the talented Ian McKellen and Judi Dench.
This is the best Macbeth I've seen (that includes several filmed versions and one live performance.) The cinematography--if you can use that word for a TV production and not just for movies--is amazing. The film opens with a cinemagraphic bit that makes shadows look like a human eye; it is almost as if the viewers are being drawn into that eye (think "mind's eye", "eyes are the window of the soul".) Nunn chose to use black and white and make everything happen in a small circle so everything is close-up. Darkness surrounds the actors. All of this creates a feeling of near-claustrophobia. In other words, this is an intense film. And it works very well; the play is pretty intense to start with and Nunn's staging only emphasizes that. Costuming is simple and there are few props; there is nothing to take the viewer's focus away from the characters.
The acting is good across the board, but Dench deserves special mention. As Lady Macbeth, she has fewer lines to work with than McKellen (Macbeth) does, but she succeeds in conveying Lady Macbeth's degeneration very well. The sleepwalking scene might feel abrupt executed by a lesser actor (remember we see Lady Macbeth seemingly coping and attempting to help her husband at the banquet and her very next appearance is the sleepwalking scene), but Dench uses her face and movements throughout to convey her character's inner turmoil so well that the viewer has no trouble believing in her torment having led her to sleepwalk and compulsively relive the crimes she's participated in.
I plan to watch this one again.
I bought my copy at an actual real live store--I believe it was Reel Collections--but the DVD is available at Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0002TVWYW/qid=1108204240/sr=11-1/ref=sr_11_1/104-2878847-7281535
This is the best Macbeth I've seen (that includes several filmed versions and one live performance.) The cinematography--if you can use that word for a TV production and not just for movies--is amazing. The film opens with a cinemagraphic bit that makes shadows look like a human eye; it is almost as if the viewers are being drawn into that eye (think "mind's eye", "eyes are the window of the soul".) Nunn chose to use black and white and make everything happen in a small circle so everything is close-up. Darkness surrounds the actors. All of this creates a feeling of near-claustrophobia. In other words, this is an intense film. And it works very well; the play is pretty intense to start with and Nunn's staging only emphasizes that. Costuming is simple and there are few props; there is nothing to take the viewer's focus away from the characters.
The acting is good across the board, but Dench deserves special mention. As Lady Macbeth, she has fewer lines to work with than McKellen (Macbeth) does, but she succeeds in conveying Lady Macbeth's degeneration very well. The sleepwalking scene might feel abrupt executed by a lesser actor (remember we see Lady Macbeth seemingly coping and attempting to help her husband at the banquet and her very next appearance is the sleepwalking scene), but Dench uses her face and movements throughout to convey her character's inner turmoil so well that the viewer has no trouble believing in her torment having led her to sleepwalk and compulsively relive the crimes she's participated in.
I plan to watch this one again.
I bought my copy at an actual real live store--I believe it was Reel Collections--but the DVD is available at Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0002TVWYW/qid=1108204240/sr=11-1/ref=sr_11_1/104-2878847-7281535
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