Did you find that Lucio was a particular thorn in your side? There's some truth in his claim that you are the "duke of dark corners," isn't there?
Our duke took himself very seriously and most certainly lacked a sense of humor about his public position, his predicament, and his reclusive nature. It amused me that although Lucio has accused the duke of being lecherous--"Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand"--the thing that really angers and provokes the duke to a furious response is when Lucio suggests that he lacks wisdom and is a "superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow." So yes, Lucio is a particular thorn in his side, who flusters him and pricks his pomposity, though by becoming the object of humor he is humanized in the audience's eyes. He learns from Lucio that being in shadow as a recluse can very easily be misconstrued in the most gossipy way. Also, yes, he is in disguise and spying on his own city, so very much the duke of "dark corners."
Is there something uncomfortable about the way the duke takes on the disguise of a Friar and starts hearing people's confessions, something you are not supposed to do when you haven't taken vows yourself?
The duke certainly uses his disguise to gain knowledge and advantage for himself and he gives advice to others, but he never formally takes confession and offers absolution of sins, so I don't think he is compromising vows he has not taken.
What did you discover in the great central encounter with Claudio?
"Be absolute for death" is actually not bad advice to give to someone facing execution, but it seemed to us to be as much, if not more, about the duke himself and his own despairing state of mind. Throughout the speech he describes life itself as worthless: "a thing That none but fools would keep." Life is "Servile to all the skyey influences," it is "death's fool," it is "not noble" but "nursed by baseness." "Thou art not thyself, For thou exists on many a thousand grains That issue out of dust ... Thou art not certain." The duke's own sense of himself has fragmented so that he is not "certain" of how to live, to act, to govern, to judge, to measure. For the duke at this point in the play, life equals being dead but having to live. It is his lowest point, his nadir, the very depths of his despair. The speech articulates why he has run away. We made Act 3 one continuous scene, set in a huge prison. By the end of it the duke is a changed man. Claudio's view of life and death is the opposite of his. For Claudio, death equals living but having to die. But more importantly, there is the revelation of Angelo's hypocrisy, the fact that he is only "well seeming." This comes as a complete bombshell and stimulates the duke into action. Solving Isabella's predicament becomes the means by which he can solve his own. Not that he necessarily knows this, but he becomes alive and uses his intellect in an active way on Isabella's behalf. He also starts speaking mainly in prose rather than verse, which seemed to us a further indication of the great changes taking place within him. At the end of Act 3 the duke has a short soliloquy which has three lines that were of special significance to us: "He who the sword of heaven will bear Should be as holy as severe," and later in the speech, "Craft against vice I must apply." For me, the duke begins to formulate here the idea that bearing the sword of heaven, being absolute and certain, is a way of life that should not be imposed on people, and that vice is better dealt with by "craft": by using your intellect to make judgments rather than being guided by abstract fixed beliefs.
7. Roger Allam. The duke's central encounter with Claudio: "We made Act 3 one continuous scene, set in a huge prison. By the end of it the duke is a changed man."
At what point did you begin to think that you might like to marry Isabella yourself? And what was her response?
"The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good." Isabella's physical beauty obviously strikes him from the first time he sees her. Throughout the play the duke observes and experiences Isabella go through an enormous emotional journey. Her religious and moral certainty is tested to extremes. She remains true to it but is flexible and pragmatic enough to embrace the duke's plan to outwit Angelo. Angelo's double treachery, however, means that the duke has to employ the Ragozine plan, and cannot tell Isabella that Claudio is alive. He does this primarily, I think, to keep the dangerous secret between himself and the Provost, and making her "heavenly comforts of despair" is a gloss put on necessity. This interpretation was made possible by keeping the Provost onstage in Act 4 Scene 3 to hear Isabella's "Peace, ho, be here!" so that the snatched, hurried decision not to tell her was in some ways a mutual one. On hearing this news Isabella flung her arms around me in despair. This had an enormous impact on my duke. He not only realizes how much he has hurt her, but he has a beautiful woman in his arms, probably for the first time in his life. The play explores the tensions between our physical and sexual desires, and our attempts to repress them. Angelo sentences people to death for giving in to them. The only way they can be controlled and somehow made safe and all right is through marriage, the traditional happy ending for a comedy. It was from this point that my duke wanted to marry Isabella, but he did not know quite how things were going to work out. In the last scene he witnesses Isabella have the extraordinary generosity of spirit to plead for Angelo's life; thereby embodying the very best aspects of religious conviction, mercy, and forgiveness. In the end, as he marries off Lucio to his "punk" and Angelo to Mariana, the duke blurts out his own proposal, stammering nervously. In the light of the extra anguish she has been put through over Claudio, Isabella would stare at me in disbelief at the sheer crassness. After the second proposal, leaving Angelo and Mariana on one side of the stage with Claudio, Juliet, and their baby on the other, she would go upstage to where the city gates looked out onto a pastoral landscape, stop, and turn back toward me as the lights went down.
* Baron Wolfenden, a British educationalist, was best known for chairing the Wolfenden Report, which conducted a survey into sexual relations in the UK in the late 1950s and recommended the decriminalization of homosexuality.
* Irish citizens erroneously convicted of terrorism in the 1970s.
SHAKESPEARE'S CAREER
IN THE THEATER
BEGINNINGS
William Shakespeare was an extraordinarily intelligent man who was born and died in an ordinary market town in the English Midlands. He lived an uneventful life in an eventful age. Born in April 1564, he was the eldest son of John Shakespeare, a glove maker who was prominent on the town council until he fell into financial difficulties. Young William was educated at the local grammar in Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, where he gained a thorough grounding in the Latin language, the art of rhetoric, and classical poetry. He married Ann Hathaway and had three children (Susanna, then the twins Hamnet and Judith) before his twenty-first birthday: an exceptionally young age for the period. We do not know how he supported his family in the mid-1580s.
Like many clever country boys, he moved to the city in order to make his way in the world. Like many creative people, he found a career in the entertainment business. Public playhouses and professional full-time acting companies reliant on the market for their income were born in Shakespeare's childhood. When he arrived in London as a man, sometime in the late 1580s, a new phenomenon was in the making: the actor who is so successful that he becomes a "star." The word did not exist in its modern sense, but the pattern is recognizable: audiences went to the theater not so much to see a particular show as to witness the comedian Richard Tarlton or the dramatic actor Edward Alleyn.
Shakespeare was an actor before he was a writer. It appears not to have been long before he realized that he was never going to grow into a great comedian like Tarlton or a great tragedian like Alleyn. Instead, he found a role within his company as the man who patched up old plays, breathing new life, new dramatic twists, into tired repertory pieces. He paid close attention to the work of the university-educated dramatists who were writing history plays and tragedies for the public stage in a style more ambitious, sweeping, and poetically grand than anything that had been seen before. But he may a
lso have noted that what his friend and rival Ben Jonson would call "Marlowe's mighty line" sometimes faltered in the mode of comedy. Going to university, as Christopher Marlowe did, was all well and good for honing the arts of rhetorical elaboration and classical allusion, but it could lead to a loss of the common touch. To stay close to a large segment of the potential audience for public theater, it was necessary to write for clowns as well as kings and to intersperse the flights of poetry with the humor of the tavern, the privy, and the brothel: Shakespeare was the first to establish himself early in his career as an equal master of tragedy, comedy, and history. He realized that theater could be the medium to make the national past available to a wider audience than the elite who could afford to read large history books: his signature early works include not only the classical tragedy Titus Andronicus but also the sequence of English historical plays on the Wars of the Roses.
He also invented a new role for himself, that of in-house company dramatist. Where his peers and predecessors had to sell their plays to the theater managers on a poorly paid piecework basis, Shakespeare took a percentage of the box-office income. The Lord Chamberlain's Men constituted themselves in 1594 as a joint stock company, with the profits being distributed among the core actors who had invested as sharers. Shakespeare acted himself--he appears in the cast lists of some of Ben Jonson's plays as well as the list of actors' names at the beginning of his own collected works--but his principal duty was to write two or three plays a year for the company. By holding shares, he was effectively earning himself a royalty on his work, something no author had ever done before in England. When the Lord Chamberlain's Men collected their fee for performance at court in the Christmas season of 1594, three of them went along to the Treasurer of the Chamber: not just Richard Burbage the tragedian and Will Kempe the clown, but also Shakespeare the scriptwriter. That was something new.
The next four years were the golden period in Shakespeare's career, though overshadowed by the death of his only son Hamnet, aged eleven, in 1596. In his early thirties and in full command of both his poetic and his theatrical medium, he perfected his art of comedy, while also developing his tragic and historical writing in new ways. In 1598, Francis Meres, a Cambridge University graduate with his finger on the pulse of the London literary world, praised Shakespeare for his excellence across the genres:
As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the best for comedy and tragedy among the Latins, so Shakespeare among the English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage; for comedy, witness his Gentlemen of Verona, his Errors, his Love Labours Lost, his Love Labours Won, his Midsummer Night Dream and his Merchant of Venice: for tragedy his Richard the 2, Richard the 3, Henry the 4, King John, Titus Andronicus and his Romeo and Juliet.
For Meres, as for the many writers who praised the "honey-flowing vein" of Venus and Adonis and Lucrece, narrative poems written when the theaters were closed due to plague in 1593-94, Shakespeare was marked above all by his linguistic skill, by the gift of turning elegant poetic phrases.
PLAYHOUSES
Elizabethan playhouses were "thrust" or "one-room" theaters. To understand Shakespeare's original theatrical life, we have to forget about the indoor theater of later times, with its proscenium arch and curtain that would be opened at the beginning and closed at the end of each act. In the proscenium arch theater, stage and auditorium are effectively two separate rooms: the audience looks from one world into another as if through the imaginary "fourth wall" framed by the proscenium. The picture-frame stage, together with the elaborate scenic effects and backdrops beyond it, created the illusion of a self-contained world--especially once nineteenth-century developments in the control of artificial lighting meant that the auditorium could be darkened and the spectators made to focus on the lighted stage. Shakespeare, by contrast, wrote for a bare platform stage with a standing audience gathered around it in a courtyard in full daylight. The audience were always conscious of themselves and their fellow spectators, and they shared the same "room" as the actors. A sense of immediate presence and the creation of rapport with the audience were all-important. The actor could not afford to imagine he was in a closed world, with silent witnesses dutifully observing him from the darkness.
Shakespeare's theatrical career began at the Rose Theatre in Southwark. The stage was wide and shallow, trapezoid in shape, like a lozenge. This design had a great deal of potential for the theatrical equivalent of cinematic split-screen effects, whereby one group of characters would enter at the door at one end of the tiring-house wall at the back of the stage and another group through the door at the other end, thus creating two rival tableaux. Many of the battle-heavy and faction-filled plays that premiered at the Rose have scenes of just this sort.
At the rear of the Rose stage, there were three capacious exits, each over ten feet wide. Unfortunately, the very limited excavation of a fragmentary portion of the original Globe site, in 1989, revealed nothing about the stage. The first Globe was built in 1599 with similar proportions to those of another theater, the Fortune, albeit that the former was polygonal and looked circular, whereas the latter was rectangular. The building contract for the Fortune survives and allows us to infer that the stage of the Globe was probably substantially wider than it was deep (perhaps forty-three feet wide and twenty-seven feet deep). It may well have been tapered at the front, like that of the Rose.
The capacity of the Globe was said to have been enormous, perhaps in excess of three thousand. It has been conjectured that about eight hundred people may have stood in the yard, with two thousand or more in the three layers of covered galleries. The other "public" playhouses were also of large capacity, whereas the indoor Blackfriars theater that Shakespeare's company began using in 1608--the former refectory of a monastery--had overall internal dimensions of a mere forty-six by sixty feet. It would have made for a much more intimate theatrical experience and had a much smaller capacity, probably of about six hundred people. Since they paid at least sixpence a head, the Blackfriars attracted a more select or "private" audience. The atmosphere would have been closer to that of an indoor performance before the court in the Whitehall Palace or at Richmond. That Shakespeare always wrote for indoor production at court as well as outdoor performance in the public theater should make us cautious about inferring, as some scholars have, that the opportunity provided by the intimacy of the Blackfriars led to a significant change toward a "chamber" style in his last plays--which, besides, were performed at both the Globe and the Blackfriars. After the occupation of the Blackfriars a five-act structure seems to have become more important to Shakespeare. That was because of artificial lighting: there were musical interludes between the acts, while the candles were trimmed and replaced. Again, though, something similar must have been necessary for indoor court performances throughout his career.
Front of house there were the "gatherers" who collected the money from audience members: a penny to stand in the open-air yard, another penny for a place in the covered galleries, sixpence for the prominent "lord's rooms" to the side of the stage. In the indoor "private" theaters, gallants from the audience who fancied making themselves part of the spectacle sat on stools on the edge of the stage itself. Scholars debate as to how widespread this practice was in the public theaters such as the Globe. Once the audience were in place and the money counted, the gatherers were available to be extras on stage. That is one reason why battles and crowd scenes often come later rather than early in Shakespeare's plays. There was no formal prohibition upon performance by women, and there certainly were women among the gatherers, so it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that female crowd members were played by females.
The play began at two o'clock in the afternoon and the theater had to be cleared by five. After the main show, there would be a jig--which consisted not only of dancing, but also of knockabout comedy (it is the origin of the farcical "afterpiece" in the eighteenth-century theater). So the time available for a Shakespeare play was about two and a half hours, som
ewhere between the "two hours' traffic" mentioned in the prologue to Romeo and Juliet and the "three hours' spectacle" referred to in the preface to the 1647 Folio of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays. The prologue to a play by Thomas Middleton refers to a thousand lines as "one hour's words," so the likelihood is that about two and a half thousand, or a maximum of three thousand lines, made up the performed text. This is indeed the length of most of Shakespeare's comedies, whereas many of his tragedies and histories are much longer, raising the possibility that he wrote full scripts, possibly with eventual publication in mind, in the full knowledge that the stage version would be heavily cut. The short Quarto texts published in his lifetime--they used to be called "Bad" Quartos--provide fascinating evidence as to the kind of cutting that probably took place. So, for instance, the First Quarto of Hamlet neatly merges two occasions when Hamlet is overheard, the "Fishmonger" and the "nunnery" scenes.
The social composition of the audience was mixed. The poet Sir John Davies wrote of "A thousand townsmen, gentlemen and whores, / Porters and servingmen" who would "together throng" at the public playhouses. Though moralists associated female play-going with adultery and the sex trade, many perfectly respectable citizens' wives were regular attendees. Some, no doubt, resembled the modern groupie: a story attested in two different sources has one citizen's wife making a post-show assignation with Richard Burbage and ending up in bed with Shakespeare--supposedly eliciting from the latter the quip that William the Conqueror was before Richard III. Defenders of theater liked to say that by witnessing the comeuppance of villains on the stage, audience members would repent of their own wrongdoings, but the reality is that most people went to the theater then, as they do now, for entertainment more than moral edification. Besides, it would be foolish to suppose that audiences behaved in a homogeneous way: a pamphlet of the 1630s tells of how two men went to see Pericles and one of them laughed while the other wept. Bishop John Hall complained that people went to church for the same reasons that they went to the theater: "for company, for custom, for recreation ... to feed his eyes or his ears ... or perhaps for sleep."