Well, there are only 22 days until I leave on my big ole UK trip. To be honest, yes, I could spend all the time faithfully reading Shakespeare and fulfill my original goal. But, to quote the Bard himself, I feel as though I have sucked the sweets of sweet philosophy, and to be frank, it's getting a little old.
Now, I am not giving up on ole' Willy. Far from it! But I am going to take the rest of the plays at a more leisurely pace, making my NEW AND REVISED goal to finish them before the end of the semester. In the upcoming 22 days, besides school and my various theatrical commitments, I am going to devote myself to my neglected Celtic fellows.
After all, we are spending the first four days of the trip in Dublin, and my readings of Wilde and Joyce are sadly lacking. Also I have this big book of Irish folktales that I dismissed in fifth grade as "boring" (code for: these are really hard to get through, but I don't want to admit that anything is beyond my reading capabilities). So I'm going to drag that back out.
Besides, the Celts are awesome. I mean, woad, you guys. Woad.
Wanna be as hooked on the Celts as I am? Check out this incedible website. It will change your life. It's all about the woad, druids, and singing severed heads. Yep, you heard me right. Its awesomeness almost makes up for the fact that we don't get to see Stonehenge on this trip. Almost.
So, I'll keep you posted on my new discoveries over the next few weeks and, of course, the trip itself. Then we'll return to ze Bard. I promise.
Molly
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Perfect Storm
The Tempest was (arguably) the last play Shakespeare alone ever wrote, his "swan song" according to the back cover of my copy. It is unlike any other play he wrote in that it played by the rules. Aristotle's Three Unities from the Poetics, about how plays should be written:
The unity of action: a play should have one main action that it follows, with no or few subplots.
The unity of place: a play should cover a single physical space and should not attempt to compress geography, nor should the stage represent more than one place.
The unity of time: the action in a play should take place over no more than 24 hours.
Shakespeare had grown famous writing shows with multitudes of subplots taking place all over the continent, over weeks and months of time. I guess he wanted to have a go at something more traditional. Regardless, at the time it was written, the Tempest was viewed as universally unimportant. Now everybody loves it.
The storyline is pretty well known, from the shipwrecks to the innocent young daughter who has never seen a man other than her father falling in love, games of chess being played, etc, etc.
What interests me however, is the fact that on this happy-go-lucky Gilligan-esque island, we have a heckuva lot of supernatural stuff that Maryann never had to deal with.
The play prominently features two spirits, Ariel, the sprite, and Caliban the demon.
Caliban has an interesting backstory--he was once a deformed monster, the only inhabitant of the island before Prospero and Miranda shipwreck. When they arrived, the "adopted" him, teaching him their language and religion, while he helped them learn to survive on the island. However, all good things must come to an end, and as Miranda grows up into the ravishing beauty that she is, Caliban can't help but notice and be entranced. Yep, you guessed it, he attempts to rape her. Not a good idea, considering that her father is a powerful sorcerer--BOOM--now Caliban is their demon slave. Pretty sad stuff.
Ariel is another story entirely. Her spirit was trapped in a tree on the island by an African witch. She dies long before Prospero and wee Miranda arrive. But when they do, Prospero divines Ariel's presence, and releases her from the tree in exchange for eternal servitude--sort of a genie in a bottle deal. He continually postpones the date of her freedom from servitude, but at the end of the play everyone gets to leave the island except she (although Ariel is asexual, she appears as nymphs and harpies, female mythological figures, throughout the show, and has some pretty awesome innuendo with various male characters) and Caliban.
Reading this play, I just can't bring myself to like Prospero. It seems to be the trend of those with power (in this case magic) that they cannot keep themselves from ordering the lives of those around them. Prospero dictates the events of the play like the proverbial man behind the curtain, and sure, everything turns out okay, but there is a certain bitterness left behind. This is a good example of Shakespeare's insight into human character. In life, humans are not meant to play God, even for the convenience of plot.
Current Play Count: 19/37
Days Till Trip: 25
I'm trying to reconcile myself with the idea I may have to finish up after the trip. Then again, I will need things to read to keep myself from exploding from excitement!
Till next time,
Molly
The unity of action: a play should have one main action that it follows, with no or few subplots.
The unity of place: a play should cover a single physical space and should not attempt to compress geography, nor should the stage represent more than one place.
The unity of time: the action in a play should take place over no more than 24 hours.
Shakespeare had grown famous writing shows with multitudes of subplots taking place all over the continent, over weeks and months of time. I guess he wanted to have a go at something more traditional. Regardless, at the time it was written, the Tempest was viewed as universally unimportant. Now everybody loves it.
The storyline is pretty well known, from the shipwrecks to the innocent young daughter who has never seen a man other than her father falling in love, games of chess being played, etc, etc.
What interests me however, is the fact that on this happy-go-lucky Gilligan-esque island, we have a heckuva lot of supernatural stuff that Maryann never had to deal with.
The play prominently features two spirits, Ariel, the sprite, and Caliban the demon.
Caliban has an interesting backstory--he was once a deformed monster, the only inhabitant of the island before Prospero and Miranda shipwreck. When they arrived, the "adopted" him, teaching him their language and religion, while he helped them learn to survive on the island. However, all good things must come to an end, and as Miranda grows up into the ravishing beauty that she is, Caliban can't help but notice and be entranced. Yep, you guessed it, he attempts to rape her. Not a good idea, considering that her father is a powerful sorcerer--BOOM--now Caliban is their demon slave. Pretty sad stuff.
Ariel is another story entirely. Her spirit was trapped in a tree on the island by an African witch. She dies long before Prospero and wee Miranda arrive. But when they do, Prospero divines Ariel's presence, and releases her from the tree in exchange for eternal servitude--sort of a genie in a bottle deal. He continually postpones the date of her freedom from servitude, but at the end of the play everyone gets to leave the island except she (although Ariel is asexual, she appears as nymphs and harpies, female mythological figures, throughout the show, and has some pretty awesome innuendo with various male characters) and Caliban.
Reading this play, I just can't bring myself to like Prospero. It seems to be the trend of those with power (in this case magic) that they cannot keep themselves from ordering the lives of those around them. Prospero dictates the events of the play like the proverbial man behind the curtain, and sure, everything turns out okay, but there is a certain bitterness left behind. This is a good example of Shakespeare's insight into human character. In life, humans are not meant to play God, even for the convenience of plot.
Current Play Count: 19/37
Days Till Trip: 25
I'm trying to reconcile myself with the idea I may have to finish up after the trip. Then again, I will need things to read to keep myself from exploding from excitement!
Till next time,
Molly
Saturday, February 10, 2007
ding ding ding! And the winner is...
Cymbeline as Molly's favorite Shakespearean play as of yet. This is one I would totally buy on DVD, for the record. While not critically acclaimed, it had a plot and ending that I could genuinely buy and care about. Plus, finally a fabulously strong female lead (unfortunately named Imogen) who is neither dumb nor insane and carries the bulk of lines in the entire show.
We begin the play by finding out that Imogen (the king's daughter and only heir--due to his sons being stolen away when they were but tots) has married a poor man when it was widely known she was intended for the queen's son Cloten (yep, her stepbrother). Her husband is banished and she is imprisoned, so really her little act of rebellion didn't pan out so well.
Plus now the queen is pissed off because the poor guy (hysterically named Posthumus) was preferred over her darling Cloten. Cloten sucks, by the way, very self absorbed Adonis type, and Imogen quite rightfully scorns him. But unfortunately he won't take no for an answer.
Meanwhile, Imogen's beloved makes a bet that she is the most pure woman EVA, and sends his new buddy back to Imogen's kingdom to try and seduce her. He fails, but in typical fashion he can't admit this, so he hides in her room until she falls asleep and then "observes" her body so he knows details of moles and such to prove to Posthumus that he did bag her--so to speak.
Then there's the whole subplot about the king's sons being raised by a shepard and discovered by Imogen, and them decapitating Prince Cloten. There are misunderstandings galore, and the Queen partially poisons Imogen...yada yada yada.
But all of these intrigues pale in comparison to Act V Scene IV. This, I think, it my favorite bit in all of Shakespeare, thrown in completely randomly in a dream sequence:
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Apparitions fall on their knees.
Jupiter: No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,
Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents opprest;
No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine:
and so, away: no further with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
Ascends
Sicilius Leonatus: He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop'd as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleased.
All: Thanks, Jupiter!
So, basically, Zeus, the big man himself, flies in and tells them how to work out all their problems for a happy ending in the next scene. This is as literal as the deus ex machina gets, my friends. And I like it.
Molly
We begin the play by finding out that Imogen (the king's daughter and only heir--due to his sons being stolen away when they were but tots) has married a poor man when it was widely known she was intended for the queen's son Cloten (yep, her stepbrother). Her husband is banished and she is imprisoned, so really her little act of rebellion didn't pan out so well.
Plus now the queen is pissed off because the poor guy (hysterically named Posthumus) was preferred over her darling Cloten. Cloten sucks, by the way, very self absorbed Adonis type, and Imogen quite rightfully scorns him. But unfortunately he won't take no for an answer.
Meanwhile, Imogen's beloved makes a bet that she is the most pure woman EVA, and sends his new buddy back to Imogen's kingdom to try and seduce her. He fails, but in typical fashion he can't admit this, so he hides in her room until she falls asleep and then "observes" her body so he knows details of moles and such to prove to Posthumus that he did bag her--so to speak.
Then there's the whole subplot about the king's sons being raised by a shepard and discovered by Imogen, and them decapitating Prince Cloten. There are misunderstandings galore, and the Queen partially poisons Imogen...yada yada yada.
But all of these intrigues pale in comparison to Act V Scene IV. This, I think, it my favorite bit in all of Shakespeare, thrown in completely randomly in a dream sequence:
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Apparitions fall on their knees.
Jupiter: No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,
Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents opprest;
No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine:
and so, away: no further with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
Ascends
Sicilius Leonatus: He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop'd as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleased.
All: Thanks, Jupiter!
So, basically, Zeus, the big man himself, flies in and tells them how to work out all their problems for a happy ending in the next scene. This is as literal as the deus ex machina gets, my friends. And I like it.
Molly
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The First Cop-Out
Okay, so I took the SAT yesterday, and as my brain currently completely drained of anything remotely resembling cleverness or wit, I am postponing my clever remarks on the wonderful Cymbeline until a bit later. Instead, I am celebrating the fact that I only have twenty plays left to go, by listing the ones I've read thus far with a few summarizing remarks.
Two Gentlemen of Verona: way too sad to be considered a comedy.
Love Labour's Lost: I was also lost by about page four. Too many characters, too much wordplay, does not translate well to today's ear.
The Comedy of Errors: Twins are funny--this one has two sets of 'em!
Romeo and Juliet: Just wanted to get it on....I mean, classic tragedy. First ever celebration of teen angst. (I'm mostly kidding. This is one of my favorites, and the 1960s movie is great slumber party fare.)
The Taming of the Shrew: Questionable morals. Kiss Me, Kate was better.
A Midsummer Night's Dream: I like Puck an awful lot, and I kind of want to be Titania. I really like this one.
The Merchant of Venice: See comments on Love Labour's Lost. Add in an astonishing amount of anti-Semitism.
Much Ado About Nothing: I beg to differ--it was definitely about something. When I remember what exactly, I'll let you know.
12th Night: Again with the too sad to be a comedy. I've seen two different productions of this--one traditional and one set in 1960s sitcom world. Not gonna lie--I had more fun when the jesters were cheerleaders.
Henry VIII: Anne Boleyn is unbelievable. As in, everything she said was jaw droppingly full of innuendo and irony. I adored her. (Too bad most of the play is Catherine of Aragon whining. What's she got to whine about? Wait till he sends you to the Tower of London for beheading. Then you can whine.)
The Tempest: I will have to revisit this one. It was so good that it merits its own entry.
Julius Caesar: Tons of fun. I like Cassius--too bad he's doomed for the Inferno.
Macbeth: Is awesome. I love that there is a character named McDuffy.
Antony and Cleopatra: Is an example of why really beautiful people make for bad monarchs. I really like all of Cleopatra's rants though.
Titus Andronicus: Ewwwwwwwwww.
Cymbeline: probably one of my favorites yet. It'll get an entry soon.
Up next for the reading is Richard III. Maybe I'll just rent the movie...
Two Gentlemen of Verona: way too sad to be considered a comedy.
Love Labour's Lost: I was also lost by about page four. Too many characters, too much wordplay, does not translate well to today's ear.
The Comedy of Errors: Twins are funny--this one has two sets of 'em!
Romeo and Juliet: Just wanted to get it on....I mean, classic tragedy. First ever celebration of teen angst. (I'm mostly kidding. This is one of my favorites, and the 1960s movie is great slumber party fare.)
The Taming of the Shrew: Questionable morals. Kiss Me, Kate was better.
A Midsummer Night's Dream: I like Puck an awful lot, and I kind of want to be Titania. I really like this one.
The Merchant of Venice: See comments on Love Labour's Lost. Add in an astonishing amount of anti-Semitism.
Much Ado About Nothing: I beg to differ--it was definitely about something. When I remember what exactly, I'll let you know.
12th Night: Again with the too sad to be a comedy. I've seen two different productions of this--one traditional and one set in 1960s sitcom world. Not gonna lie--I had more fun when the jesters were cheerleaders.
Henry VIII: Anne Boleyn is unbelievable. As in, everything she said was jaw droppingly full of innuendo and irony. I adored her. (Too bad most of the play is Catherine of Aragon whining. What's she got to whine about? Wait till he sends you to the Tower of London for beheading. Then you can whine.)
The Tempest: I will have to revisit this one. It was so good that it merits its own entry.
Julius Caesar: Tons of fun. I like Cassius--too bad he's doomed for the Inferno.
Macbeth: Is awesome. I love that there is a character named McDuffy.
Antony and Cleopatra: Is an example of why really beautiful people make for bad monarchs. I really like all of Cleopatra's rants though.
Titus Andronicus: Ewwwwwwwwww.
Cymbeline: probably one of my favorites yet. It'll get an entry soon.
Up next for the reading is Richard III. Maybe I'll just rent the movie...
Thursday, January 18, 2007
If Titus Andronicus...
...were a movie, I would either have walked out sometime during the third act, or sat quavering in my seat and cursing the day I shelled out eight fifty to see it.
I don't like horror movies. I don't like injustices. I don't like unnecessary violence and bloodshed. These are not things I look for in my entertainment. However, if Titus Andronicus were a movie, I bet it'd be a box office smash, especially with a Halloween release date and a splashy ad campaign.
But seriously, to give you the highlights:
We begin with an emperor dying, and the country arguing over who will replace him. Things seem to work out, although for some reason we inaugurate the new ruler with a human sacrifice. But later, the two princes Titus's daughter, Lavinia, and cut out her tongue so she can't tell anyone, and the queen gives birth to biracial child, fathered by her slave-lover, who immediately kills the nurse who birthed the child, and kidnaps it. Too bad his efforts are in vain--they will all die before the play ends.
My personal favorite monstrosity is when Titus is told his sons' lives will be spared if he cuts off his own hand. He does so, and gives it to the messenger. The messenger returns with his sons' heads on a platter. Poor Bloody Stump Titus.
Actually, no, I don't feel that badly for him. After all, he figures out that the princes raped Lavinia, kills them and cooks them into a pie, which he serves to their mother, the Queen. Then he asks the emperor if a father should kill his daughter if she was raped. The emperor says, in general terms, "Hell yeah!" and so Titus proceeds to kill Lavinia and the Queen all at one nightmarish dinner party.
I can't say that I'm a fan of a play in which every major character is killed in sundry horrible ways, but I know that many people are. Much like sex, blood sells. It's just a little distressing to see that this was as true back in the 1580s as it is now in 2007. But there is something to the madness. I read Titus in one sitting, whereas it has taken me three days to wade myself through the comedic banter of All's Well that Ends Well. There is something to be said for sitting on the edge of one's seat.
Ah well, to keep you posted, the current play count is 16/37. I'm working on it!
Molly
I don't like horror movies. I don't like injustices. I don't like unnecessary violence and bloodshed. These are not things I look for in my entertainment. However, if Titus Andronicus were a movie, I bet it'd be a box office smash, especially with a Halloween release date and a splashy ad campaign.
But seriously, to give you the highlights:
We begin with an emperor dying, and the country arguing over who will replace him. Things seem to work out, although for some reason we inaugurate the new ruler with a human sacrifice. But later, the two princes Titus's daughter, Lavinia, and cut out her tongue so she can't tell anyone, and the queen gives birth to biracial child, fathered by her slave-lover, who immediately kills the nurse who birthed the child, and kidnaps it. Too bad his efforts are in vain--they will all die before the play ends.
My personal favorite monstrosity is when Titus is told his sons' lives will be spared if he cuts off his own hand. He does so, and gives it to the messenger. The messenger returns with his sons' heads on a platter. Poor Bloody Stump Titus.
Actually, no, I don't feel that badly for him. After all, he figures out that the princes raped Lavinia, kills them and cooks them into a pie, which he serves to their mother, the Queen. Then he asks the emperor if a father should kill his daughter if she was raped. The emperor says, in general terms, "Hell yeah!" and so Titus proceeds to kill Lavinia and the Queen all at one nightmarish dinner party.
I can't say that I'm a fan of a play in which every major character is killed in sundry horrible ways, but I know that many people are. Much like sex, blood sells. It's just a little distressing to see that this was as true back in the 1580s as it is now in 2007. But there is something to the madness. I read Titus in one sitting, whereas it has taken me three days to wade myself through the comedic banter of All's Well that Ends Well. There is something to be said for sitting on the edge of one's seat.
Ah well, to keep you posted, the current play count is 16/37. I'm working on it!
Molly
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
It's a fine, fine line.
Oh, how to begin?
So I was reading The Two Gentlemen of Verona the other day, and I started thinking about the nature of comedies and tragedies.
First of all, I would like to say that I think this play has an unfairly bad reputation. Despite having a slightly implausible plot line, the writing really affected me, and I found it much more entertaining than some of its more highly regarded fellows (*cough*Love's Labour Lost *cough* Justonelonggameofwordplaywithwaytoomanycharactersandnoplot). However, I would not have classified it as a comedy. Now, I am aware that the classic definition of comedy is a bit more inclusive than the happily ever after tale we get nowadays.
But let's lay it out here--Julia is madly in love with Proteus, he is forced by his father to go off to Milan to "expand his mind". They exchange rings, have tearful goodbyes, etc. Now Julia is stuck at home in Verona thinking about how much she misses Proteus. Meanwhile Proteus is livin' it up in Milan, falling in love with his best friend's gal, Sylvia.
Julia misses Proteus so much that she decides to dress up as a boy and travel to Milan just to see him. Bam. She gets there and he's courting someone else. So poor Julia is stuck in Milan, with no money, dangerously disguised as a boy, and desperately in love with this skeevy guy, who doesn't even recognize her when she goes to work as a page in the house where he's staying. He actually asks her to deliver the ring she gave him as a gift to Sylvia. Wanna know how Julia is revealed? She essentially "walks in on" Proteus trying to rape Sylvia and faints.
The play would be a horrible tragedy if he didn't suddenly recognize her and go, "Oh yeah, I'm actually in love with Julia" which is, basically, what happens, and because it is the sixteenth century, Julia has to be all "Yay! Proteus likes me again!" Now that's tragic.
Compare this story to Romeo and Juliet. Teenagers fall in love at a party, realize their families hate each other, so get to have lots of fun sneaking around scenes. There's some mad gossiping, a lot of she loves me she loves me not-ing, and a whole pack of comedic side characters. There's even the classic Shakespearean misunderstanding, which we are just waiting to be resolved so the kids can get together and everyone can be happy.
Except it isn't resolved. People start to die, and all of a sudden our happy-go-lucky teenagers are dealing with real grief and real anger and the real need for revenge. Turns out Mercutio is less of a party animal when he's bleeding to death in the street.
So who's to say what's a comedy or tragedy anyway? It's like life, all mixed up together.
Molly
So I was reading The Two Gentlemen of Verona the other day, and I started thinking about the nature of comedies and tragedies.
First of all, I would like to say that I think this play has an unfairly bad reputation. Despite having a slightly implausible plot line, the writing really affected me, and I found it much more entertaining than some of its more highly regarded fellows (*cough*Love's Labour Lost *cough* Justonelonggameofwordplaywithwaytoomanycharactersandnoplot). However, I would not have classified it as a comedy. Now, I am aware that the classic definition of comedy is a bit more inclusive than the happily ever after tale we get nowadays.
But let's lay it out here--Julia is madly in love with Proteus, he is forced by his father to go off to Milan to "expand his mind". They exchange rings, have tearful goodbyes, etc. Now Julia is stuck at home in Verona thinking about how much she misses Proteus. Meanwhile Proteus is livin' it up in Milan, falling in love with his best friend's gal, Sylvia.
Julia misses Proteus so much that she decides to dress up as a boy and travel to Milan just to see him. Bam. She gets there and he's courting someone else. So poor Julia is stuck in Milan, with no money, dangerously disguised as a boy, and desperately in love with this skeevy guy, who doesn't even recognize her when she goes to work as a page in the house where he's staying. He actually asks her to deliver the ring she gave him as a gift to Sylvia. Wanna know how Julia is revealed? She essentially "walks in on" Proteus trying to rape Sylvia and faints.
The play would be a horrible tragedy if he didn't suddenly recognize her and go, "Oh yeah, I'm actually in love with Julia" which is, basically, what happens, and because it is the sixteenth century, Julia has to be all "Yay! Proteus likes me again!" Now that's tragic.
Compare this story to Romeo and Juliet. Teenagers fall in love at a party, realize their families hate each other, so get to have lots of fun sneaking around scenes. There's some mad gossiping, a lot of she loves me she loves me not-ing, and a whole pack of comedic side characters. There's even the classic Shakespearean misunderstanding, which we are just waiting to be resolved so the kids can get together and everyone can be happy.
Except it isn't resolved. People start to die, and all of a sudden our happy-go-lucky teenagers are dealing with real grief and real anger and the real need for revenge. Turns out Mercutio is less of a party animal when he's bleeding to death in the street.
So who's to say what's a comedy or tragedy anyway? It's like life, all mixed up together.
Molly
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Simply play on and "Lay on, Macduffy!"
Well, I just finished reading Macbeth. Wowee. I certainly wasn't sure what I was getting into with this one. You see, my immediate association with Macbeth was an old and strong theater superstition, which has filtered down and is still present, even in the community theaters where I practice the craft. It is simply that you cannot say the word Macbeth in a theater. Not in the audience, not on stage, not in the lobby, not anywhere. There is supposedly a strong curse connected to "the Scottish play" (as it is referred to by all theater type folks), and saying the title will bring accidents, ill-fortune, and all around bad vibes to your production.
There are many proposed sources of this superstition (see: http://www.angelfire.com/fl3/Defymcbeth/Super2.html) but I personally like the idea of the Weird Sisters and Hecate releasing their wrath on all thespians.
So basically I didn't know much about the actual play, except for the vague sense of dread that comes with the name. After reading it, I have the same sense, but for more substantial reasons. This play, my friends, is Shakespeare done Alfred Hitchcock-style. A murder has gone down, and the suspense is rising. Add in a background war and political power struggle, as well as some crazy potion brewing, and you have the best Halloween movie EVER.
But seriously, after Macbeth murders the king (a guest in his own house), he grow paranoid, and starts killing off everyone who might be suspicious. He sees ghosts, and if that weren't enough, his wife goes crazy. I actually read somewhere that Lady Mac is a predecessor to modern obsessive-compulsive disorder, with her constant hand washing. She's convinced that the blood from the murder is still visible--that she will never be clean. It's rather like "The Tell-tale Heart", but with sword fights.
Personally, my favorite bit is the witches song:
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
And there's more where that comes from, ladies and gentlemen. Actually there are rumors that the witch's songs and parts were enlarged substantially in the printing of Macbeth, and not by Shakespeare. Of course, all of his plays are surrounded by a veritable fog of...unveritifiable-ness. But I want to just imagine William Shakespeare, regular guy, sitting in the Globe, or in Stratford, scratching out play after play. I don't like conspiracy theories, and feel that in relentless searching for the honest-to-God-Discovery-Channel-truth, people tend to forget the real point, the reason why they like these plays in the first place.
Well, that's all for now.
Molly
(PS: The subject line is a quote from a rather hysterical song from the Broadway musical Kiss Me, Kate, called "Brush Up Your Shakespeare." For some of the most far fetched rhymes you will ever read, check it out at http://www.guntheranderson.com/v/data/brushupy.htm)
There are many proposed sources of this superstition (see: http://www.angelfire.com/fl3/Defymcbeth/Super2.html) but I personally like the idea of the Weird Sisters and Hecate releasing their wrath on all thespians.
So basically I didn't know much about the actual play, except for the vague sense of dread that comes with the name. After reading it, I have the same sense, but for more substantial reasons. This play, my friends, is Shakespeare done Alfred Hitchcock-style. A murder has gone down, and the suspense is rising. Add in a background war and political power struggle, as well as some crazy potion brewing, and you have the best Halloween movie EVER.
But seriously, after Macbeth murders the king (a guest in his own house), he grow paranoid, and starts killing off everyone who might be suspicious. He sees ghosts, and if that weren't enough, his wife goes crazy. I actually read somewhere that Lady Mac is a predecessor to modern obsessive-compulsive disorder, with her constant hand washing. She's convinced that the blood from the murder is still visible--that she will never be clean. It's rather like "The Tell-tale Heart", but with sword fights.
Personally, my favorite bit is the witches song:
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
And there's more where that comes from, ladies and gentlemen. Actually there are rumors that the witch's songs and parts were enlarged substantially in the printing of Macbeth, and not by Shakespeare. Of course, all of his plays are surrounded by a veritable fog of...unveritifiable-ness. But I want to just imagine William Shakespeare, regular guy, sitting in the Globe, or in Stratford, scratching out play after play. I don't like conspiracy theories, and feel that in relentless searching for the honest-to-God-Discovery-Channel-truth, people tend to forget the real point, the reason why they like these plays in the first place.
Well, that's all for now.
Molly
(PS: The subject line is a quote from a rather hysterical song from the Broadway musical Kiss Me, Kate, called "Brush Up Your Shakespeare." For some of the most far fetched rhymes you will ever read, check it out at http://www.guntheranderson.com/v/data/brushupy.htm)
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