The Winter’s Tale

Shakespeare: the funny bits

No, it’s not Exit pursued by a bear, which may be the most well-known funny bit in all of Shakespeare; nor is it the setting of 3.iii, Bohemia, The sea-coast, which I’ll get to in a moment.

It belongs to Autolycus, the last and happiest of Shakespeare’s rogues:

Autolycus [Aside] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance: let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. [Takes off his false beard]

The plays after Lear have been full of surprises, the first of which was that I knew next to nothing about any of them. Back in January, when I started this project, I’d read seven or eight of the plays, but but leaving aside the histories, I could have given one-line summaries of almost all of the rest, from The Comedy of Errors (“Some guys look the same as each other, hijinks ensue”) to Lear (“A king divides his kingdom between his three daughters, it doesn’t end well”).

But all I knew about Coriolanus was that it was about Romans, and that the lines with which Joyce closes the debate on Hamlet in Ulysses – ‘Laud we the gods / And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils / From our bless’d altars’ – were taken from it. (I was wrong: they are from Cymbeline.) All I knew about Cymbeline was that it was about Ancient Britons. I had no idea that Timon of Athens or Henry VIII existed at all.

And all I knew about The Winter’s Tale was that it had a character named Perdita, and something about a lady, or a statue of a lady, coming to life.

So I was surprised to find that Coriolanus and Cymbeline are both rather good, and that Timon, while not a total success, is a fascinating attempt to dramatise Cynicism, in the classical sense of that word.

And I was even more surprised to find that The Winter’s Tale is very touching and beautiful. Anyone staging it should be encouraged to edit Autolycus’ description of his false beard, to stop it spoiling Act 4, which is a pastoral so lovely that it makes you see why rich folk got into dressing up as shepherds and swains in the first place. It’s like A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but richer and with darker shadows. The winter’s tale itself, in 2.i, is too good to spoil by paraphrase.

And of course part of it takes place on the sea-coast of Bohemia, which is not far from Cloudcuckooland, and can be seen, on a clear day, from the summits of the Big Rock-Candy Mountains.

I’ve steered clear of amateur lit-crit in these pieces, but in reading Pericles, Cymbeline and The Winter’s Tale in succession, it seemed to me that Shakespeare is trying to create a genre that will include everything – tragedy, comedy, warfare, theft, jealousy, big set-pieces, dance, masques, magic, loss and redemption. And he gets nearer to success with each play.

It makes sense that the 20^th century – boringly obsessed with individualism and with individualism’s nightmare, the fear of being absorbed into a faceless mob – should have placed emphasis on the tragedies: Hamlet, Othello, Lear and Macbeth. (Not Coriolanus, mind: the Roman general is far too powerful and proud to be a 20^th century boy.)

I get the feeling that in the late plays, Shakspeare is working out concepts that matter more to him, and to his audience, than a bloke going the big whinge. Critics and readers never enjoy the feeling that an author is paying insufficient attention to their obsessions, and will neglect the works in which this happens. I mean, how selfish can you get?

The Unreasonable Effectiveness of Being Kind of a Jerk in the Natural Sciences

I’m a fan of Richard Feynman: have read a couple of his books, and even convinced myself that I understood most of them. So I watched the above with a mixture of pleasure and horror. It’s clear that Feynman is enjoying himself, and it’s just as clear that in terms of normal human communication, he’s being a complete dick. He even manages to slip a moderately good explanation of magnets in amongst the self-amused, pedantic blather about how it’s impossible to explain it to a lay audience.

Superfreakonomics

The emphasis on carbon dioxide? “Misplaced,” says Wood.

Why?

“Because carbon dioxide is not the major greenhouse gas. The major greenhouse gas is water vapor.” But current climate models “do not know how to handle water vapor and various types of clouds. That is the elephant in the corner of this room. I hope we’ll have good numbers on water vapor by 2020 or thereabouts.”

Superfreakonomics, p182

“On balance, the role of clouds is to produce a cooling,” says Latham. “If clouds didn’t exist in the atmosphere, the earth would be a lot hotter than it is now.” Even man-made clouds—the contrails from a jet plane, for example—have a cooling effect. [...]

His solution: use the ocean itself to make more clouds.

Superfreakonomics, pp201-2

I wasn’t looking forward to Superfreakonomics but it’s surprisingly fun. Even more surprisingly, some of the fun was not at the authors’ expense. The chapters on modelling altruism and cheap fixes were very interesting.

And the way authors bang on about how economists are the most rational guys (and they are all guys in this book) on the planet is almost charming in its daftness. It’s as if they come to us from an alternate reality when economists hadn’t been alternately crowing and hectoring about free markets and the evils of state intervention for, oh, the last forty years. A strange world indeed, where infrastructure is somehow constructed and the US banks still work.

The chapter on climate change seems to have been strapped on in order to raise the book’s profile with some controversy. There’s no evidence that Levitt or Dubner actually comprehend the physical basis of the greenhouse effect—they seem to think that it has something to do with soot. And whatever the word “rational” means when used by economists, it doesn’t include ensuring that page 182 doesn’t contradict page 200, or that the “Law of Unintended Consequences” would apply not only to the US Endangered Species Act but also to some Professor-Branestawmish scheme to cure global warming by pumping sulphur dioxide into the stratosphere.

I could go on, but I’ll stop with this delightfully bizarre sentence from p193:

Leverage is the secret ingredient that separates physics from, say, chemistry.

Cymbeline

Shakespeare: the funny bits

Britain. Cymbeline’s palace

Cym. My dearest daughter Imogen, I order you to marry your dastardly half-brother Cloten.
Imo. Eww.
Cym. He’s only my new Queen’s kid from her former marriage. It’s not like you two had baths together when you were kids.
Imo. EWWWWW.
Cym. And anyway I’m King, so your boyfriend Posthumus is banished. If he stays around here he’ll live up to his name, ha ha ha.
Imo. [groans] Dad joke.
Cym. Daughters! Who’d have ‘em! It’s so annoying that someone stole those two sons of mine twenty years ago. Oh well.

Rome. Philario’s house

Enter Posthumus and Iachimo.

Post. I’m so in love with Imogen, the best girl in the world. We have a deeply romantic and trusting relationship with each other. It’s the real thing: True Love.
Iach. Ha, she wouldn’t last ten seconds in Italy. In fact, ten thousand ducats says I can get her into the sack.
Post. You’re on.

Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter the Queen, Cornelius and Pisanio

Cor. [aside] See that box the queen has? The potion in it makes people seem like they’re completely dead for a while, but then they wake up. It’s totally amazing and like nothing you’ve seen in any play ever before.

[The Queen drops the box. Pisanio takes it up.

Queen. Oh, silly me, I dropped my box of the best medicine ever. Well, finders keepers. Enjoy!

The palace. Enter Imogen and Iachimo

Iach. Hey, pretty lady. Root me.
Imo. No thanks.
Iach. [aside] Ouch! [to Imogen] In that case, please accept this gift of a man-sized trunk full of… some stuff.
Imo. Oh, goody, presents. Have it sent to my room where I can forget all about it.

Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s palace. A man-size trunk in one corner.

Imo. So sleepy! ‘Night!

[She sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk and starts taking notes.

Iach. Ok, arras, windows, bed, hmm, what's that?
[Taking off her bracelet.
Iach. Sweet.

[Exit into the trunk.

Rome. Enter Posthumus and Iachimo.

Iach. About that girlfriend of yours. Nice Twilight poster she's got in her bedroom.
Post. Yeah, chicks love that stuff. Women, huh.
Iach. Just above the water feature with the spinning ball thing.
Post. They're all the rage this year.
Iach. And I love the blue and white stained glass window.
Post. Which you can see from outside, der.
Iach. It really sets off the mole on her boob.
Post. Servant's gossip. Wait, what?
Iach. Her boob.
Post. ARGH MANPAIN.

Britain. Cymbeline's palace.

Enter Pisano holding a letter and the Queen's box, and Imogen.

Pis. You'd better get out of here. Dress up like a man, and take this magic potion in case you get seasick or something.

Wales. A mountainous country with a cave.

Enter from the cave Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.

Bel. Ah, free life in the wilderness. What could be better?
Arv. Man, this blows.
Gui. Place is a dump.
Bel. How noble these two boys are. It must be because they are Cymbeline's sons who I stole from his palace twenty years ago. Hope you've all been paying attention.

Enter Imogen, in boy's clothes.

Imo. Hi, I'm starved and half dead. Please don't kill me.

[She sits on a log. Arviragus and Guiderius sit on either side of her.

Arv. Now that I think about it, the country's got a lot to recommend it.
Gui. Yeah.
Imo. Actually... I still feel pretty ordinary. And there's something about the way you guys are looking at me which creeps me out. I think I'll take some of this magic potion and have a lie down.

Wales. Near the cave of Belarius

Enter Cloten, dressed in Posthumus' clothes

Clo. I'm going to find that Posthumus and chop off his head. Yeah, I said it. Wearing his clothes, too. That'll show him.

Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.

Enter Guiderius with Cloten's head.

Gui. Hey guys! Look what I found.
Clot. [aside] That went well.

Enter Arviragus with Imogen as dead, bearing her in his arms.

Arv. Hey guys! Look what I found.
Bel. Well, there goes the rest of my day.

[They strew flowers and lay Cloten and Imogen on them. Exeunt all but Imogen.]

Imo. [Awaking] Oh, man. What did I do last night? [Seeing the body.
These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world;
This bloody man, the care on't. [Actually notices the body this time.
ZOMG DEAD HUSBAND! [Falls fainting on the body.

Enter Lucius, Captains and a Soothsayer, bickering

Luc. All I'm saying is, I mean, I'm a general of the Roman fucking Empire, and I'm not about to be confined to a subplot by a bunch of woad-faced Brits.
Cap. Whoah, look at that, a headless corpse with a boy laying on top of it.
Luc. You see! That's what I've been saying! These people are savages! But he's hot, so he can come and work for me.
Imo.Huh, wha? Oh, ok.

Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, Posthumus following like a poor soldier.

Posthumus vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.

The battle continues; the Britains fly; Cymbeline is taken. Then enter to his rescue Belarius, Guiderius and Arvigarus.

Another part of the field. Enter Posthumus and a Britain Lord.

Lord. What just happened?
Post. It was awesome, this old guy and two kids showed up out of nowhere and slaughtered the Romans, you should have been there. Oh wait, that's right, you were there. Running away.
Lord. Well, really.
Post. Whatever, I'm going to suddenly switch sides for no real reason.

Britain. A prison.

Posthumus is thrown into a cell by two Gaolers.

Post. Sucks to be me. [Sleeps.

Solemn Music. Enter, as in an apparition, Posthumus' Mum and Dad, his dead brothers, an army of striding hammers with red and black handles, Hughie, Ralph the Bong, a large black obelisk and two scary little girls. Finally, Jupiter descends, riding an eagle and wearing a pair of Ray-Bans.

Jup. Kid, relax. It's all gonna be alright.

[Ascends.

Post. [Waking] What a koo-koo dream.

Re-enter Gaoler.

Gao. Wakey, wakey, hands off snakey, it’s hanging time.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Hold your horses, the King wants him at the dénouement.
Gao. Dénouement? What’s a dénouement?
Mess. Do you work for the King, or what?
Gao. Yes.
Mess. Dénouement to let me take him to the King!

Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter just about everyone.

Cym. Ok, if I’m ever going to understand all this, you’ll have to tell me the whole story over again.
Omnes. Here goes. “The Scene, Britain. Cymbeline’s Palace. Cym. My dearest daughter Imogen, I order you to marry your dastardly half-brother Cloten…”
[...]
Omnes “…honestly.”
Cym. So, let’s see. The Queen was giving me drugs to make me think that marrying her son to my daughter was OK, which is actually pretty icky now that I think about it. But she’s dead now, and so’s Cloten, who I never really got on with. And that page is actually Imogen, and those two bumpkins who have been making eyes at him, I mean her, are my lost sons. That’s kind of icky, too. But Posthumus is alive, and he’s been her husband all along. Even though he just punched her in the face while you were explaining it all.
Pis. That’s about it.
Cym. There really is a lot of weird brother-sister stuff in this story. Don’t you think?
Pis. I guess so, now that you mention it.
Cym. Maybe it’s meant to be some sort of Cymbelism.
Imo. God, Dad, honestly.

Happy Penal Colony day!

I find it hard to join in the traditional Invasion Day activity of soul-searching or just whinging about the new Australian phenomenon of “southern cross nationalism”, because a lot of this criticism seems to be based on the new Australian phenomenon of “unabashed class hatred”. And I’m the kind of westie who is uncomfortable with the term “westie”, let alone “bogan”.

Funny how the New Nationalism mostly recycles old American slogans like “Love it or Leave it”. And the one original contribution, “We’re Full”, is just begging to be completed with “of Ourselves”.

I should admit that in my youth I did, in fact, swallow a dictionary. It’s not as hard as they make out. You just have to mince the pages very fine and add enough salt.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre

Shakespeare: the funny bits

You mustn’t think that I leapt into this business of mocking Shakespeare without knowing a little about those who have gone before me: Bennett, Miller, Cook and Moore driving the nail into the coffin of doublet-and-hose history plays in ‘So That’s The Way You Like It’, and Max Beerbohm’s gleeful evisceration of secondhand Shakespearean verse drama in ‘Savonarola Brown’.

And a more recent example, Francis Heaney’s brilliant Pericles: Prince of Tired Plots, has left me unable to perform a similar office for the play. I’ll just say that, my God, it’s all true, and quote these few lines from Act 5, Scene I:

Helicanus Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the King:
A man who for this three months hath not spoken
To any one, nor taken sustenance
But to prorogue his grief.
Lysimachus Upon what ground is his distemperature?
Hel. ‘Twould be too tedious to repeat.

Henry VIII

Shakespeare: the funny bits

3rd Gentlemen. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman
That ever lay by man; which when the people
Had the full view of, such a noise arose
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,
As loud, and to as many tunes; hats, cloaks—
Doublets, I think—flew up, and had their faces
Been loose, this day they had been lost.

You’re quite sure they were doublets, then? And a good job their faces didn’t all fall off. Wait, what?

I had no idea that Henry VIII existed before I set out on this slightly mad enterprise. Auden passes over it in silence, perhaps because the play is thought to be only partly Will’s work; had it not been in the Complete Works I’ve been reading from, I would still be ignorant of it. Which would be a shame: apart from creakiness in certain passages, the play is quite good fun to read. It’s also interesting to read a history play about an almost-contemporary king, and to get a less stereotyped idea of Henry VIII.

It was the last play I read, and I finished it sitting under this tree.

The Books

Tributary

Are tributes to other artists a jazz thing? Do other genres do this? Prompted by my love for Mingus’ elegy for Lester Young, “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat”, and for Chick Corea and Gary Burton’s live performance of “Bud Powell” on In Concert: Zurich. I think a compilation of such tracks would make a good record.

I think Bud Powell had a tune called “Thelonious”, and @hotrecords has suggested Miles’ tribute to Duke, “He Loved Him Madly” via twitter. Are there any more?

Ridiculously highfalutin’ Avatar reference

“[...] while we sleep here, we are awake elsewhere and that in this way every man is two men.”

—Borges, “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius”