All in Shakespeare
The chorus is back! I would be remiss if I did not mention the literary fact that a “prologue,” as it were, is a scene that should come before the story’s beginning. Mr. Chorus, as well-intended as you may be, I’m not quite sure you have a grasp on what you actually are. Just some knowledge to chew on, sir. Now go ahead and show me what you’ve got.
Sung by the chorus, the prologue goes a little something like this:
Guy comes out and tells us that what we are about to see is a great play about the greatest Henry who ever Henreyed. There will be energetic battles covering sweeping countrysides. But keep your expectations in check, son. This is still just a small stage in a theater. So we can’t actually reproduce all of England.
You think?
Yorkshire. Gaultree. Forest. Circus. Because why not?
Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Lord Hastings, and other head honchos of the rebel army.
So where were we?
Henry was king, if I remember correctly. Also, a bunch of other stuff happened.
The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. Chewbacca just told a joke that might have been racist but no one’s really sure.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.
King Henry opens the play with a roiling speech on how the wars of the past are finished. No more will our children’s blood stain the ground, he more or less proclaims. I don’t know what wars London has recently seen, but the way he speaks, it sounds as if they were brutal and unforgiving as all hell.
This week, having completed my reading and written summaries/amateur analysis bloggys of The Danish Play (a name no one has ever given it), I sat down to watch Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 film, Hamlet.
A churchyard.
Two clowns enter. Will they be funny? Hard not to be when you’re digging a hole for someone’s burial.
The goose is out of its gander! Is that the phrase? I don’t think that’s the phrase.
Hamlet’s dirty deed does not remain between he and his Mum for long. Gertrude has run to King Claudius and spilled the beans: Hamlet killed Polonius in cold-blooded, madcap lunacy.
A room in the castle. Probably the solarium.
King Claudius has a secret pow wow with his wifey poo, Queen Gertrude, Ophelia, Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern. He asks them what they think of Hamlet’s crazy town demeanor.
A room in Polonius’ house. Probably not the bathroom. Ahh, methinks I’ve used this lame joke before! Well, at least it won’t be the last time. Ever.
Elsinore. A platform before the castle.
What comes after the castle then? Ba dum chh?
For once, I don’t know how to start one of these things. Phew! Glad that’s over.
On the first day of Hamlet, my Willy gave to me, a prologue to a tragedy.
That doesn’t beat well. I may not do it again.
Cloten enters the cave! I’m kidding with that exclamation point. I could care less about Cloten the clown. I’ve never seen him do or say anything funny and he’s always in everybody’s business. Still, he’s more approachable than Pennywise.
Britain. The garden of Cymbeline’s palace.
I love it already!! In fact, I first read that setting as “Cymbeline’s place” and thought, “That’s cool. Sounds chill.” Then I noticed my mistake and got down and ready to party at the palace!
When we last left the Coriolanus formerly known as Marcius, he’d just been banished from Rome.
“All are banish-ed!” decreed the Verona priest. Just kidding.
Here, at the start of Act IV, Coriolanus is still taking his sweet time getting outta Dodge.
We open to a mob of “mutinous citizens.”
Best. Beginning. Ever!
The First Citizen (that’s his given name in the play) delivers the plays first line, “Before we proceed any further…” which I kinda love. Because like… hello, where were you before? What did I miss? Why is everyone so angry? I’ll shut up and find out.
We return with Angelo telling a merchant that Antipholus owes him money for a chain. Thrilling.
Enter Antipholus. He tells Dromio to buy him a rope. Whoa!
For a comedy, it sure starts out inside a barrel of overly zealous monkeys!
This soggy dude named Aegon comes waltzing up to Duke Solinus and tells a harrowing story of how his ship was wrecked and his sons were killed in the disaster. At first it sounded like his wife had just given birth to twin boys and then a few hours later, some other woman gave birth to two boys as well. So I thought we were in for a romping good time with a mistaken identity show.
What’s the point in reading if you aren’t enjoying it? And how can you enjoy a story if you aren’t understanding it? This isn’t a trick question. Fictions — well-written fictions, anyway — are created with the intention of pleasing the reader with an interesting tale. If you are struggling to grasp what is being conveyed on the page, then maybe you’re just not into the work. It’s OK, you can move on.
