The Winter's Tale by William Shakespeare

Because of Covid-19, theaters are closed here in California, and the Utah Shakespeare Festival is cancelled. Thus, I doubt I am going to have many chances to see live theater in the near future. We have been getting by with video sources, even though they are not the same. The Globe in London is releasing filmed performances of various plays, including this one.

 I first saw A Winter’s Tale at Bakersfield College about two decades ago. I can’t remember if I was dating my wife or recently married, but it would have been before kids complicated our theater life. Of course, eventually, they started coming with us, which has been all kinds of fun. 

 The Winter’s Tale is one of Shakespeare’s problem plays. Or maybe one of his late romances. Whatever you want to call it, it is a comedy in the sense of having a happy ending, but could easily have been a tragedy with a slightly different ending. 

 I find it fascinating in part because of the way Shakespeare separates the serious drama and the comedy. The first part of the play, set in “Sicilia,” is drama and tragedy. The second part, full of comedy and high spirits, is set in “Bohemia.” (The locations are obviously fictitious, because Bohemia then and now is landlocked, and does not have a coast as in the play.) At the end, the humor of Bohemia practically invades the traumatized Sicily and brings (literally) life back to it. 

 Shakespeare borrowed the plot from a story by Robert Greene, Pandosto. The original is a full tragedy, with the king killing himself after accidentally falling in love with his lost daughter. Shakespeare chose to dramatically change the ending, writing what is now one of the most iconic scenes in the play, when the statue comes to life. But I get ahead of the plot. 

 Leontes, king of Sicilia, is entertaining his childhood friend, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. Polixenes is homesick, and decides to return. Leontes tries to persuade him to stay, but is unsuccessful, until queen Hermione intervenes, and persuades Polixenes to stay. 

 Rather than please Leontes, this act makes him insanely jealous, imagining that Herminone is cheating on him with his friend. Furious, orders one of his lords, Camillo, to poison Polixenes. Instead, Camillo, convinced of the innocence of the queen, warns Polixenes and the two of them flee to Bohemia. Leontes then denounces the queen despite her pleas of innocence. Her tears are of no avail, he calls her unborn child a bastard, and throws her in prison. When the child is born, orders that she be abandoned to her death.

 Herminone appeals to the Oracle, which declares her innocent. Leontes is not convinced, despite the warning that he will have no heir until his lost daughter is found. As a result of his stubbornness, his son dies of a wasting sickness, and Herminone appears to die as well. 

 Bereft, Leontes comes to his senses at last, and realizes he is wrong. However, it is, at this point too late. 

 The courtier sent to abandon the daughter does so, but is chased away soon after, with Shakespeare’s most famous stage direction, “Exit, pursued by a bear.” This was a disappointing moment in this particular production, with just a banner with a picture of a bear unfurled. Was the bear suit at the cleaners or something? 

 The infant is found by a shepherdess (shepherd in the play, but a shepherdess in this production) and her son. 

The next act opens sixteen years later. The infant has grown into a lovely young woman, Perdita, who has caught the eye of Prince Florizel, who courts her in disguise. Polixenes, accompanied by Camillo, spies on them, and erupts in fury at their betrothal. After threatening Perdita and her adoptive family with horrid punishment, he orders them never to see each other. 

 Camillo has other ideas, however. He wishes to return to his native land, and takes Florizel and Perdita with him. 

 At the end of the play, all these identities are revealed, and father and daughter are reunited - and Florizel and Perdita can marry and clinch the alliance. 

 But there is one thing remaining. The faithful Paulina, widow of the unfortunate Autigonus, eaten by the bear, reveals that she has a peculiar statue, true to life of the dead Hermione. It is no spoiler this many centuries later to say that the statue is really Hermione herself, carefully tended by Paulina all these years. After sixteen years of penance, Leontes is a changed man, and finally worthy of Hermione. 

 A play like this, with its improbable plot, stands or falls on the quality of its direction and acting. The Globe, unsurprisingly, rose to the occasion regarding both. (My only quibble is the lack of a bear…) 

 While all of the male leads were good, I thought that the three females around whom the play centers were particularly outstanding. Sirene Saba, as Paulina, had tremendous stage presence and a projection of authority that was a perfect contrast to the unstable and irrational Leontes (Will Kean in a convincing performance.) Nora Lopez-Holden as Perdita brought the right level of exuberance and naivete to the role. Likewise, Luke MacGregor as Florizel seemed just the sort of ditzy prince to make a game of courting a shepherdess. Becci Gemmel, in a trousers role as the clow, Autocylus, was hilarious. Adrien Bower (Camillo), Oliver Ryan (Polixenes), and Howard Ward (Antigonus) were all suited to their parts. 

 Special props, though, go to Priyanga Burford as Hermione. She is every bit as commanding as Paulina, then vulnerable and shattered after the false accusations - but she retains her dignity throughout. The statue scene was incredible because of her ability. In previous versions, Hermione is posed in a neutral position, to make standing perfectly still easy. In this one, Burford held her arms in an artistic pose. For at least ten minutes. The level of control this must have required is astonishing. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her during the whole scene. Since this was a filmed version of a live performance, this wasn’t done with camera cuts. She did this - night after night. Highly impressive.

The unjustly accused Hermione (center), with her irrational husband Leontes (right), as Paulina (left) looks on with horror.

Florizel and Perdita at the carnival.

 I also love that the Globe uses live musicians and music composed for the occasion. This was, like previous plays I have seen, a good bit of the fun. 

Unfortunately, by the time I got to writing this, the streaming of this play had ended. However, The Globe intends to continue to release past productions in two week increments, and I will be watching as many as I can. (Next up: The Merry Wives of Windsor.) 

 

Information about the plays can be found here.

The specifics for The Winter’s Tale are here.  

 

Epigrams and Elegies by John Donne

Source of book: I own this.

John Donne and I go way back. I remember reading a sonnet somewhere in my early days of discovering poetry before age 10. He was a bit over my head at the time, but I at least became aware of “Send not to ask for whom the bell tolls…” and “No man is an island” and a few other good lines.

I experienced a larger dose in high school. As I have mentioned, I took video courses from well known fundamentalist curriculum maker, which was a mixed experience. On the one hand, Mr. Collins, who taught two years of English, was a great teacher, and I learned a lot. He also subtly undermined the worst of the flaws in the curriculum itself, which, as I have come to realize, had problems. One of the biggest gaps was the near-lack of 20th Century literature. Likewise, few non-white authors made the cut. The other problem, though, was that the necessity of making everything about their version of religion meant that the facts were often twisted so they wouldn’t undermine the preaching.

In the case of Donne, this was particularly egregious. The claim was that Donne’s life followed the preferred “conversion narrative.” In his wild youth, he chased women (true) and wrote naughty poems; but then he found God, got married, and traded his smutty poetry for exalted religious poetry. This was, technically speaking, bullshit on a stick. Donne did get married (against her parents’ wishes), had a dozen children, most of whom died in infancy, and then was widowed when his wife died giving birth to the last child. (And no wonder, really.) He then lived another 15 years, and continued to write.

At all times: his unmarried youth, his years as a husband, and his long widowhood - he wrote both devotional and risque poems. This fact was highly inconvenient, however, to fundies. After all, in their worldview, it was impossible to be both devout and incontinent, or to be religious and profane at the same time. But Donne was. 

 The young, dashing Donne.

It has been seven years since I read Donne (man, time flies!), so I was overdue to open that book again. You can read my thoughts on his Songs and Sonnets collection here.

Epigrams and Elegies is a convenient way of grouping the two sections I read. The Epigrams are somewhat tongue-in-cheek tributes to the dead. And by this I mean persons ranging from real people to mythological figures to generic characters like “Liar” to inanimate objects.

Here is an example:

“A Burnt Ship”

Out of a fired ship, which by no way

But drowning could be rescued from the flame,

Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came

Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay;

So all were lost, which in the ship were found,

      They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drown'd.

Or how about the wicked humor of this one?

“Antiquary”

If in his study he hath so much care

To hang all old strange things, let his wife beware.

The Elegies are quite a bit different from the Epigrams, and indeed from what you might reasonably expect. An Elegy, poetically speaking, is a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead. In many cases, they are written in rhymed couplets - many of these fit that pattern - and are expected to lament the death, but end on a note of hope.

Donne smashes this idea to smithereens, choosing to write, not about death, but about love. And not in a way which mourns with hope, but instead takes uses brutally sharp wit and satire to examine the good, bad, and ugly of love, sex, and relationships. Right at the outset, with the elegy entitled “Jealousy,” he speaks to a woman married to an abusive and controlling jealous man, who wishes him dead, and encourages her to come on over and have a little nookie at his place, where the risk is less, rather than doing the deed in the husband’s bed.

Unlike the Elizabethans before him, or the Romantics after him, Donne didn’t exactly butter women up. And when he is mean, he is mean. “The Anagram” is a good example. Donne extols the virtue of a woman that is unattractive, and thus likely to be faithful. The title refers to his description of her face as an anagram: having all the same letters as beauty, but in a mixed up order. It is worth quoting in full.

“The Anagram”

MARRY, and love thy Flavia, for she

Hath all things, whereby others beauteous be;

For, though her eyes be small, her mouth is great;

Though they be ivory, yet her teeth be jet;

Though they be dim, yet she is light enough;        

And though her harsh hair fall, her skin is tough;

What though her cheeks be yellow, her hair’s red,

Give her thine, and she hath a maidenhead.

These things are beauty’s elements; where these

Meet in one, that one must, as perfect, please.

If red and white, and each good quality

Be in thy wench, ne’er ask where it doth lie.

In buying things perfumed, we ask, if there

Be musk and amber in it, but not where.

Though all her parts be not in th’ usual place,  

She hath yet an anagram of a good face.

If we might put the letters but one way,

In that lean dearth of words, what could we say?

When by the gamut some musicians make

A perfect song, others will undertake,    

By the same gamut changed, to equal it.

Things simply good can never be unfit;

She’s fair as any, if all be like her;

And if none be, then she is singular.

All love is wonder; if we justly do  

Account her wonderful, why not lovely too?

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies;

Choose this face, changed by no deformities.

Women are all like angels; the fair be

Like those which fell to worse; but such as she,  

Like to good angels, nothing can impair:

’Tis less grief to be foul, than to have been fair.

For one night’s revels, silk and gold we choose,

But, in long journeys, cloth, and leather use.

Beauty is barren oft; best husbands say  

There is best land, where there is foulest way.

Oh, what a sovereign plaster will she be,

If thy past sins have taught thee jealousy!

Here needs no spies, nor eunuchs; her commit

Safe to thy foes, yea, to a marmoset.   

Like Belgia’s cities the round country drowns,

That dirty foulness guards and arms the towns,

So doth her face guard her; and so, for thee,

Which forced by business, absent oft must be, S

he, whose face, like clouds, turns the day to night;

Who, mightier than the sea, makes Moors seem white;

Who, though seven years she in the stews had laid,

A nunnery durst receive, and think a maid;

And though in childbed’s labour she did lie,

Midwives would swear, ’twere but a tympany;

Whom, if she accuse herself, I credit less

Than witches, which impossibles confess;

One like none, and liked of none, fittest were;

For things in fashion every man will wear.

Not too different from a certain Jimmy Soul song. Although Donne’s language is much more witty.

Even meaner is “The Comparison.” It is a comparison between the narrator’s mistress (who is all good and divine and beautiful) and the mistress of the person the narrator addresses, who is the opposite. It includes such gems as:

Rank sweaty froth thy mistress’ brow defiles,

Like spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils...

And also a comparison of her vagina to “the dread mouth of a fired gun.” Yes, Donne could be naughty and mean.

Not all the elegies are in this vein, however. An interesting contrast is this one, extolling the virtue of an older - but not decrepit - woman.

“The Autumnal”

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace

         As I have seen in one autumnal face.

Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,

         This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.

If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;

         Affection here takes reverence's name.

Were her first years the golden age? That's true,

         But now she's gold oft tried and ever new.

That was her torrid and inflaming time,

         This is her tolerable tropic clime.

Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,

         He in a fever wishes pestilence.

Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,

         They were Love's graves, for else he is no where.

Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit

         Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit;

And here till hers, which must be his death, come,

         He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.

Here dwells he; though he sojourn ev'rywhere

         In progress, yet his standing house is here:

Here where still evening is, not noon nor night,

         Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.

In all her words, unto all hearers fit,

         You may at revels, you at council, sit.

This is Love's timber, youth his underwood;

         There he, as wine in June, enrages blood,

Which then comes seasonabliest when our taste

         And appetite to other things is past.

Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platan tree,

         Was lov'd for age, none being so large as she,

Or else because, being young, nature did bless

         Her youth with age's glory, barrenness.

If we love things long sought, age is a thing

         Which we are fifty years in compassing;

If transitory things, which soon decay,

         Age must be loveliest at the latest day.

But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,

         Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack;

Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;

         Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;

Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,

         To vex their souls at resurrection:

Name not these living death's-heads unto me,

         For these, not ancient, but antique be.

I hate extremes, yet I had rather stay

         With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.

Since such love's natural lation is, may still

         My love descend, and journey down the hill,

Not panting after growing beauties. So,

         I shall ebb on with them who homeward go.

That may well be my favorite of the set, although there are so many good ones. Another that caught my attention was this one, with its musing on the dream of love contrasted with reality, and the question of whether one should prefer the love of dreams, or love as it is in reality, with all its pain and difficulty. In this sense, Donne has a very practical approach to love, rather than a dreamy one. His life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows, but he deeply loved his wife, and never quite got over her loss.

“The Dream”

IMAGE of her whom I love, more than she,   

Whose fair impression in my faithful heart

Makes me her medal, and makes her love me,   

As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart

The value; go, and take my heart from hence,    

Which now is grown too great and good for me.

Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense   

Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.

When you are gone, and reason gone with you,   

Then fantasy is queen and soul, and all;        

She can present joys meaner than you do,   

Convenient, and more proportional.

So, if I dream I have you, I have you,   

For all our joys are but fantastical;

And so I ’scape the pain, for pain is true;  

And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock out all.

After a such fruition I shall wake,   

And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;

And shall to love more thankful sonnets make,   

Than if more honour, tears, and pains were spent.  

But, dearest heart and dearer image, stay;   

Alas! true joys at best are dream enough;

Though you stay here, you pass too fast away,   

For even at first life’s taper is a snuff.

Fill’d with her love, may I be rather grown     

Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.

I was also struck by some lines from “The Bracelet.” The basic plot of the poem is that his mistress has lost a gold bracelet which symbolized their love. The narrator rages - but not so much at her, but at the person who stole it. He calls down a series of curses on the the thief, using his imaginative powers well. Here are a few selected lines:

NOT that in colour it was like thy hair,

For armlets of that thou mayst let me wear;

Nor that thy hand it oft embraced and kiss’d,

For so it had that good, which oft I miss’d;

Nor for that silly old morality,       

That, as these links were knit, our love should be,

Mourn I that I thy sevenfold chain have lost;

Nor for the luck sake; but the bitter cost.

…

But O! thou wretched finder whom I hate

So, that I almost pity thy estate,

Gold being the heaviest metal amongst all,

May my most heavy curse upon thee fall.

Here fetter’d, manacled, and hang’d in chains,  

First mayst thou be; then chain’d to hellish pains;

Or be with foreign gold bribed to betray

Thy country, and fail both of it and thy pay.

I should also mention a line from “His Parting From Her” which caught my eye. I don’t know if anyone else remembers the “Spy vs. Spy” cartoons in Mad Magazine back in the 1960s. Well guess what, Donne was there first. The narrator and his mistress have to part, and he mentions that they have kept things carefully secret from her husband: “Have we not kept our guards, like spy on spy?”

There is a line that ends “Julia” that is worth quoting. It is the one elegy which is not clearly one of Donne’s poems. There appears to be a dispute about whether he wrote it or not. I won’t get into it, but just mention that it is a screed against a jealous and nagging woman.

I blush to give her halfe her due ; yet say,

No poison's half so bad as Julia.

I’ll close with the most famous of the elegies: “On Going to Bed.” I think this may have been the first of the “naughty” Donne poems I read. At the time, it was a bit shocking, what with its reference to body parts - and erections. It is a lesson in double entendres. But it is a good one, and now that I don’t have the degree of prudery I was raised with, I find it quite enjoyable.

“On Going to Bed”

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,

Until I labour, I in labour lie.

The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,

Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.

Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,

But a far fairer world encompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.

Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,

Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.

Off with that wiry Coronet and shew

The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread

In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be

Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee

A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,

By this these Angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

    Licence my roving hands, and let them go,

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,

My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

    Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,

As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,

To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use

Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,

That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.

Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made

For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;

Themselves are mystic books, which only we

(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)

Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;

As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew

Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,

There is no penance due to innocence.

    To teach thee, I am naked first; why then

What needst thou have more covering than a man.

Donne isn’t always the easiest read, and my edition retains his original spelling, which occasionally requires a pause to figure out the meaning. However, his language is so delicious, and his ideas deep and creative. I never fail to enjoy reading his words.

Othello

Properly performed, Othello should be a momentary trauma for its audience. ~ Harold Bloom

As in the case of King Lear, one walks out of a good performance of Othello feeling lacerated and even a bit ill. Bloom has it right. It is a trauma. Such is the power of Shakespeare’s tale of revenge, manipulation, and jealousy. Such also is the power of a villain who inspired a later writer in his depiction of the Devil himself, one who so deserves hatred, but who is so fascinating and convincing that one cannot entirely help rooting for his dastardly schemes for their perfect execution and infinite adaptability to circumstances even as one stares in horror at the ghastly consequences. You don’t want to look, but you can’t turn away.

I’m going to assume that the story of Othello is well known enough that spoilers shouldn’t be a problem. But if you are one of those who hasn’t seen this play - or at least read it - serious, go read it first. You won’t be disappointed.

I’ve reviewed a few plays from our local theater group, The Empty Space, before. (See reviews of Twelfth Night and The Glass Menagerie) It is the site of my first date with my wife, and features local actors like Brian Sivesind (Iago in this play) who we have watched since that time. This play runs one more weekend, should you get a chance to see it.

Othello is the titular character. A “Moor,” he is actually a black African, as the many lines about his color and features within the play reveal. He has risen to the rank of general in the Venetian army due to his outstanding qualities as a commander and soldier. Like many a soldier, he is a master of his craft, but more than a bit naive and awkward in civilian life. His tales of adventure have infatuated Desdemona, the daughter of a prominent senator, and she has thrown herself at him until he, grateful for her attentions, marries her secretly.

Meanwhile, Iago, Othello’s ensign, is fuming. He has devoted his career to war, and has been as devoted to Othello as any man. He has risked life and limb, and been with Othello through thick and thin. Othello, however, when given the opportunity to choose a new lieutenant, has skipped over Iago, and appointed the young Cassio, who Iago derisively dismisses as a mere “mathematician,” someone full of book learning, but lacking the experience of combat. Iago, who has hithertofore admired and loved Othello, feels deeply betrayed, and his love has turned to smoldering hate.

Iago is determined to have his revenge on Othello, and chooses to attack at the weak point, the secret marriage. Because Iago knows human nature, and has the wit and ingenuity to adapt his plans to the circumstances as they unfold, he is able to play upon the various characters in the play. Cassio is made drunk, and incited to a fight. Thinking Iago to be his friend, he takes the advice to apply to Desdemona to soften Othello’s heart after this disgrace. Meanwhile, Iago preys on Othello’s insecurities regarding his marriage, until Othello believes that his wife is having an affair with Cassio. Eventually, this being a tragedy and all, bloodshed and destruction result.

Whenever Shakespeare tackles racial issues, there tends to be an undercurrent of discomfort simply because he doesn’t rise above the anti-Semitism of his time. (Best case in point is The Merchant of Venice, but there are other places where Jews are played for laughs or stereotypes.) In a few other instances, the “exotic” dark skinned person is played according to type, the “other,” assumed to be sinister by nature. (This was the 1600s, so it’s what you got…)

Othello, however, takes a different tack. The Moor is another archetype we can see today: the sexually exotic brown skinned person. And, along with the dangerous virility, you have the fear of the enchanted White Girl absconding with him. (This fear of Black male sexuality drove the lynchings of the past and still haunt us today. Just hint to the average middle-class white woman that her daughter might date a black man, and watch for the flinch…)

Iago first appears on the scene to fan the flames of this fear, as he wakes up Brabantio, Desdemona’s father, to inform him that his daughter has run off with Othello. In one of the iconic lines of the play:

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

I snicker when I hear this line, because in her college days, as a young and sheltered homeschooler, my wife was the one in her Shakespeare class who got the metaphor. Word to the wise: you never know with the “good girl” sorts…

And on that note, Brabantio is sure that Othello must have used some sort of black magic (in both senses of the word) to enchant Desdemona. After Othello claims that he won her fair and square, he replies:

A maiden never bold,        

Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion

Blushed at herself. And she, in spite of nature,

Of years, of country, credit, everything,

To fall in love with what she feared to look on?

It is a judgment maimed and most imperfect

That will confess perfection so could err.

Against all rules of nature, and must be driven

To find out practices of cunning hell

Why this should be. I therefore vouch again

That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood

Or with some dram, conjured to this effect,

He wrought upon her.

Hearing or reading this is harsh - and timely. The very words found here have been at the heart of the pro-segregation. “Against all rules of nature.” “To fall in love with what she feared to look upon.”

And yet, it is clear from both Othello’s tale and from Desdemona’s actions throughout the play, it is she who is the aggressor in this relationship. He, in fact, was not inclined to marry before she sought him, and it sure looks as if she is the one who - for all intents and purposes - proposes. Later, it is she who keeps attempting to woo him to bed and to love, while he seems, well, less inclined.

But the seed has been planted. Othello is never quite secure in his deepest feelings that Desdemona loves naturally and purely.

Iago, of course, picks up on this dynamic, and uses it to his advantage. He hints and feints and dances around the issue of cuckoldry, all the while hinting that Othello could verify things for himself. To our modern ears, this doesn’t necessarily register. I puzzled a bit about it, and looked up a few commentaries, and I think I found a plausible answer.

It is clear from the play itself that Cassio has had no opportunity since the marriage to sleep with Desdemona. So any illicit activity must - by definition - have occurred before the marriage. Iago hints as much - and eventually invents a “sleep talking confession” from Cassio that confirms this.

Now, given the belief in Shakespeare’s time that virginity can be confirmed by an intact hymen, it would seem that Othello should, well, know if he got an untainted wife or not. But he doesn’t. And he seems terrified to make the trial and find out.

And then, there is a line at the end, when Othello, realizing how he has wronged his now-dead wife, says, “Cold, cold, my girl! / Even like thy chastity. -”

Shakespeare is nothing if not careful with his language. This is a devastating line. For whatever reason, Othello has never consummated this marriage (Iago’s taunt notwithstanding). Is he impotent? Does she not turn him on? Interesting question.

Given Iago’s perception and his words to Othello, I think he knows this is an unconsummated marriage, and he works that fact to perfection. Othello must, to save face, listen to Iago’s insinuations and feed his own fears rather than face what he cannot face.

Iago is, truly, one of the most fascinating villains ever. Unlike Macbeth, he isn’t conflicted. While Richard III is delicious, he is a fairly stock melodrama villain. (Physical deformity, evil cackle, the whole works…) Hamlet’s uncle is terrified of the afterlife. Most of the others in Shakespeare - and in classical tragedy are the playthings of the gods. Their fates are set and they act accordingly. Even Edmund (in King Lear) is logically selfish, if short-sighted and Machiavellian.

But Iago.

He takes delight in the pure ingenuity of his evil schemes. He may start out looking for a little (fairly harmless) revenge, but as things go on and the stakes - and the damage - get higher, he seems to marvel at his own wit and diabolic ideas, and seek the thrill of the descent into greater evil. He is the sort who kills just to escape boredom. And he is frightening because he is compelling. As I said before, you don’t want to watch him destroy everyone around him, but you sure as heck can’t look away.

Iago has reminded many of another villain, in a work written roughly 65 years later. In Paradise Lost (reviewed here), Satan himself reflects much of what Shakespeare put into Iago. (It has been said that Satan is the hero of Paradise Lost - and there is no doubt that he is the best and most compelling character.) Just as Satan fumes that Christ has been promoted ahead of him, Iago is fueled by this jealousy and sense of betrayal. And as Iago destroys his “god,” Othello, so Satan seeks to destroy the great work of God himself.

There were a few of Iago’s lines which were so good that I remembered them to look them up after the play. The first is the way he does the lawyer thing and takes both sides of the same issue. Unlike a lawyer, however, he isn’t arguing for his clients, but against them. In talking to the disgraced Cassio after his dismissal for drunkenness, he talks of reputation thus:

CASSIO:

Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!

IAGO:

As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound. There is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man, there are ways to recover the general again. You are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice, even so as one would beat his offenseless dog to affright an imperious lion. Sue to him again and he’s yours.

This is to Iago’s interest at the time, of course, as he has to persuade Cassio to press his suit to Desdemona. Later, however, when addressing Othello, he must convince him that the mere rumor of his cuckolding is such a grave offense to Othello’s reputation that he must react with violence to recover it.

IAGO:

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls.

Who steals my purse steals trash. 'Tis something, nothing:

'Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands.

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him

And makes me poor indeed.

Iago uses his own “reluctance” to say more to bait Othello into assuming the worst, on mere insinuation. It is a masterful play, as a virtuoso plays on an instrument. As played by Sivesind in this production, Iago’s power was palpable. If we did not already know Desdemona was innocent, Iago would convince us of her guilt as he does Othello.

In the same dialogue, Iago delivers what is probably the most famous line in play. It is not an exaggeration to say that Shakespeare invented the English language. So many of our common phrases today - 400 years later! - originated with him. (This BBC article lists a few of them.)  This line is one of them.

IAGO:

Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy!

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss

Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger,

But, oh, what damnèd minutes tells he o'er

Who dotes, yet doubts— suspects, yet soundly loves!

The green-eyed monster. What is Shakespeare referencing here, if not the cat, who plays with its prey? But Iago speaks not just of jealousy - although this is a singularly apt description of the way jealousy pretends to let its prey escape, only to pounce anew.

Iago is describing himself as well. He is indeed mocking the meat he is feeding on, toying with his victims with every bit as much slit-eyed malice as cat, snake, or demon ever did.

It is lines like this that are the reason Shakespeare has not merely lasted over 400 years, but has grown in reputation with time. Very, very few authors have so pierced the human psychology the way he did, and the fact that Iago is still terrifying and yet fascinating. One of the deeply disconcerting things for me was to realize that I love the Count in The Count of Monte Cristo for the same reasons that I hate Iago. Both use cunning to enable others to destroy themselves, and both are motivated by revenge for wrongs. Perhaps the only difference is that Iago’s revenge harms the innocent with the guilty.

This too is the power of this tale. We all are both Othello and Iago. We too can be so easily manipulated by our own fears, carried away by any idea which confirms that which we fear to believe. And likewise, our own pride can lead us to desire to be Iago, even while we lack the skills and opportunity.

Whatever the case, Othello, Cassio, Desdemona, and nearly everyone else is completely overmatched by Iago. He is above their weight class, and they never see the haymaker coming until it is too late.

Except for one person.

Iago has failed to account for the one who will eventually bring him down. His wife Emilia has been easily manipulated as long as she cannot see what Iago is doing behind the scenes. She unwittingly aids his schemes, but it is not through naivete so much as ignorance. While others cannot see, she just does not know.

But she is the closest to a real foil for Iago that there is in this play. Her banter with Iago shows she is no fool, and sees through him more than the others. She too has her opinions of jealousy - and men. She notes that Othello appears to be giving in to jealousy, and makes a snide comment about men.

EMELIA:

'Tis not a year or two shows us a man.

They are all but stomachs, and we all but food.

To eat us hungerly, and when they are full,

They belch us.

And then she echoes Iago’s speech on jealousy:

DESDEMONA:

Alas the day! I never gave him cause.

EMILIA:

But jealous souls will not be answered so.

They are not ever jealous for the cause,

But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monster

Begot upon itself, born on itself.

Again, Shakespeare’s way with words. “Monster” in both, and “mocks the meat it feeds on” contrasted with “Begot upon itself, born on itself.”

In the final conversation between Emilia and Desdemona, Desdemona asks if women ever abuse their husbands with false accusations. Emilia replies in the affirmative - but also adds that (unlike Desdemona) there is a price for which she would cheat on her husband. (If someone offered her the world - the world is pretty darn big, after all.) Desdemona cannot even conceive that such a woman would exist. But she is still naively in love with her husband, and cannot truly know what Emilia knows. (Hey, she is married to Iago…) Her statement is amazing, and corresponds with a number of other proto-feminist statements by Shakespeare which take on the idea that women lack the fortitude and virtue that men have. 

EMILIA:

…

But I do think it is their husbands' faults

If wives do fall. Say that they slack their duties

And pour our treasures into foreign laps,

Or else break out in peevish jealousies,

Throwing restraint upon us. Or say they strike us,

Or scant our former having in despite.

Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,

Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know

Their wives have sense like them. They see and smell

And have their palates both for sweet and sour,

As husbands have. What is it that they do

When they change us for others? Is it sport?

I think it is. And doth affection breed it?

I think it doth. Is’t frailty that thus errs?

It is so too. And have not we affections,

Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?

Then let them use us well, else let them know,

The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

Yes, women too have sense. And affections, desires for sport, and frailty. Just like the men. And sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.

This speech is particularly poignant in light of the fact that Othello has slapped Desdemona in public - causing a great scandal.

In this particular production, all the fights and violence are done in slow motion. Really, an excellent choice, with appropriate lighting. It highlights the violence without making it comic.

And this leads to the final scene, and what I think was the most powerful moment in this production.

There are some interesting choices in the casting. Sivesind is a theater veteran - I’ve greatly enjoyed his work over the last 17 years. He’s been amusing as Bottom (my kids loved him in that production), and probably the best Jaques (from As You Like It) I have seen. But this was a command performance. He switched from personality to personality as the scene demanded, enough to deceive the other characters - and be worrisomely convincing to the audience. At the end, where he refuses to speak, even under threat of torture, it is obvious he will say nothing.

In contrast, Trayvon Trimble is a novice actor in his first major role, playing Othello. He does a fine job, but the choice makes for an interesting Method choice. The inexperienced actor playing straight sincerity matched with the veteran with all his wiles and cynicism. It fits well, as there is no denying that Trimble’s earnest virtue will be no match for Sivesind’s experienced malignancy. Great choice, and well directed.

Sivesind’s real-life wife Ellie plays Desdemona. In contrast to Brian, who has always played the cynic well, Ellie has done well as the naive and pure girl. (Her turn as Miranda in The Tempest a few years back was excellent.) In this production, she is entirely believable as a woman who has no guile and thus cannot imagine it exists in anyone else. Perhaps if she had been more like Beatrice, she may have defused Othello’s fears with her wit before they metastasized, but she has no such skills. Perhaps another factor here that works is the fact that Brian has his Method motivation in seeing his wife kiss another man. In any case, it works.

 Desdemona (Ellie Sivesind), Iago (Brian Sivesind), and Othello (Trayvon Trimble)

Promotional photo - The Empty Space

The rest of the cast is fine enough, with the others filling in their parts as the script demands. Cassio and Bianca were played by regulars in local theater with aplomb. 

 Bianca, Cassio's mistress (Rachel Sanders), Cassio (Carlos Vera) 

Promotional photo - The Empty Space

But one more deserves note, and it relates to that final scene referenced above.

At the end, Emilia realizes what her husband has done, and knows that her mistress and friend Desdemona is dead because of him. Iago has bet his game on his belief that she will, if pressed, shut up when commanded and/or threatened. She, however, is made of sterner - and more moral - stuff than he realizes. She determines to speak even though he has threatened to kill her. After she has spilled her guts, he runs her through with his dagger.

In this production, this is done in slow motion, and Emilia, played by Amy Hall, fixes Iago with such a look of hatred that time stood still for me. Oh. My. Goodness. That’s some acting chemistry. It’s the apotheosis of the play. Iago has won, as far as he knows. But Emilia can look him in the eye and without a word, undo him.

I’ve read Othello before, but this is the first time I have seen it live. Truly a powerful play, one of Shakespeare’s best - and darkest - works.

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I've mentioned these before, but I need to add one to my collection. In researching my Shakespeare reviews - and aiding my enjoyment of the plays - I have relied on some outstanding reference works. 

The first is The Shakespeare Lexicon, published by Dover. This two volume set is an amazing resource on Shakespeare's language and its meaning in its time. 

The second is The Asimov Guide to Shakespeare, which is my go-to source for the historical and literary references in the plays. You want to know about the battle for Cypress between the Venetians and the Turks which is the setting for Othello? Asimov has it. 

The third, and newest addition is Harold Bloom's epic work, Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, which my wife found for me recently. I'm not sure I entirely agree with Bloom's thesis, or his denigration of earlier authors to prove it. However, his insight into the personalities of the characters in Shakespeare's works are worth reading in and of themselves. 

***

Hey, a chance to link some music! Giuseppe Verdi, arguably the greatest composer of Opera of all time, came out of retirement twice to write operas based on Shakespeare. The final one was The Merry Wives of Windsor, one of only two comedies he composed. The first, however, was what many consider to be his most revolutionary opera, Otello. Enjoy the overture.