Two of these fellows you / Must know and own; this thing of darkness I / Acknowledge mine
Ok so I lied about bringing you a bird profile of the osprey
yesterday. I was feeling more in the mood to watch silly YouTube videos last
night, which I think is probably a method I should also adopt now: if I don’t
want to blog, I don’t have to. If I want to make up for it the next day – which,
in this case, I can’t – then I am perfectly at liberty to do so. I set my own
rules and to be honest, I’m not even sure who cares apart from me. So with that
out of the way, let’s begin today’s book review which is brought to you by Shakespeare’s
Birthday, April 23rd!
I would like to present, The Tempest, my absolute favourite
of Shakespeare’s works (and his last). It manages both comedy and tragedy in
equal measure with a hefty dose of power dynamics, sexual overtones, and
attempted murder, with a smidge of soul-searching which, characteristic of
Shakespeare’s comedies, never comes to anything by the play’s end.
You have as your primary character the magical fallen duke
Prospero, who some critics believe to be an autobiographical rendition of
Shakespeare himself – and, given how much power he has over the course of
events and the characters therein, it seems very likely. This man (though if
you’ve watched the 2010 movie adaptation, you’ll know that Helen Mirren does an
impressive Prospera) is, first and foremost, a tyrant. Usurped from his place
as Duke of Milan, he instead asserts himself over the various spirits and
creatures of the island he and his daughter, Miranda, find themselves on after
fleeing the city. That power is gained by the practice of magic – the liberal
arts which he so dedicated himself to whilst in possession of his dukedom that
he failed to see his brother stealing it from him – and it is this power, by
the play’s end, which he swears to renounce in order to regain his status. Now,
as I mentioned, soul-searching (and the reconciliation which is inherent in it)
is seldom realised, and this is exactly the case with Prospero because the
physical act of casting off his staff and books is never written. Evidently he
now doubts his abilities as a ruler without some superstitious special effects
to aid him - which brings us to his ‘servants’ Caliban and Ariel.
The former goes by many names: earth, hag-seed (born, as he
was, of a witch), monster, mooncalf, and the same is true of the latter:
apparition, spirit, fairy, bird. From this, there is a clear contrast of characters,
yet both live enslaved to Prospero. Caliban, as the typical ‘New World native’ of
the period, does physical labour and is often punished for slowness or
insolence, while Ariel, the elemental spirit, performs acts and assumes guises
of a supernatural nature, all the while impatient for the day Prospero promised
to free him from servitude. The contrast between the servants is also marked by
their attitude towards this servitude, Caliban performing his tasks grudgingly
and with curses, while Ariel is the very picture of energy and eagerness, performing
Prospero’s every request ‘to th’ syllable’. It is worth noting, however, that
Prospero remarks of Caliban that ‘we cannot miss him’, implying that his
services are vital to their survival and, in some way, making them beholden to him.
What’s more, as the book’s editor Stephen Orgel notes, ‘it is Caliban [and
Ariel – I feel the spirit should have been mentioned too] who legitimates
Prospero’s rule’: without servants, Prospero cannot be a figure of authority
over anyone but his daughter. This realisation, that his ‘magic’ is essentially
derived from power over others, has the effect of destabilising his control
over the island – even more so when you consider that, by right of being its
first inhabitant, Caliban has more claim to the land – and ultimately over the
play itself. But that power over others is essentially what drives the story.
He wishes to marry his daughter to the son of the King of
Naples, thereby increasing his status, and to do this he must wreck the King’s
ship – on its way back from Africa where the King’s daughter has lately been
married – and influence all those on board to bring it about. Miranda is, in my
mind, a cliché female: she is fickle, vague, and simple, especially when she
falls in love with the first true man she sees, this being the King’s son,
Ferdinand (who I imagine as a bit like the ‘imaginary boyfriend’ from the 2015 Pixar
movie, Inside Out – ‘I would die for Riley’). So it seems appropriate
that Ferdinand would be equally as cliché in falling in love with a ‘goddess’.
And so they become your typical fairy-tale couple, speaking in rhymes, getting engaged
just hours after meeting, being cursed by her father should they get busy behind
his back before the wedding itself. Oh yes, because Miranda is pretty much the play’s
sexual focal point. Caliban has tried to rape her – an admittedly justified
action, as Orgel says, given New World practices of free love and the Imperial
idea of rape as ‘essential to the foundation of empire’ – Ferdinand must be
warned several times about his pre-marital desires for her, and as we introduce
the King’s party, we see sex is on some of their minds too.
The King’s party – excluding Ferdinand – is composed of King
Alonso of Naples, his brother Sebastian, and the King’s aged councillor Gonzalo,
the new Duke of Milan (and Prospero’s traitorous brother) Antonio, the lords
Adrian and Francisco (who have very few lines between them), and the court
jester Trinculo and butler Stephano. These people are split across the island
and form two separate narratives which make the tale diverse and engaging.
All but the last two characters form the first party, grieved
at the imagined loss of the King’s son, and as such they make a dreary crowd
but for the comedy provided by Antonio and Sebastian. Their observations and remarks
on the others make up almost every other line during Act 2: Scene 1 and include
several of a sexual nature. But this is also where the attempted murder comes
in, with Antonio tempting Sebastian with the crown of Naples if he were to kill
his brother as he slept. And a similar plot is hatched in the second party when
Caliban, fuelled by his hatred of Prospero, urges Stephano, adopting the drunken
persona of ‘King Stephano’ when Caliban swears himself his subject, and
Trinculo to murder his master. There is added incentive in the form of Miranda
who will ‘become thy bed / And bring thee forth brave brood’, adding again to the
image of her as an object for breeding with. Neither of these plots come to
fruition (it is a comedy after all), but the language of those involved is
especially rich during these moments which I really appreciate.
Now, I could ramble on in a semi-academic fashion about this
play for another page or so without ever really achieving anything more than a
loose synopsis (sorry if I spoiled it for you!) but what I am trying to say it that it is a great story if you
have a fair enough understanding of the Shakespearian vernacular (or a ton of
annotations!) There are, admittedly, dry moments where there is no comedy or poetry,
and you are working on pure character-to-character dialogue full of dated
phrasing and historical references which, without the notes, are tough ones to
get your head around. BUT these aren’t the majority, and you should find
yourself enchanted by [most of] the characters (Alonso and Ferdinand are very monochrome,
in my opinion) and caught up in a little bit of magic from time to time. If you
get a chance, watch the movie – at least the images will help you to understand
it better (and if you’re a fan of Ben Whishaw, good news: he plays Ariel
beautifully, alongside an impressively fierce Djimon Hounsou as Caliban and a ridiculously
apt Russell Brand as Trinculo).
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