The Wars of the Roses began with a bunch of pansies fighting in the back garden...
Henry VI Part One was written after Henry VI(Parts Two and Three), which were all written before King Henry IV (Parts One and Two) and King Henry V, and you can totally tell. The Henriad plays (Richard II, Henry IV, Henry V) have more of a Shakespearean flair than those earlier plays, which were likely written collaboratively with other authors. It helps that the Henriad plays have significantly more empathetic characters (in number and quality) and the triumphant battle of England over France contained within--Harfleur and Agincourt and all that. By comparison, the story of Henry VI and his so totally not living up to his father's fame and admirability is a bit of a letdown, especially since the famously reviled (but infamously quotable!) Richard III is well on his way to ascending the throne by the end.
The play itself is full of literal battles royale between those firebrand Plantagenets of Lancaster and York. It's got crowd-pleasing fights, murders, and prophetic details that are so often easily inserted into prequels. Joan of Arc even has a glorified cameo role in which she defeats the French Dauphin in single combat--an event that is less of a nod to feminism than one example of just how far back the whole "effeminate Frenchman" joke goes.
That said, Henry VI, Part One opens with the funeral of the great Henry V, narrated with a handful of encomiums worthy of the man that was to be portrayed in the eponymous uber-prequels we know and love to see made by Sirs Olivier and Branagh today. I chose Bedford's because it references the stars, and any poetic waxing about the heavens is enough to win over this amateur astronomer in a heartbeat.
1 King Henry VI, Act I, Sc. I Bedford: Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, And with them scourge the bad revolting stars That have consented unto Henry's death! King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.
It's a tale worthy of Jerry Springer: a virtuous girl falls for a rich dude, he doesn't take notice until she cures the King, who insists the young man marries this wonderful physician, but the boy coldly yields and runs off to fight in the war, the girl goes after him, tricks him into sleeping with her, and the springe he set for himself--he said unless she wore his ring and got pregnant, he wouldn't call her his wife--ensnares him in the end.
The wanker in question is Bertram, Count of Roussillion. The very determined lady is Helena, the orphaned daughter of a great doctor who is under the care of the dowager Countess of Roussillion. It's not just that Bertram is young, dumb, and horny (he thinks he's bedding a whore when it's actually Helena disguised in the dark bedroom), but that this poor girl actually cherishes the shit out of him, which rankles my modern-day sensibilities to no end. Sure, Helena proves herself very witty, educated, and clever in her quest to get this jag-off to call her his wife, but it smacks of just the kind of rom-com I would avoid if it were made into a film. Sans the benefit of the passionate banter and underlying adoration of Benedick and Beatrice, the concluding promise Bertram makes to love her completely lacks a truly enjoyable resolution. The titular sentiment of the play declares itself with a bemused shrug of the shoulders rather than a snarky "I told you so" grin.
Despite all this, I cheer Helena's resilience in the face of terrible odds. Her speech poeticizes the species of inexplicable infatuation that is the mark of proper fangirling, as well as outlines a general self-proclaimed call-to-arms when it comes to getting shit done on your own... even though that project deceived you, you did it your way, Helena. Girl power!
Dame Judi Dench being absolutely lovely as the rightly confused Adriana.
The Comedy of Errors does exactly what it says on the tin: it's a play rife with slapstick confusion based almost entirely on mistaken identity.
Now, imagine you are Adriana, and your husband, Antipholus of Ephesus, has a super secret estranged identical twin brother from Syracuse, whose manservant Dromio happens to be the super secret estranged identical twin brother of your husband's manservant, and they all have the same first names. Antipholus of Syracuse has been searching for his brother for five years, and finally stumbled upon an inn in Ephesus, where Dromio of Ephesus shows up and tells him he's late for dinner. Antipholus of Syracuse thinks his manservant has gone mad and roundly smacks him up and down.
Meanwhile, you're at home with your unmarried sister Luciana, who is calmly trying to convince you that you ought to forbear complaint regarding the behavior of your lost husband, because that's what a good wife does. Dromio comes back, says your husband beat him up for telling him to come home. You begin to fret, worried that your beauty is fading and your husband is whoring around.
Luciana pisses you off with her willful attitude of servitude, and you give her a proto-feminist lesson on marital politics, and, essentially, a lesson on walking in someone else's shoes:
The Comedy of Errors, Act II, Sc. I
Adriana: Patience unmoved! No marvel though she pause; They can be meek that have no other cause. A wretched soul, bruised with adversity We bid be quiet when we hear it cry, But were we burdened with like weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain. So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, With urging helpless patience would relieve me; But, if thou live to see like right bereft, This fool-begged patience in thee will be left.
Duke Orsino is in love with being in love. He's so hopelessly in love with it that he opines as he opens the play with his famous speech. It waxes with as apt a metaphor as any for that most coveted of emotional states, comparing love to plant life that must be fed--almost Audrey II-like--with so much nourishing music that it would rather die of being gorged than go without.
At the start of Twelfth Night, the Duke adores countess Olivia so much that he likens himself to a hart in the wood, passively and happily pursued by the "cruel hounds" of his desires. He lies back, awaiting Valentine, the messenger, to give him word of his beloved's condition. Unfortunately, she is so overwhelmed with grief over her brother's death that she swears to cloister herself in her chamber for seven years. Orsino, understanding and even exalting the depth of her passion expressed thusly, imagines how orgasmic things will be when she comes out of her funk and decides to focus all her affections on Orsino himself.
For the Duke, the melancholy associated with spurned love is as exciting as love itself and he wallows in it for his own appetite's sake. He can't even get off his ass to woo this sad Olivia; he sends messengers--and even the cross-dressed Viola (calling herself Cesario)--to woo Olivia in his stead. He's so obsessed with being rejected and being in sickly sweet despair that he doesn't even notice that his boy Cesario is actually a woman who has fallen in love with him. Needless to say, all is well in the end, just as soon as the breeches and yellow cross-garters are set aside and everyone reveals their true selves.
Orsino would LOVE fandom culture if he were around today. Set him in front of a Netflix-connected TV and put on Downton Abbey or Sherlock or Doctor Who and he'll likely swoon with all the unrequited romances before him. Give him an iPad with fanfiction on it, and he'll definitely implode... or start a tumblr blog. Because being in a serious fandom is much like standing in a packed theatre watching a stirring play--they both give us an intimately shared emotional joyride. Smiles or tears, the feels alone are high fantastical.
Twelfth Night, Act I, Sc. I
Duke Orsino: If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more: 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou, That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soe'er, But falls into abatement and low price, Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.
Jeremy Irons as Henry IV in BBC's Hollow Crown series
Henry IV is losing it--and by "it" I mean not just his sanity, but his hold on his own kingdom. Sure, he defeated Northumberland's rebellion and his previously disreputable son grew a set and killed Hotspur, but the Archbishop's already got a conspiracy brewing against him and both Wales and France are getting ornery. Shit is getting real, and he thinks his son has reverted back to his previous dissipation and cares not for his well-being. The exact opposite is true, but Hal knows that suddenly appearing to be concerned would look hypocritical to the max.
Still, the moment Hal is summoned with news that his father is deathly ill, he races to his bedside to be alone with him and his not-so-surprisingly deep thoughts. The supreme irony of the Henry IV plays is that Hal knows more about the burden of the crown than anybody else--save Richard II, whose experience within the "hollow crown" is intimately disillusioned for most of his play--as this quiet, touching monologue proves. I'm a bit miffed at being cheated of the whole speech in the BBC's Hollow Crown episode--I would have loved to have heard more of Tom Hiddleston's dulcet whisperings--but it catches the drift.
My favorite bit is "When thou dost pinch thy bearer, Thou dost sit like a rich armour worn in heat of day, That scaldst with safety." Richard's own earlier assessment is that within the crown "Keeps Death his court... scoffing [the king's] state and grinning at his pomp," and that the mortal flesh of a king is believed to be "brass impregnable" that can in fact be breached by a "little pin." Both of these young men have realized their hard truth about power in very different ways, and it serves them with opposing results. One is deposed, the other, renowned. But they both die prematurely--one murdered, one diseased from war. Such is the price of encompassing the crown.
Between them, we peasants are privy to a unique insight about what it is to hold "divine" power.
2 King Henry IV, Act IV, Sc. V
Prince Henry: Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
Being so troublesome a bedfellow? O polish'd perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night! sleep with it now! Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. O majesty! When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath There lies a downy feather which stirs not: Did he suspire, that light and weightless down Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father! This sleep is sound indeed, this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorced So many English kings. Thy due from me Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously: My due from thee is this imperial crown, Which, as immediate as thy place and blood, Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits, Which God shall guard: and put the world's whole strength Into one giant arm, it shall not force This lineal honour from me: this from thee Will I to mine leave, as 'tis left to me.
I have long desired to feel Hamlet's fourth soliloquy inside me--and thanks to Sir Ken's admittedly zealous but equally exhilarating delivery of said speech, all kinds of feelings are inside me--so I said to myself, "This thing's to do!" and just fucking did it. Just now.
After approximately 60 minutes of stomping around my room in hobbit feet and doing the occasional push-up, I unlocked another achievement. My skillz have improved since I first embarked on this endeavor; it took me as long to learn ten lines of Richard III's 42-line speech. Turns out, cold repetition was going about it all wrong.
Enter, Patsy Rodenburg, voice coach extraordinaire. As a non-actress, reading her book has been a challenge for me, but the multitudinous exercises she suggests for tackling any speech in Shakespeare have informed me greatly, and inspired me to do the seemingly asinine activities I described above. Joining physicality to the words by breathing, turning, and pushing them out with the voice help with initial practice. Decoding the language, beating out the iambic, and reading the full thoughts without terminating at line breaks has definitely increased understanding and decreased average memorization time. There are many more skills she imparts in her book, Speaking Shakespare, that I have found worthy of devoting time toward in order to enrich my project. And if tonight's marathon of speaking is any indication, it's been $15 well spent.
Exit Patsy, Enter Hamlet.
In the wilderness with R&G escorting him toward England (after having mistakenly murdering Polonius), Hamlet hears news of Prince Fortinbras' military plans. Hamlet has an epiphany of sorts, and his beautifully-formed nine sentences of pure thought reveal just how much a man of action he shall become in the last scenes of the play.
Compared to his last three soliloquies, this one is noticeably more solid and slightly more brief, with less room for questions and more for definitive answers. It's sharp, sparkling, hard, and clear like polished crystal, a prism through which Hamlet's thoughts split into crisply defined intentions and shine upon the promise of his actions. He sees and comments upon the very tangible Norwegian army before him, compares the delicate prince's motives to his own, then, presuming he has far more reason than Fortinbras to have excitements in his blood, lights his own fire under his ass to pursue his revenge.
It's a heroic declaration, but still true to Hamlet's deep philosophical soul, and it quivers my ovaries just to mouth the words.
Hamlet, Act IV, Sc. IV
Hamlet: How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure, he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on the event-- A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward--I do not know Why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do, ’Sith I have cause and will and strength and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me: Witness this army of such mass and charge Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit with divine ambition puff’d Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death and danger dare, Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while, to my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
Coming in a close second place for "Most Emo Shakespeare Speech EVAR" is.... Macbeth and his melancholy-saturated bucket of resentment toward that horrible journey he calls life! Hamlet's Act I soliloquy about his incestuous uncle and mom takes first, of course. And Othello a close third, I'd think. You may argue about King Lear's weepfests, but once you're past a certain age, your rants against the world turn more downright sad than college-student-just-wants-material-for-his-late-night-guitar-busking-to-impress-dorm-girls emo.
Not that either Macbeth or Hamlet have no good reason to be sad sacks--they have more reason than any 19-year-old sk8terboi on campus could ever dream of having. Mr. Thane of Glamis, Cawdor, and newly crowned King of Scotland has just been informed that his ball-breaking Lady Macbeth finally died of her cray cray, and he just needs to poeticize his feels. I mean, he did everything she asked in order to satisfy HER voracious desire for power and then SHE has the gall to let that damned spot knock her off the merry-go-round. If you're fortunate enough to experience the McKittrick Hotel's Sleep No More in NYC, you know all this at least led to some great make-up acrobatics in the bedroom before the daggers came out. Not sure it was worth it in the end for Macbeth, however. What, with the beheading and all.
Macbeth, Act V, Sc. V Macbeth: She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing.
Elizabethan audiences knew the story of Troilus & Cressida about as well as we know Romeo & Juliet today. It's a star-cross'd love tragedy that just happens to be set during the Trojan War. Way ahead of time, people knew the idiom "True as Troilus, false as Cressid," and while many arguments can be made about Cressida's level of free will regarding her chastity amongst the suffocating haze of testosterone that was ancient Greece and Troy, she does end up at least being false to herself.
This speech being one case in point. After her uncle Pandarus waxes poetic about how manly and honorable Troilus is, even to the point of degrading the great sexpot Achilles as "a camel," Cressida soliloquizes about being a wise enough woman to resist temptations. Of course, later, when she's with Troilus, she admits to him that she was playing hard to get and wishes she "had men's privilege of speaking first."
But that's not even the betrayal that makes her eponymous saying true. She is forced to be traded to the Greeks for a prisoner to be released. She really has no choice, but in order for that damned idiom to hold true, this must happen, and the character has no chance of redeeming herself. Thus, she is "False" for going along with the trade that she had no say in whatsoever.
Feminism fail.
However, this speech still rings true for anyone who ever had ownership of ovaries. Enjoy!
Troilus & Cressida, Act I, Sc. II
Cressida: Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice,
He offers in another's enterprise;
But more in Troilus thousand fold I see
Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be;
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing:
Things won are done; joy's soul lies in the doing.
That she beloved knows nought that knows not this:
Men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is:
That she was never yet that ever knew
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue.
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach:
Achievement is command; ungain'd, beseech:
Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear,
I would be remiss not to acknowledge how much the BBC's Hollow Crown series influenced this particular choice of speech. On the brink of full-throttle fangirling over Tom Hiddleston's Loki in Thor/Avengers and his Magnus in Wallander, I fell once again into the King Henry V trap known as the "Wooing of Kate" scene. It pushed me over the edge in regards to Sir Ken, and it did the same with Hiddles. My heart had no chance.
The Hollow Crown is a thoroughly engaging series anyway, and I highly recommend it to all who enjoy really solid acting and movie-making. The series covers the Henriad, aka Richard II, Henry IV (Parts One and Two), and Henry V. It was a treat to see the character arc of one of my favorites--Prince Hal--brought to life by a damn pretty man, who just happens to be talented as well, which is always a plus.
The Prince of Wales appears to be a wayward son. As much is hinted at within the text of Richard II, wherein the newly-crowned Henry IV mentions that his "unthrifty son" frequents taverns and hangs out with "unrestrained loose companions," engaging in wanton, youthful activity most unprince-like. The King's chagrin continues into the next two plays as the jolly Prince Hal carouses with the likes of John Falstaff and his knobbly-nosed bosom buddies in Eastcheap amongst winos and prostitutes.
But Hal has a plan, which he deftly outlines in the first act of 1 Henry IV. His soliloquy reveals to the audience that all his delinquent behavior is an act meant to make his planned rise to the throne and subsequent sudden competency appear miraculous, therefore completely blowing his enemies' minds. Meanwhile, it's hinted later on that Hal is steeping himself in the base environs of his subjects to better understand the nuances of the commonweal and how to best relate to their motivations--presumably, a kingly tool to be wielded later as soldiers are mustered for a questionable foreign war.
However, one cannot assume Hal's not enjoying himself immensely during his wild salad days. He's witty and loves to banter with the sack-soaked Falstaff, but knows deep down that it shall not last much longer. The beauty of these plays is the depth of the dynamic Prince's characterization and how a few key events subtly disclose Hal's inner hatred and ultimate acceptance of the ambivalence required of a king. This first speech is not yet too cynical, and full of the hope that his prodigal son project will work out in the end.
King Henry IV, First Part, Act I, Sc. II
Henry, Prince of Wales:
I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyok'd humour of your idleness. Yet herein will I imitate the Sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But, when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So when this loose behaviour I throw off, And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hopes; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glitt'ring o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I'll so offend to make offense a skill, Redeeming time when men think least I will.
