Mad world, mad kings, mad composition!

Ian McKellen as the "Bastard" Philip Faulconbridge

Where King Lear's Edmund was Chaotic Neutral at best, King John's "Bastard" is Chaotic Good at worst. The advantage of being illegitimate in a world of monarchic illegitimacy is that you're not born into a mould of pre-destined loyalty. You get to choose sides. And that side may simply be yourself. You choose the square on the alignment matrix that best suits your ambitions.

Philip Faulconbridge, re-dubbed Sir Richard Plantagenet by King John when Lady Faulconbridge admits to an affair with Richard Coeur-de-Lion, is some kind of hero. He's essentially Tony Stark--the guy who knows how to use "commodity" and his own intellect to his advantage, as well as to the advantage of the country he holds dear. Like Tony, he is cynical about how the world works, but still holds up loyalty, truth, and justice as the ideal paradigm for how he executes his powers. Unbeholden to anyone unless his experience of them proves their worthiness, the Bastard is a fresh contrast to the stuffy kings and advisors that populate the rest of the play with their stiff allegiances.

His famously insightful soliloquy on "commodity" and politics appears early in the play, proving that this kid's quick on the uptake. He has a bright future because he clearly recognizes how the system works without kidding himself. This speech begins as a righteous Jon Stewart-esque rant and ends with an epiphany. He gains the resolve to navigate the thorny world and still pick the fruits from the vines.


King John, Act II, Sc. I

Bastard: Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! 

John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole, 

Hath willingly departed with a part, 

And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, 

Whom zeal and charity brought to the field

As God's own soldier, rounded in the ear 

With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, 

That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith, 

That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, 

Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,

Who, having no external thing to lose 

But the word 'maid,' cheats the poor maid of that, 

That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity, 

Commodity, the bias of the world, 

The world, who of itself is peised well,

Made to run even upon even ground, 

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, 

This sway of motion, this Commodity, 

Makes it take head from all indifferency, 

From all direction, purpose, course, intent:

And this same bias, this Commodity, 

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, 

Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France, 

Hath drawn him from his own determined aid, 

From a resolved and honourable war,

To a most base and vile-concluded peace. 

And why rail I on this Commodity? 

But for because he hath not woo'd me yet: 

Not that I have the power to clutch my hand, 

When his fair angels would salute my palm;

But for my hand, as unattempted yet, 

Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. 

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail 

And say there is no sin but to be rich; 

And being rich, my virtue then shall be

To say there is no vice but beggary. 

Since kings break faith upon commodity, 

Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.