Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Car Park Man.

Tom Hiddleston, in an interview regarding playing Loki in (Sir Ken's!) Thor  and The Avengers, said that "every villain is a hero in his own mind." He's obviously following the old actors' adage about not judging the character(s) you play, and this is especially true when you're the "bad guy." Shakespeare is often--and correctly--accused of demonizing the non-Tudor King Richard III, in what is essentially a propagandistic move to stay in the good graces of the reigning Queen Elizabeth at the time. But Shakespeare still clearly understood that a truly effective villain is one with pathos. Without that soupçon of vulnerability and sympathy, a truly great villain is incomplete--little more than a mindless, faceless cloud of smoke. Or a polar bear. Or whatever. Fucking Lost.

And so it is with Richard (and of course, Loki, because, what else would you expect from Sir Ken?). As the audience, we are forced to consider whether Richard's deformity is a manifestation of his evil ambition, or, if he would have these ambitions at all if he were not so "rudely stamp'd." Is he so shaped due to his inherent evil or has a life of being bullied for his outward appearance hardened his heart? The  curious thing is, Richard could care less what we feel, though he presents it both ways. He certainly does not judge himself... at least not in this play. 

My favorite bits in his 3 Henry VI speech are the the ones that express his fondest dreams. The imagery he invokes is so crisp and precise that we realize the tragedy of such a poetic and clever mind employed for harm rather than charity. Standing on a promontory, gazing longingly upon a far-off goal, fighting his way through a treacherous forest of thorns, and the heavy mountain upon his back implies that his struggle is against Nature more than anything else. His watchwork mind is strained, and requires a challenge to prevent his absolute boredom. 

His ennui is transformed by the journey of his speech, as indicated by the "characters" that populate his mind. At the start, he lists the banal family members who stand between him and the crown. He disdains Edward's sinful lust while himself committing covetous thoughts. Between this mention of Edward, his brother Clarence, Henry, and the young Edward, Richard only brings to mind faceless whores and soldiers and his own unnamed mother. At the end, however, Richard reveals his larger-than-life heroes: the Homeric Greeks Nestor, Ulysses, Sinon, and Proteus. He describes their skills and achievements with an almost childish confidence that he can outstrip them all in deed and zeal. Nestor had great persuasive power, Ulysses tricked many monsters and men on his voyages, Sinon convinced the Trojans to accept the Greek-filled horse, and Proteus was immortal and took many animal forms to suit his needs. Richard reveals his ultimate aggressive arrogance in finally setting down the infamous Machiavelli as a mere student to his professorial expertise in deception. 

The relish in Richard's voice becomes so obvious by the end that it seems almost impossible to find sympathy in our hearts for this murderer and usurper. And yet, by virtue of being the most fascinating and entertaining of all the characters on stage, we guiltily cling to our worser parts and secretly cheer his calculations, if not his actions. 

I brought up Loki not only because I love Hiddles and I just watched Iron Man 3 the other day and so direly await the next Thor film. I'm asking that you trust this raging fangirl as far as is possible to trust a raging fangirl, but... the connections are apparent. There's a reason why the filmic Loki is so beloved by theatre-going audiences as a character: he's another in a long line of successfully sinister villains that serve as a magnet held to our moral compasses. I'm not saying that Shakespeare invented the archetype of an ambiguous villain, but he unerringly moulded some of the best and most enduring. Iago, Macbeth, Edmund, Shylock, Claudius, Richard, etc... they're all their own archetypes now. 

I also wished to neatly bundle up my project by stitching the end back to Sir Kenneth Branagh, whose work spurred my initial motivation to embark upon this intimidating goal. He inspired me at every moment that I felt I'd crumble, filling my ears with mellifluous words (and providing the all-important eye-candy) and passion that prevented detachment and despair. But I credit the fangirl inside me for carrying me through, proving that all these years of practiced obsession and compulsion is good for something after all. 

Stick with me, however, as I have decided that this is not, nor it cannot, be the end.

King Henry VI, Part III, Act III, Sc. II

Gloucester: Ay, Edward will use women honourably.

Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all,

That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,

To cross me from the golden time I look for!

And yet, between my soul's desire and me--

The lustful Edward's title buried--

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,

And all the unlook'd for issue of their bodies,

To take their rooms, ere I can place myself:

A cold premeditation for my purpose!

Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty;

Like one that stands upon a promontory,

And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,

Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,

And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,

Saying, he'll lade it dry to have his way:

So do I wish the crown, being so far off;

And so I chide the means that keeps me from it;

And so I say, I'll cut the causes off,

Flattering me with impossibilities.

My eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much,

Unless my hand and strength could equal them.

Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard;

What other pleasure can the world afford?

I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,

And deck my body in gay ornaments,

And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.

O miserable thought! and more unlikely

Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns!

Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb:

And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,

She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,

To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub;

To make an envious mountain on my back,

Where sits deformity to mock my body;

To shape my legs of an unequal size;

To disproportion me in every part,

Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp

That carries no impression like the dam.

And am I then a man to be beloved?

O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!

Then, since this earth affords no joy to me,

But to command, to cheque, to o'erbear such

As are of better person than myself,

I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,

And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,

Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head

Be round impaled with a glorious crown.

And yet I know not how to get the crown,

For many lives stand between me and home:

And I,--like one lost in a thorny wood,

That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns,

Seeking a way and straying from the way;

Not knowing how to find the open air,

But toiling desperately to find it out,--

Torment myself to catch the English crown:

And from that torment I will free myself,

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.

Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,

And cry 'Content' to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

And frame my face to all occasions.

I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;

I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;

I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,

Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,

And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.

I can add colours to the chameleon,

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

And set the murderous Machiavel to school.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.

I know you all...

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.

Virtue? A fig!

Only Sir Olivier has the stones (and the talent) to play Othello in blackface. Do not try this at home, kids.

Every deceitful villain in literature, film, and pop culture has Iago's DNA in their blood. From Professor Moriarty to Loki, Dennis Nedry to Gollum, anyone who presents themselves as trustworthy while they smile and smile and work to betray our heroes has descended from that granddaddy of evil genius who could drive a man to murder with nought but a wave of a handkerchief. 

With 1097 lines,* Iago is third only to Richard III (1152) and Hamlet (1422) in pure lung power (per play... Hal/Henry V, whose breath sweeps through three plays, has over 1800 lines, and Falstaff has over 1600 in his three appearances). What does he accomplish with all this vocal ability, other than a whole lot of soap operatic trouble?

As with all Shakespearean villains, he speaks hard truths that cannot be cast aside with all his lies. The speech I chose strikes me as one of those particularly obvious observations of human nature. He is honest after all, since Iago is well aware that he is a perfect example of one who has chosen to sow his own seeds of villainy. He is the quintessential example of how WRONG Polonius** is when he utters   

"To thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man." Iago is true to himself, and yet is false to everyone. 

After all his silver-tongued philosophizing, one line haunts me the most. It's Iago's final line in the play, directed at Othello after Iago's one-man complot has been exposed: 

"Demand me nothing; what you know, you know:

From this time forth I never will speak word."

Lodovico's immediate response is "What, not to pray?" and Gratiano grumbles "Torments will ope your lips." But Othello stares at Iago and says "Well, thou dost best."

Iago's felt slighted the entire time, ever since Othello made Cassio his lieutenant, and perhaps even before that, as this line suggests. They appear to have a secret between them, and despite Iago's attempt to ruin Othello's good name, when Iago's honesty is finally stained, the bastard decides to zip his lip. What  have they seen and done together in their battles and voyages? What makes Iago loathe and love Othello so much? Why do I love Iago more than Polonius? Because in the end, Iago is honest.

Othello, Act I, Sc. III

Iago: Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus

or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which
our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant
nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up
thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or
distract it with many, either to have it sterile
with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the
power and corrigible authority of this lies in our
wills. If the balance of our lives had not one
scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the
blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us
to most preposterous conclusions: but we have
reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal
stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that
you call love to be a sect or scion.

*The actual numbers of lines depend on the version/edition you read, but you get the idea.
**I fucking HATE this quote because everyone uses it out of context and they never seem to realize that everyone in Shakespeare's time understood it to be an empty, banal platitude worthy of so much eye-rolling.