One foot in sea and one on shore

                            "Sigh No More" as a modern pop song

It's all Shakespeare and all romance this week in my special edition commemorative post. I've returned from my multi-flight overseas journeys a changed woman, and Shakespeare had a fairly specific influence on events.

First off, I got my ass to a screening of Joss Whedon's pet project Much Ado About Nothing while I was Manhattan. It was the eve before the heat wave, and we headed to the cool Landmark Sunshine Cinema in the Lower East Side. My friends who tagged along aren't Shakespeare types, but they know me, and stuck with me, knowing molecular mixology would ensue as the evening pressed on.

Of course, I enjoyed the film overall. It was, if nothing else, a bold and creative take on the classic play. The casting was great. The Beatrice and Benedick were the heart of the story, but I found the Hero and Claudio had a slightly more engaging presence than those in Sir Ken's film version. The highlight was Nathan Fillion as Dogberry, who, having admitted to no Shakespeare experience, floated along perfectly using all his comedic skill and proved a treat to watch on screen.

I really loved the treatment of the songs in the film. Joss produced a very charming jazzy rendition of "Sigh No More" that tweaks the heart and makes you wish you had a light summery cocktail in your hand.

I'm still not sure if the choice to film in black and white helped or hindered the atmosphere of the film. It certainly gave a classy sheen to the imagery, but the modern Los Angeles setting (at Joss' home, no less) was too obvious to lend any actual sense of timelessness we like to associate with Shakespeare.

While all the actors definitely understood their lines (which is more than can be said about even one of my personal favorite Branagh films, Love's Labour's Lost), the language still felt out of time and place. That probably has more to do with the delivery than the present-day setting. All the actors were essentially shoehorning grand, flowery soliloquies and dialogues into casual, everyday cocktail-hour conversations. The acting was naturalistic, and to a fault. This film made me realize that without a certain level of pure theatricality, Shakespeare feels forced--in this case, constrained by the not-so-epic dramas of normal human beings.

This is where I both respect and disdain Joss' vision: he clearly adores the material and wants to show us that Shakespeare is relevant and current in its themes and characters, but I think it's more difficult to "modernize" comedies than most of the tragedies and histories. With something like Coriolanus or Henry V, you could easily set them in present-day war-room situations involving the already elevated theatricality of politics and issues of state and the language and reactions to events wouldn't feel too overdone. That's what politicians do anyway, so it feels truly naturalistic.

The slapstick comedies almost always feature contrivances that would never prove believable obstacles and salient plot points today. For example, in Joss' film, the idea that Claudio would mistake the maid in Hero's window for Hero herself is completely cancelled out by the fact that we were previously shown that there are security cameras all over the household. No way a modern Claudio would fall for such a transparent ploy as Don John's. If the scene didn't have such an enormous influence on the remainder of the story, it may have been easier to ignore.

In the end, there are more moments in Joss' Much Ado that entertain and seduce than there are ones that remind us of the fragility of suspended disbelief. It is definitely a pleasure for fans of Shakespeare and romance and I recommend such folks give it a go.

On that note, I would like to make a personal announcement :)

Of all the unforgettable experiences I had in the UK and Ireland with my dear friends this time around, the most unexpected (and I shall say Shakespearean) was meeting Jamie, my new favorite person in existence. In the heady midst of my first "pub crawl" with new friends in downtown Newcastle, some of the first words exchanged between us was a general SQUEE about Shakespeare. It took me 30 years and a spanning of the Atlantic Ocean to finally fall in love. Our first real date involved recitations of Hamlet and Richard III to each other, and in the back of my head, I kept thinking of Benedick and Beatrice.

I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants

of wit broken on me because I have railed so long against

marriage, but doth not the appetite alter? 

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!

No glory lives behind the back of such.

And Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.

Shakespeare is extremely relevant to us. It's one of many (super geeky) things that bonds me and my beau across the sea that sunders us from physical proximity, and enriches the way we experience our far-flung romance. As Helena says in "All's Well That Ends Well:"

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
To join like likes, and kiss like native things.

His virtues will plead like angels

Sir Kenneth Branagh in the current Manchester stage production of Macbeth

Every summer, I split town/state/country for a couple weeks so I can take a break from my beloved Floridian monsoon season and from my own brain. For the last three years, I've been working on three scifi novels, the bulk of which is written in a creative frenzy during the eight weeks of summer vacation my school job affords me. It's a beautiful thing. But it can make you go a little nutter after a while.

This year, I'm heading back to Brooklyn to be warmed in the bosom of my friends and the wonders of New York City. The last time I was there, I experienced Sleep No More--NYC's ongoing interactive performance of Macbeth. I mentioned it before, but it bears reassurance that it is one of the MOST THRILLING WAYS TO ENCOUNTER SHAKESPEARE EVER. I spent the entire evening running around in a dark, creepy hotel with my dear friend and a bunch of athletic actors silently portraying the physicality of deep dark human emotions associated with The Scottish Play. Seriously, it was worth every cent of the $100+ I spent. We audience members had to wear masks and we could not speak the entire three hours. We were free to wander the floors and throng behind Lady Macbeth to her bathtub or help the witches put their clothes back on. There was blood and gore and moving trees and dancing and cocktails. Unforgettable.

Last summer was also my personal Shakespeare revival of sorts. I was close to my goal of reading every word of Shakespeare at the time, and I was primed for finally tasting the fruits of Sir Kenneth Branagh's films. I caught up very quickly and soon realized that he was the perfect object for my fangirlish predilections. It was love at first soliloquy.

This summer, having polished my Shakespeare/Branagh appreciation to a glistening shine, I am hyper keen for my second trip back to the UK. Last month, in between Skype sessions with my Newcastle friends to plan our jaunt to Dublin, National Theatre Live made a very exciting announcement. On July 20th, they would broadcast Manchester International Festival's highly anticipated stage production of Macbeth throughout the UK. It stars Sir Ken and Alex Kingston (from Doctor Who!). Its Branagh's first Shakespearean role in ten years.

I thought to myself, OMG I will be in the UK on July 20th. 

My brain/ovaries proceeded to explode. The weird sisters themselves couldn't have predicted a more fortuitous situation.

Not too long after the announcement, tickets went on sale at midnight UK time, which was only 7 pm my time, so I was awake and ready to grab front-row seats at the Tyneside Cinema. 

So, just days from catching my flight out of my world and my mind, I have decided to take up this famous speech in honor of Macbeth, the Bard, Sir Ken, and my most loyal and understanding friends who have gamely indulged my nerdiest desires. Macbeth, two ways, two cities, two intense interpretaions. Excuse my *SQUEEEE*

Analysis and ruminations will have to wait until after I return from my voyages. See y'all in a few weeks!

Macbeth, Act I, Sc. VII
Macbeth: If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust;
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

There with fantastic garlands did she make

Orchis mascula

In between re-practicing all my speeches and writing a novel (well, three novels... I've been at this every summer for three years now), I am currently engaged in reading A History of the Orchid by Merle A. Reinikka. This publication is something of a Godsend for me, as I have been searching for a legitimate, comprehensive, historical chronicle of human fascination with orchids for quite a while now and I am in heaven with this book.

Ever since I downloaded Darwin's The Various Contrivances by Which Orchids Are Fertilized by Insects onto my Kindle from the Open Library, I find myself compelled to seek out little-known researches and journals on the most engrossing of botanicals. The whole book is essentially very detailed orchid porn, and it has led me to scour the internet for--and in two cases, obtain--some of the orchids he studied. Thank you, Darwin, for everything.

Anyhow, six pages into the History, the author mentions Shakespeare and how he peppered references to all sorts of plants, weeds, and flowers throughout his plays. Entire gardens (I've been to two in NYC myself) have been dedicated to the plants that pop up in his works. Indeed, there are many, but only once did he throw an orchid into the lot.

Of course, it was in Hamlet, Act IV, Sc. VII, when Gertrude is setting the scene of Ophelia's death for Claudius and Laertes:

There is a willow grows aslant a brook
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do “dead men’s fingers” call them.


The author of The Plant-Lore and Garden-Craft of Shakespeare agrees that the "long purples" and "dead men's fingers" are reference to the common purple Orchises (Orchis latifolia, O. morio, O. mascula, and O. maculata) found in English woods and meadows.

This green thumb with over 50 orchids to her name was ecstatic with these tidbits. That the only reference to orchids ever made was in Hamlet (my favorite!) just ices the cake for me.

Orchids, by the way, got their name from the Greek orchis, meaning testis, because most of the orchids the ancients knew about at the time had testiculate bulbs that resembled male genitalia. Based on the "Doctrine of Signatures," plants that approximated human anatomy in shape were believed to treat or cure ailments related to the corresponding body parts. So it follows that orchids were thought to assist with fertility. If a man consumed the plump, fresh orchid tuber, they would beget male children. If a woman ate the dried up roots, they would bear females.

Given all the talk of conception ("Conception is a blessing, but, as your daughter may conceive..." Act II, Sc. II) and "chaste treasure" earlier in the play, one could surmise that poor, scandalized Ophelia may have had certain adult activities on her mind while she was picking her flowers.

Just a bit of vegetation for thought. Next week, I think a new speech is in order. Stay tuned!

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

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.