A Review of a SHREW

It was a production of The Taming of the Shrew. It was in a major city, produced by a major acting company. And it was bad. But why? Or, rather, how?

It wasn't the amateurish level of the players, for which one makes allowances at a student production. (I can't truly call the actors "amateurs," since the tickets cost money that somebody got. They were, however, students.) It wasn't the standard substitution of contemporary music and dance moves for real or faux Elizabethan ones. That's usually fun. I can't even blame the actors, though most of them didn't understand half of what they were saying. Clearly they were held hostage to the director's "concept": her inexplicable conviction that twenty-first-century audiences would go mad if invited to experience the comedy Shakespeare actually wrote.

You may wonder why I'm not naming this director, the company in question, or even the location of the performance, let alone the names of the actors. I'm refraining from doing so in order to protect those young hostages. I don't think any of it was their fault. I will say only that this production was put on by pupils of the "training academy" of a major Shakespeare company in a major American city. More should have been expected of them. More should have been given them.

There are of course the mundane objections (which I'd let slip if the whole production hadn't been so fundamentally wrong). Young actors, particularly American ones, seem generally to be told not to swallow their consonants, especially those at the ends of words. An understandable admonition, perhaps, but since it leads to an unnatural sounding pronunciation which bestows undue emphasis on the final sound, the result is a far cry from speech spoken "trippingly on the tongue" (or, as these actors might have said, "trippingly on the tonGGG"). A bit of care might also have been taken to guide the actors in suiting the action to the word, as Hamlet also prescribes, since the production featured numerous speeches which, though energetically delivered, were completely nonsensical because said without some intonation, facial expression, or physical action that might have clarified their opaque Elizabethan meaning. So many lines were cut that I cannot fathom why the director chose to retain the full speech of the servant Biondello (here "Biondella," but I'll get to that in a minute) describing the various afflictions suffered by lead actor Petruchio's servant's horse. The animal is "rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten, near-legged before" -- and that's less than a sixth of it. The audience was tortured and bludgeoned with these and like terms, spoken -- or bellowed -- without any accompanying gestures to illustrate their import. (The audience knew they were supposed to laugh, so, good-naturedly, they did, but I, spoiled by too many skillful Shakespeare performances, am just the kind of ungenerous playgoer Shakespeare hated, so I just sat there gaping in annoyed disbelief.) This -- saying lines whose meanings, because they were mysterious to the actor, could not be made clear to the audience -- was the pattern throughout the play. Another small example: when the witty servant Grumio observes the old pantaloon Gremio coming to woo young Bianca, he says sarcastically, or is supposed to say, in an aside to the audience, "A proper stripling, and an amorous." Sarcastically, mind you! Amorous old Gremio is far from a "stripling," though he's foolishly acting like one. There's no reason for Grumio (sorry, Grumia) to yell out this line joyfully for all on stage to hear, as though it were a straightforward and truthful description of the shaky old man now entering the stage. (I don't like the ageism, either, but that's not the performance issue at hand.) These players -- billed as incipient professionals in a major company -- really might have been better schooled in 1.) what their lines meant and 2.) why their characters were saying them.

Alright. That's curmudgeonly enough. These are garden-variety flaws for students learning to perform Shakespeare. The heart of the objection here is what was done to a play which has attained a curious status: because it concerns a man "taming" a woman, many twenty-first-century directors can't stand it, yet they feel compelled to stage it. Maybe to punish it. And because they fail to recognize that the comedy, in its original form without radical alterations, contains the critique of "wife-taming" they are seeking, some of them butcher it beyond recognition without substituting any compensatory coherence. I've seen this done before, but, as I say above, I have never witnessed a bigger on-stage mess than this one. At least, not under the heading of The Taming of the Shrew. 

First of all: you can't critique patriarchy unless you include a patriarchy. But the patriarchy disappears when most of the major characters have their gender changed to female. Baptista, father of two marriageable girls, here became Baptista, mother of two marriageable girls. Lucentio, who falls in love with one of the daughters, becomes Lucentia, who falls in love with one of the daughters. Bianca returns Lucentia's love, which is interesting, but creates new problems in coherence. The mother, who strictly controls access to her daughters, adheres to an archaic system of social rules by which the girls must be continually supervised, and are destined for marriage and childbearing rather than any sort of work or social independence -- the condition of father Baptista's household in the original play -- and one would think that, given these traditions, she or her like-minded neighbors might evidence some dismay at discovering, in the end, that the daughter has eloped with a woman. But no! Gay marriage is apparently legal in the town of Padua, despite its otherwise hidebound customs, and lesbian couplings cause no one to blink an eye. With no authoritative husband, does this mean marriage relationships are equal? Again, no! In the last scene, Lucentia mysteriously assumes the right to order Bianca to obey her in some petty command, and Bianca's refusal is treated by other characters as a woeful upending of the marital hierarchy. All this makes sense if Bianca's married to a man. In this production, I don't know what it was supposed to mean.

What about sister Kate? Well. Petruchio's maleness was retained (although the character was made to have inherited an estate from his mother rather than his father, in this Amazonian Italy). But -- absent the patriarchy -- nothing in the play could explain how or why he assumed the right to "tame" his bride. Nor did he succeed in the slightest (contrary to the original comedy's plot), because Kate simply went along with all his directives, turning the commands into shared projects. She didn't want to leave her wedding reception, but Petruchio did not cart her off, quoting Old Testament laws which classify the wife as chattel. Instead, Kate and Petruchio shared the speech, claiming each other as property, then joined hands and left together. As for their struggles in Petruchio's household, wherein Petruchio withholds food from his wife until she begins to behave politely, no, again. Here the servants ganged up on them both, starving them into some kind of submission, the nature of which was unclear. It was Kate and Petruchio versus his household staff, another bonding exercise for the pair. The play's final scene was gibberish. Instead of launching into her famous and spirited defense of wifely submission -- a speech that can be played with irony, or as a move in a fascinating power-game whose rules only Kate and Petruchio are beginning to figure out -- Kate began by reciting some of Polonius' lines from Hamlet. This oddity was followed, again, by a shared version of a speech which was meant to belong to one of them alone, with the two finally pledging obedience to each other. (How does that work?)

Okay. I'm not in favor of wife-taming. But I do prefer that supposedly world-class Shakespeare enterprises honor the plays they undertake to perform. To honor a play means, at the very least, to understand it. 

The Taming of the Shrew is a play about social and domestic roles. It cleverly dramatizes the ways such roles are forced upon unwilling players -- it begins with an induction (cut by this company) in which a boy servant is compelled to pretend to be an obedient wife -- and the fascinating ways social players may circumvent the restrictions imposed by their parts, finding power where they can. Servants turn the tables on masters; wives turn the tables on husbands. The ludic theme is strong. Domestic and civic life is in many ways a game, and imagination comes into play as subjects learn how to use clever language to win. The Taming of the Shrew does not need to be rewritten in order for this theme to be driven home.

Let this post be a plea to let the comedy make its own argument! At least, give audiences something to argue about! Don't let them leave thinking they just saw something Shakespearean, but having no idea what it was.

Although it goes against my nature, let me close by saying something nice. The best actor in the production was the one who played the Traveling Pedant, a stranger coerced into pretending to be Lucentio/a's mother (again, changed from father) so as (falsely) to witness and approve Lucentia's and Bianca's marriage. This was a player who not only knew the meaning of his lines, but who remembered he was on stage even when he wasn't speaking. His subtle glee at being asked to dress and act like a wealthy matron was hilariously evident as, subtly practicing his role, he privately tried on voguish, exaggerated "feminine" gestures and facial expressions which delighted both him and the audience. In this case, the re-gendering paid off. It was a bright spot in the chaos. I hope to see him in a future Shakespeare production -- directed by someone else!

 

 "Shakespeare, Shaken and Stirred," at Lily Books Aug. 7

 The British podcast "Not Just the Tudors" features this interview about The Owl Was a Baker's Daughter. Tune in for a discussion of the Shakespeares, Oliver Cromwell, civil war, and witches.

https://shows.acast.com/not-just-the-tudors/episodes/shakespeares-daughter-judith?fbclid=IwY2xjawIz6AhleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHWaIb94zdYVnaptzWjCxY19wHPxxqy-4QiCcjdhi30BFv1O-Auch1W2TYg_aem_3HSacoJQDutlMzUq4dXSyA 

A New Novel about Shakespeare's Daughter

All the men of the Shakespeare family died, and most of them died young. Shakespeare himself was only what I consider middle-aged when he breathed his last, in 1616, at 52 -- a late-summer chicken if not a spring one. By then he'd lost his father, his younger brother, and his only son. Neither of his two male grandsons, yet to be born, would see a twenty-fifth year. As for the women, Shakespeare's wife Anne and his elder daughter Susanna both died at age 66, in 1623 and 1649 respectively. Yet there was one Shakespeare child who lived on, from the Elizabethan Age through the Stuart era to the time of Cromwell and the Interregnum, through plagues and witchcraft trials, through the premature deaths of her children and the turmoils and upheavals of the English Civil War, into the first years of the Restoration.

This was Shakespeare's youngest daughter, Judith, who died in 1662 at the age of 77.

You may recall Judith. If you read my 2003 novel My Father Had a Daughter, you know her fictionalized tale -- her grief for a lost twin and her teenage rebellion against her Midlands country life, her flight south to Elizabethan London, the ambitious subterfuge by which she maneuvers her way onto the Globe playhouse stage. This was a Judith imagined and predicated on the slim details of her life conveyed through civil records concerning the Shakespeares. That tale ended with the death of Shakespeare, and Judith's marriage, in 1616.

But Judith didn't. As noted, she lived on, a witness to such staggering transformations both in personal and public life that they call for a continuation of her story.

So I wrote one.

The Owl Was a Baker's Daughter: The Continuing Adventures of Judith Shakespeare was released in book and audio form on February 4, 2025. Too late for Christmas, but in plenty of time for summer reading! If you liked Judith as a young woman, see what you think of her crusty 61-year-old self. Her herbalist skills have grown, and her contempt for pointless social rules hasn't changed, but now that England has turned upside-down, she's a battlefield surgeon with a whole war-torn realm to ride around in. Which she does, all in search of a thing -- perhaps a person -- she long ago lost.

Click to order *The Owl Was a Baker's Daughter* from HarperCollins

Click to order from Amazon

How Not To Teach Shakespeare to Kids

A friend of mind recently shared with me a children's Shakespeare book, a kind of modern Lambs' "Tales from Shakespeare" which condenses the plots of fifteen Shakespeare plays into easily digestible 5-6-page segments. Entitled "Shakespeare's Stories," the book is beautifully illustrated by an artist named Koa Lhe, and the tales, "retold" by a British reviser, are engagingly written. The problem, my friend and I agreed, is that the plots aren't exactly Shakespeare's. And why are they not? Well. It turns out that "sweet William" is actually kind of a scary William, and young children must be protected from contact with certain types of Elizabethan stage villainy.

This is gently explained in the prologue, which instructs children that those involved in the adaptation project have "skipped over some parts of the tales, but have left all the key story elements in place. If something in one of the stories worries you," they advise, "show that story to a trusted grownup and have a chat about it." Also, "if you find any of them too scary, you can just turn the page and choose a different one." When I reflect back on my childhood, during which my siblings and friends and I exulted in macabre tales of horrifying violence, I wonder whom exactly this adapter is worrying about. "They wrap you up in a bloody sheet, and dig you down about six feet deep! The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, they crawl in your belly and out your snout!" We used to sing that a lot. One of our favorite stories was Poe's "The Telltale Heart," in which, of course, the protagonist goes crazy and kills an old man for no reason, and buries him under the floorboards, but then can't escape the imagined sound of his heartbeat: boom Boom! boom BOOM! I haven't noticed any major recoil from fictive violence in subsequent generations, though much attention has been transferred from books and movies to video games. I don't think it's easy to shock or scare kids with stories. But it is pretty easy to scare parents who think delight in tales of violence, or in the macabre, is not innate, but imposed by some imperfect culture from without. So I think it's the parents for whom these revised tales -- and their introduction -- are written.

These are parents who may think a summary of "Hamlet" that omits Ophelia's suicide is one which still leaves "all the key story elements in place." (Laertes is gone, too, which makes it Claudius' job to duel Hamlet at the end -- an unusual move for a king, especially one several decades older than his adversary.) The courtesan is missing from The Comedy of Errors, a decision our New Victorian (or Puritan) editor made in accordance with that of the Actually Victorian Lambs.* This new children's book's "King Lear" omits the Gloucester plot, presumably because it includes the tearing out of eyeballs, though this part would have interested ten-year-olds. "The Merchant of Venice" was included, but, apart from illustrations which have Shylock in strangely Eastern-looking garb in contrast to the other European characters, there's no suggestion of religious prejudice, or of a Jewish daughter who steals money from her father to elope with a Christian. Shylock simply tries to cash in (or flesh in) on Antonio's "pound of flesh" because he inexplicably doesn't like him: not because Antonio spits on him in the marketplace, calls him misbeliever and cutthroat dog, and foots him as he'd spurn a stranger cur over the threshold, and certainly not because Antonio and his friends have helped Shylock's daughter flee with a Christian after robbing him. Some moneylenders are just like that, I guess. Neither my friend nor I could see the gain in hiding from youthful readers the fact that ethnic and religious prejudice leads to serious social conflict -- in effect, in obscuring the major theme of this play.

But the summary that most provoked our amusement was this collection's version of "Othello." Nowhere is Othello's blackness mentioned as a factor in Desdemona's father's abhorrence of his and Desdemona's union, or of Othello's susceptibility to Iago's predatory behavior. (In the play Iago is able to provoke Othello's unwarranted suspicion of Desdemona by convincing him that as an outsider to European culture, he can't really understand what white women are up to.) "As if my daughter could love someone like you," Brabantio says to Othello, but doesn't explain what he means by "like you." As in the "Merchant of Venice" chapter, it's left to the pictures to tell that story. Le's illustrations -- which, again, are lovely -- show a very black Othello standing next to a white-skinned, red-haired Desdemona. What's potentially confusing about this is not just that the text feared to mention what the pictures did show, but that illustrations for all the other plays indiscriminately feature characters of color among white characters, all getting along just fine. "Much Ado about Nothing"'s old Leonato, who is black, is very happy to marry off his very white daughter to a black Claudio. "As You Like It"'s Celia is black, and her cousin Rosalind is white. "Twelfth Night"'s Viola is black, Olivia is white, and Orsino is white; no marriage problems here, just some gender confusion, which is quickly sorted out -- as it isn't, exactly, in the play, where in the fifth act Orsino is still fantasizing that Viola is male, though perhaps it's understandable that the revisers didn't want to get into that subtlety. What's more difficult to comprehend is how child readers are suposed to intuit, from pictures, that color differences don't matter in Shakespeare (they do), but also intuit, from "Othello"'s illustrations, that racial bigotry can tear families apart. What Shakespeare is on offer here?

Yet I partly digress. The most amazing part of this book's adaptation of the Othello story comes at the end of the six-page summary. In the play, the jealous Iago ends up killing his wife Emilia in revenge for her revealing his treachery. Two husbands kill two wives, acts of violence facilitated by the tendency of both women simply to obey their men, even when the husbands are dictatorial and crazy. Iago, master-perpetrator of the deaths of women, is dragged off in act five to be tortured, showing no hint of remorse. But here's how our adaptation ends:

"You beastly man!" Emilia cried. "You would have broken up my best friend's marriage to advance your career? See what you have done. Your wretched plots have killed my friend. All for a promotion! I no longer want to be your wife. I'm leaving." .... Iago was ashamed of himself for having set such tragic events in motion. He resigned from the army, and he never made the mistake of not respecting a woman again.

Wow. That play was simpler than I thought.

I suppose we should be grateful that the current penchant for revising older works to make them more culturally sensitive will probably not succeed in destroying the originals. My understanding is that "classic" versions of Roald Dahl books are still being published, along with the new versions that mitigate greedy Augustus Gloop and the Oompa Loompas. Hopefully Shakespeare will also survive his improvements by enlightened adapters like the one behind "Shakespeare's Stories." But any kids who grow up reading this book are in for a shock when they get to a college literature class -- if they still want to take one!

___________________

*Mary Lamb died a decade after Victoria's accession; William Lamb a few years before it.

REALLY Minor Characters in Shakespeare

 

Let's talk about the minor characters in Shakespeare. I mean the really minor characters, those whose parts are so small, some of them don't even have names. Not that namelessness is necessarily equivalent to minor character status. Hamlet''s Gravedigger has one scene, but he's not a small character. Henry V's "Boy" is not a minor character, nor is the Porter in Macbeth. And then we have the named characters whom we rarely think of when we refer to the plays, but who nevertheless are crucial to the action. As You Like It’s Silvius, Henry IV's Bardolph, and A Midsummer Night's Dream's Peter Quince are major characters. Macbeth's Ross is a secondary character, but one so significant that in Joel Coen's recent adaptation of the play, he takes over the whole script (being outplayed only by Banquo's eyebrows).

So, what characters am I talking about? Ones most people don't even know exist, so microscopic is their presence in the play. Yet, like many trace elements, these characters are catalysts for the action, or for the illumination of some larger character or theme.

Adrian (The Tempest): Okay, Adrian is an exception to all that. He's been called, and is, the most boring character in Shakespeare. This servant of King Alonso exists only to be made fun of by snide Antonio (the hero Prospero's villainous brother) and his sidekick Sebastian in the first scene of act two. That's a purpose, sure, but Antonio and Sebastian already have enough food for mockery in good old Gonzalo, the main butt of their humor in this scene. Adrian is the young "cock'rel," in contrast to Gonzalo, the "old cock," and what he does is say a couple of lines admiring the island landscape and then fall asleep. I include him here only because the degree to which he is a nonentity is remarkable. Perhaps Shakespeare promised somebody a part.

Seyton (Macbeth): Now, Seyton is interesting. Why? Because his name is pronounced "Sa-TAN!" (Picture Dana Carvey saying this as a shrieking Church Lady.) Seyton is Macbeth's servant, but, interestingly, he doesn't show up til act 5, wherein he plays an important role. "Enter Seyton," in response to Macbeth's call: "Sa-TAN!" (OK, he usually doesn't say it like that. But I did once hear an unusually comic Macbeth in Chicago do it this way.) Seyton appears right after Macbeth has resigned himself to the loss of all the things a good king has -- "honor, love, obedience, troops of friends" -- because he's not a good king. At this point Macbeth calls out, "Seyton!," and asks for his armor so he can go out and kill more people. In a subsequent scene, Seyton is the one who plunges Macbeth further into despair -- or dark resignation -- by reporting the death of his wife. And then, having done his devilish job, he disappears. Coen gave Seyton's lines to Ross. But they belong to Seyton.

Emilia (The Winter’s Tale): No, not that Emilia. Not Desdemona's waiting-woman in Othello. That one's a major character. This one is so minor you may never have noticed her. Who is she? A loyal servant of maligned, jailed Queen Hermione; a minor lady who facilitates the more famous and heroic Paulina's errand of mercy to the queen and her newborn daughter. Shakespeare's late plays, among them The Winter's Tale, revisit his tragic plots and change them, making sympathetic characters more powerful, as well as altering the plays' timing so that wounds heal, or tragic actions fail of their effect. In this play, written some six years after Othello, Shakespeare allows this Emilia a power he denied his first one. This one escapes manipulation by a devious husband, outspokenly defends her mistress against the false charge of adultery, and doesn't die in the process.

Cornelius and Voltemand (Hamlet): How strange, that when we already had Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, we also needed Cornelius and Voltemand. Who are they, except for pale reflections of the already sad R & G? Like the more famous pair, these Danish courtiers go everywhere together. (Since a famous modern Cornelius is the ape from Planet of the Apes, it would be interesting and enjoyable to have them played as twin apes.) Voltemand gets all the dialogue. Claudius asks him, "Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway?," and gets a 16-line answer: Norway's fine, he's controlling Fortinbras. What is Cornelius for? Why does he even have to be there? He's like the shadow of a shadow of a shadow. And then they're both gone. It seems that there need to be two of everyone in this play. Old Hamlet and Old Fortinbras, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, two gravediggers, etc. It's like a hall of mirrors. Speaking of character pairs, notice how we start with castle guards Barnardo and Francisco, but then Francisco gets  kicked out of the action to be replaced by Marcellus, and from then on Marcellus, Horatio, and Hamlet are the "in" group who gets information about the Ghost. Why don't they trust Francisco? Why does he have a Spanish name? All of this is to say -- sometimes Shakespeare just seems to be messing with us.

The Clown (Othello): Did you know there was a Clown in Othello? There is, he's just not funny at all. In a very weird scene, he shows up to dismiss some musicians whom the depressed and demoted ex-lieutenant Cassio has for some reason hired to play outside the citadel where Desdemona lodges. The Clown puts a stop to it right quick, with a few lewd jokes and insults toward the musicians, whereupon Cassio says, oh, all right, no music. And that's it. The musicians and the Clown exit. Why? I don't even know why I'm including this Clown in this list, except that he has always stuck in my mind ever since I read a very famous Shakespeare scholar's observation about him: "The Clown has no discernible function, and yet the play is not quite the same without him." Someday I'll do a post on the most meaningless comments ever made in Shakespeare criticism.

Old Man (King Lear): Every once in a while you spot an Old Man wandering around a tragedy. There's one in Macbeth. It's good to pay attention to them; they're usually pretty wise. The Old Man in King Lear is not only wise, but kind and helpful, and he's important because he stands for a world of simple good people in the play who might otherwise be obscured by the spectacle of depraved aristocrats. Old Man is kind of like First Servant, who has no name but sacrifices his life in an attempt to keep another old man (Gloucester) from being tortured. Old Man appears in the very next scene to describe himself to now-blind Gloucester as "your tenant, and your father's tenant, / These fourscore years." Like First Servant, Old Man does his best to try to help and solace the wounded Gloucester, and delivers him into caring hands. The world of King Lear is bleak, but not without humanity.

Mouldy (Henry IV, part 2): Some of these micro-characters are great because of the opportunities their dialogue gives the actor. They may not get much to say, but sometimes one line, properly delivered, is worth a thousand, in its ability to express an idea of growing power in the entire play, or in this case, trilogy. Mouldy is one of the poor country yokels impressed by Falstaff to march off to the king's wars. In the first part of Henry IV, Falstaff has callously described these men as "food for powder, food for powder." Here, we see close up the human beings he regards so unfeelingly, collecting only as many "scarecrows" as will fill his muster. Drafting the men, Falstaff makes a joke about this one's name: "Mouldy, it is time you were spent." Mouldy gets a one-word reply: "Spent?" The actor playing him in The Hollow Crown, the recent TV adaptation of the history plays, delivered the syllable magnificently. His disgust and contempt for the proceedings were evident on his face, and he hissed out the word: "Spent?!?" So, that's what a human life is for? To be spent for the power-disputes of our social betters? He even brought a little shamefacedness to the shameless Falstaff (for a moment).

Barnardine (Measure for Measure): Barnardine is a paradox. He's a character who's so funny, he messes up the comedy. In this play's complicated plot, a rather inept disguised duke is trying to manipulate the action so that the heroine Isabella thinks her brother has been executed, but then it will turn out, Surprise, that's not his decapitated head, it belongs to that of the notorious death-sentenced murderer Barnardine! OK, hilarious, but the problem is, Barnardine doesn't feel like getting executed today. "I have been drinking hard all night." He's got a hangover; he's not in the mood. And everyone -- the Duke, the jailer, the judge -- just shrugs his shoulders and goes looking for a pirate or some other lowlife whose head they can chop off instead, which delays the comic action about two scenes. But they do get their head by act five. So funny! Barnardine is instrumental in underscoring how very screwed-up this Viennese culture is, and darkening a comedy to the point of bizarreness. Who said Ionesco invented Absurdism?

Servant Boy (The Taming of the Shrew): This famous comedy is a play within a play, performed for a drunk who's been pranked into thinking he's watching it with his "wife." His "wife" is a servant youth who's been asked to dress up as a woman for his master's (the prankster's) entertainment. This boy's entire part consists of evading the drunkard's amorous advances and telling him to pay attention to the play. But his role provides an interesting metatheatrical introduction to the fact that all the "women" in the play proper, including, most importantly, Kate the "shrew," are not women at all, but boys dressed up to play women. The marital taming plot emerges finally as a kind of fantasy, largely thanks to this transvestite boy.

William (The Merry Wives of Windsor): This William is the son of one of the play's two heroines, and he plays a very minor role in the action, but we should take note of him because of his name. William Shakespeare never met a pun he didn't like, and one of his favorite puns was the word "will," which could mean all kinds of things, including bawdy things, but in this case seems to mean, "childhood version of myself who struggled with Latin." The first scene of the fourth act of this play "pauses" the action for a sustained dialogue in which young William is quizzed in Latin, and every one of his answers, right or wrong, is an occasion for a dirty joke. This, it seems, is how schoolboy Shakespeare and his friends got through their Latin lessons. Some schoolboys never entirely grow up.

'Til next time.

More on Othello and Blackface

Last month I wrote on the unfortunate choice of a University of Michigan professor to show his class a film version of Othello in which the protagonist was played by a white man (Laurence Olivier) in blackface. The professor fell afoul of students, and subsequently of administrators, not so much for showing the film as for failing (as his critics saw it) to contextualize the production: to say something about the tradition of white men using blackface to play this famed Shakespearean character. Even had the professor done so, he might not have realized that the part of Othello was actually created -- that is, it was scripted -- for a man in blackface.

This is not just to acknowledge that in 1604, all Shakespeare's characters, and those of his rivals, were played by male whites, except for the characters in elaborate masques written and staged in private palaces for the aristocracy, in which women sometimes took part. (The women were also white, of course. Ben Jonson's Masque of Blackness is an interesting example of a play written to be performed by women in blackface.) It's a given that the Elizabethan and Jacobean theatrical world was not a racially diverse milieux, although it's not impossible that of the hundred or so black Londoners of the early seventeenth century, one or