All entries for January 2010
January 25, 2010
I've been working on Thomas More recently, re-reading some of the standard works on its authorship attribution, and there are a few things that have really stood out for me in terms of how we "read" evidence of the sort that has become essential, in Thomas More, to Shakespeare Studies as a whole.
Firstly, I'm entirely happy to believe that the additional passage designated by Greg as in the writing of "Hand D" are a genuine Shakespeare autograph. However, I want to emphasise that word "believe". Because it strikes me that, when it comes to palaeographical evidence, this case necessarily hinges on a willingness to accept a possibility, rather than anything approaching fact.
This was brought home to me by my attempts to read E.Maunde Thompson's "The Handwriting of the Three Pages Attributed to Shakespeare Compared with his Signatures" in Alfred W. Pollard (ed.)., Shakespeare's Hand in the Play of Sir Thomas More (CUP, 1923, pp. 57-112). Now, despite having taken an introductory course in Elizabethan palaeography, I am no expert in handwriting. Even were I, however, Maunde Thompson's article is dense, detailed and highly informed. One of the most skilled palaeographers of his day - perhaps of all time -, his results demonstrated an authority and certainty that are entirely convincing.
The problem here, as I see it, is that too few Shakespearean critics are expert enough in palaeography to actually mount a serious and informed challenge to Thompson's results. There have been a few, but Thompson's double-barrelled argument (this essay following an earlier 1916 piece) lent to the New Bibliographers intent on proving Shakespeare's hand the necessary technical palaeographic support for their other searches. Once canonised in Pollard's volume, Thompson's argument became dogma, and it is still his case which is referred to today, ie: for the palaeographic argument for Shakespeare as Hand D, see Thompson in Pollard (1923).
I can't challenge Thompson. I doubt many Shakespearean critics can. I read Thompson's results, his observations on letter forms, unique curls and particular types of flourish, and I simply have to trust that he's giving an unbiased, objective account of the similarities. Yet I'm simultaneously aware that Thompson's essay is part of an edited collection designed explicitly to bring together the most authoritative voices in Shakespearean criticism in order to consolidate a case for Hand D being a Shakespeare autograph. The agenda of this book is to prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that Hand D is Shakespeare. This makes me uneasy: I cannot objectively assess the validity of the volume's key piece of evidence. Further, when looking at the other essays in the volume, I find Greg and Pollard's historical theories somewhat out of date (based, understandably, on less evidence than we now have), R.W. Chambers' account of parallels of idea extremely unconvincing, and John Dover Wilson's bibliographic links fascinating but of questionable value when negative checks are not performed. Thompson's essay, thus, remains the key piece of unquestionable evidence, and my critical mind objects strongly to my inability to assess its strength.
This doesn't mean that no-one has criticised Thompson, of course. What it means is that very few people have questioned him on his own terms. Instead of challenging the specifics of his parallels and links, sceptical critics have instead cast doubt on the fundamental premise of his work. To wit: how can six extant signatures constitute a sample of Shakespeare's handwriting of acceptable enough size to extrapolate information about his handwriting habits? Particularly when several of those signatures date some ten-to-twenty years (itself a hotly contested matter) after the supposed date of Hand D's contribution. Can a palaeographic argument be considered to have any worth when the 'control' is so negligible?
In 1987, Scott McMillin reminded us of the argument that Hand D is in fact identical with "Hand C" - the supposed playhouse scribe, assumed to be a mere copyist. This argument has been contested, but never completely dispelled. In 2007, Gerald Downs usefully restated this case with a different slant, arguing that mistakes in Hand D are typically scribal and suggesting that Hand C and Hand D may well be separate, but that their similarities may be explained by the idea that both are (separately) scribal. I don't necessarily agree with Downs - again, I lack the skill to have any objective opinion on palaeographic matters -, but his note of caution seems a timely and reasonable one.
Greg, Pollard and co. achieved their goal. They established Hand D as authoritatively Shakespearean in a way which forestalled future argument and shaped critical opinion of the play. The subsequent work of generations of scholars has, for the most part, agreed with them and used a variety of criteria and methodologies to strengthen the case - though, it has to be said, never unanimously. It's a cumulative case that, as I stated at the beginning of this blog, I am content to buy into, to claim a belief in. But I feel it only responsible to make clear that it is a belief, based on my willingness to accept a palaeographic argument that I lack the means to confirm, and with due caution that my core texts for this belief were constructed with a deliberate agenda to enforce that belief in less informed minds. I also believe that the Shakespearean attribution has seriously damaged, as well as enabled, scholarship on Thomas More - for, in the flurry of activity to ascertain Shakespeare's authorship (or otherwise), the play itself has remained criminally overlooked, and evidence relating to company and date has been forced to yield if that evidence doesn't neatly comply with Shakespeare's opportunity to contribute.
January 15, 2010
January 11, 2010
Writing about A Yorkshire Tragedy (Tough Theatre) @ The White Bear Theatre from The Bardathon
As a follow-up to my review of the Tough Theatre/ White Bear Theatre Company production of The Yorkshire Tragedy, there were a couple of problems raised by the production that I considered would be better discussed here for the relevance they have to my own writing on the play.
The introduction to the play gave us a few "facts" which were, for the most part, correct. The play was attributed to William Shakespeare; it probably was one of a group of four plays, which may well account for the differences between the opening scene and the rest of the play; and it was based on recent events. I was slightly surprised that the company made no reference to the current overwhelming consensus that the play is by Thomas Middleton, which I thought would have been of interest even to a non-academic audience considering the currency of Middleton in the London theatre at the moment (Revenger's Tragedy and Timon in 2008; Women Beware Women this year etc.). The production was advertised as "Part of the Shakespeare Apocrypha", however, and it is this connection they re-emphasised, while commendably not advancing any arguments to support Pavier's ascription.
No, the bit of the introduction that bothered me, and which had serious repercussions for the remainder of the performance, was that the play is divided into ten scenes. No, actually, it's not. The 1608 quarto of the play, as is standard for the period, includes no act or scene divisions whatsoever. It wasn't until Malone's edition of the play in 1788, almost two hundred years after the play's first publication, that it was finally divided into ten scenes, on the neoclassical criteria of new scenes beginning every time the stage is (even momentarily) cleared.
This might sound like academic pedantry, but it's crucially important to an understanding of the play. Firstly, more recent editors have divided the play into eight scenes, realising that the action of the old scenes V to VII is actually continuous. There is a brief shift to an imagined 'outside' for a conversation between the Husband and the Master, but after a few lines it reverts immediately back to the bodies of the fallen, demonstrating that there is no clearing of the stage and no pause in the action.
Secondly, the play is dependent on its pace. The division into scenes is in itself not really a problem; the problem occurs if significance is attached to these divisions - which, I reiterate, are a product of the 18th century, not the play's own time. Yesterday's production not only adopted the ten scene model, but was slavishly adherent to it. Each scene ended with a choreographed scene change, complete with a different lighting state and incidental music playing over the speakers, as well as a placard to indicate the new location. Playing 17th century plays in this 18th century fashion is out of date, both in terms of current theatrical practice and in terms of the demands of the play itself.
The beauty of the unlocalised stage that The Yorkshire Tragedy calls for is that it allows for a consistent and heady pace to build up. The Husband's frenzy becomes an unchecked rampage that moves from victim to victim with no time to pause or reflect, building up in the viewer or reader a breathless impression of insanity and inconceivable violence. Playing space becomes fluid: we don't need to physically be shown the move between different rooms because the bodies of the players demonstrate that move. By having set changes to physically reconfigure the stage between each very short scene, this production had to entirely reimagine the play's pace and thrust. Here, the Husband was necessarily a more reflective figure (discussed more in the review), a move which worked sometimes but didn't fit with the roaring madness of much of his dialogue.
It also played havoc with the play's double-time scheme. While the play as written must logically take place over a period of at least some hours (including the Wife's departure and return; the Husband's flight; and the trial), the conversations of the play continue as if a barely-interrupted stream of dialogue, the overriding impression being that events are taking place in real-time. By emphasising the scene changes, an impression of substantial periods of time passing is necessarily given, slowing down the action to a longer-term and drawn-out period. This is fine in the earlier and later scenes, but has the effect of throwing down the action-focussed centre of the play to a series of artificially-divided vignettes, interrupting the Husband's trail of carnage and undermining much of the dramatic effect of the text.
Attempting to precisely localise the scene demonstrates more clearly the weaknesses of doing so. Take Scene II, which according to this production took place in "an apartment in Calverley Hall." This location is appropriate for parts of the scene between the Husband and Wife; but then, groups of Gentlemen walk in unannounced and begin to upbraid, and even fight with, the Husband. In any logical sense, it is clear that these scenes cannot take place in an apartment, but in a more public space. The answer is, of course, that on the unlocalised 17th century stage it didn't matter - characters were understood to be wherever they narratively needed to be. With a location emphasised, however, the audience are asked to simultaneously imagine both a 'real' localised scene and an imaginative, unlocalised one, as the only way of maintaining any kind of theatrical logic. This begs the question: why bother localising the scene in the first place?
Finally, the first scene was set in "a pub in Calverley." The first scene is notoriously difficult, but emphasising a made-up setting for it makes these difficulties very clear to an audience who would otherwise not have noticed them. Ralph, Oliver and Sam are the servants of a woman (unseen in the play) who the Husband had previously been in love with, and who is now pining away for the lack of her lover. Sam then arrives with news that the Husband has married someone (the Wife of the play) and had children with her, although he abuses them all.
If Ralph and Sam are in a pub in Calverley, and the Husband and Wife are the lord and lady of Calverley Hall, why does Sam arrive FROM LONDON with news of a marriage - and a marriage that has, by report, been celebrated some years since? By any kind of logic, Ralph and Sam can't be just down the road from the Calverleys. The answer, of course, is that they are in a different town. Part of my thesis argues (following earlier critics) that the entire point of the first scene is to locate the play in London, not in Yorkshire: if Sam arrives with news from London of the Husband's marriage, then the implication is that the Husband and Wife are in London, which then allows Sam to take his news back to Ralph and Sam, wherever they are (and why not in Calverley?). This would, in my argument, have been to satisfy the censors: with the Calverley trial still in progress, the location of the real crime was changed, and the characters anonymised, in order to not incur the wrath of Calverley's powerful family. It's difficult to explain the first scene any other way: however, even if you don't agree with this argument, it still stands that Ralph, Oliver and Sam must be somewhere that is not Calverley, in order that the news of the marriage can be, indeed, news. Again, this is a problem that would normally not even be noticed by audiences; but, by emphasising specific locations for scenes, the incompatibility of this unlocalised play with conventions of literal scenography is exposed.
What this production has done for my understanding, then, is to emphasise the importance of the play's lack of sense of 'place'. This is true both in the immediately domestic sense, that movement between areas of the Husband's homestead needs to be fluid and uninterrupted, and in the wider sense, that the dialogue does not support a strict geographical location for the action but is instead deliberately removed away from the historical location of the Calverley estate.