National Theatre Live: Coriolanus

Last month I saw National Theatre Live’s broadcast of Coriolanus with Tom Hiddleston and Mark Gatiss. Firstly, it was an amazing play and brilliant production; I am all the more glad for having seen it. Broadcast live from London, it was a different experience to watch a play in a movie theatre and one that is unique: using six different cameras to film the play, there were close-ups of the actors in various scenes and other angles that would be impossible to witness in a regular theatre attendance, in which one’s vantage point would be determined where one sat, etc., as well as two interval features: one before the start of the play, explaining the play and its context, and the second an interview with the play’s director, Josie Rourke. Both of these featurettes I enjoyed.1

I became interested in seeing Coriolanus as I learned more about it and was eventually convinced to see it after watching a video of Mark Gatiss talking about the play (video below). In preparation, I borrowed two2 copies of the play from the library: the Arden Shakespeare edition and the Folger Shakespeare Library. (While the text can be easily found online, I like to read the footnotes and learn the context of archaic or obscure meanings to different words, etc.) Of the two, Arden is more scholarly and I confess that I barely made a dent in reading either edition before going to see it and in a way, I am kind of happy to have gone to see the play with a blank slate; for once I didn’t know what to expect or anticipate in a Shakespeare play!

(Note: a higher quality version on The Telegraph is available here.)

One of Shakespeare’s more obscure plays, it is also his most politically driven and even has the apparent distinction of being banned in modern democracies (although there are little facts to support this, when I researched this). Some critics have read and analyzed the play as being “biography dramatized”, reflecting the political turmoil of Jacobean England during the Midlands Revolt in 1607 when prices of wheat and corn soared. It is doubtless, however, that Coriolanus is a topical drama for now and thus, is timeless as political commentary.

Caius Martius, the protagonist and renamed Coriolanus after a siege on the city of Corioles, is stubbornly contemptuous, prideful, and is a character that one could easily fast dislike but for the marked vulnerability that he’s imbued with by Tom Hiddleston’s stellar performance, instead creating a character whom one is able to understand where he’s coming from, even if not fully able to sympathize with or relate to as a character. This does not mean he is an unsympathetic character, or completely irredeemable, yet his flaws overshadow his virtues; in the words of Menenius, “His heart is his mouth; what his breast forges, that his tongue must vent.” Caius Martius is a soldier, but he is not a politician. He does not possess, or has cultivated, the way of language and wit like Menenius, delightful to watch and who is brilliantly played by Mark Gatiss. (Menenius’s mannerisms sometimes reminded me, more than once, of Mycroft from the BBC Sherlock.)

Josie Rourke’s production takes the brilliant turn of interpreting Coriolanus from a neutral standpoint so that the audience is able to see Coriolanus and the mob for what they are, all the while turning expectations on their head. Early on I assumed that I would take the side of the people but, conversely, by giving insight, in little ways, into Coriolanus I was driven to near exasperation by the plebeians, and especially the tribunes who stirred the pot that leads to Coriolanus’s banishment from Rome and the events thereafter. The one moment that is truly private, to which the audience is witness, and that compels our understanding of him and prepares us for the opposition of the tribunes, is a shower scene in which he washes away the blood after battle and we see his gruesome wounds for the first and only time. (The makeup is so well-done that I was taken aback and cringed upon seeing them.)

Part of what makes this production work so well is the stark minimalism of the set. The Donmar Warehouse seats only two hundred and fifty people and the stage is small. Instead of elaborate props, the only props used are the wall and chairs, which are put to versatile, creative use. At the beginning of the play, all the actors appear on stage and retreat into the back, where they sat on the chairs in the dark, against the wall, until it’s a particular character’s scene and retreat likewise; as the play progresses, the chairs are moved around the stage, whether to form a senate or a battle scene. The wall is also used as a prop, with ever-changing graffiti (using a light projector) symbolizing the people’s voices. Change of scene and acts are indicated by stage light and a kind of fast-paced techno music. All of these elements together create an atmosphere and setting with little to distract from the action and focus of the play.

If I were to pick a single highlight, it would have to be the time during the intermission and after the show, in which the show’s quality shines through the audience’s response and any discussion inspired or provoked by it, during which the themes of the play are allowed to be expanded upon in people’s conversations. On the way home from the play, we talked of nothing but the play: our favourite lines, stage direction, the actors, and the themes explored such as politics, military and its effects of civilian life, and the human condition (a recurring subject with Shakespeare), as well as possible modern interpretations based on contemporary social context of archaic meanings of certain words or old-fashioned constructs of society.

Coriolanus is thought-provoking and driven, and it’s a performance that I’m truly grateful for having had the opportunity to see. I would it recommend to everyone who is enthusiastic about Shakespeare or are admirers of the actors involved. While the play’s run is now over, National Theatre Live is screening encores to cinemas worldwide. To see if a movie theatre in your area will be screening it, check National Theatre Live’s website.

1 There has been complaints that it isn’t part of the theatre experience and I’ll concede that it isn’t but as an extra as part of going to watch a play in a movie theatre or cinema, I have no issue. Besides, by watching a play in a movie theatre one is already not taking part in a traditional theatre experience for reasons already mentioned.

2 Yes, two. It turns out that I borrowed the 1976 Arden edition, when I think I meant to borrow the 2013 edition – this, I realized, belatedly. However, after watching the play, the introduction was useful, particularly about the relationship of Coriolanus and Audifius. 

Notes and Further Reading

The Arden Shakespeare, Coriolanus (1976, see second footnote above)
Folger Shakespeare Library, Coriolanus (2009)
“Livy, Machiavelli and Shakespeare’s Coriolanus”, Anne Barton; “Plutarch, insurrection and dearth in Coriolanus”, David George; Shakespeare and Politics (Cambridge University Press, 2004)
The Noise That Banish’d Martius: Coriolanus in Post-War Germany
Donmar Warehouse Behind the Scenes: Coriolanus (bibliography included for further reading, as well)
Gaius Marcius Coriolanus, the legendary Roman general upon whom Shakespeare based his play (Wikipedia entry)
Telegraph: Tom Hiddleston meets Shakespeare’s Coriolanus (includes video)

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Muse of Fire

While I was researching Shakespeare for my previous post, I came across this trailer for a new documentary about Shakespeare called Muse of Fire. The title taken from the opening lines from the Chorus in Henry V (“O for a Muse of fire that would ascend / The brightest heaven of invention), it features several interviews with well-known and notable Shakespearean actors as it examines the enduring appeal of the playwright and his work.

It was recently broadcast by the BBC in the UK and was available on iPlayer. I haven’t seen it yet due to region restrictions, however I plan to as soon as it’s available this side of the pond.

Sad Stories of the Death of Kings

For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

— Richard II

In a 2011 NPR feature in which Sharon Kay Penman shared her best historical fiction picks, she said, “When I read a historical novel that really resonates with me, I want to know more about the time, the country and the characters who actually lived. I see books as the keys that unlock our curiosity.” This is true of my own experience reading Ms. Penman’s The Sunne In Splendour (reviewed here), as I learned more about the Wars of the Roses as well as Richard III, thus beginning my fascination with this particular era of British history.

I am also a fan of Shakespeare, and as I researched more about the real kings and queens, dukes, earls, and other nobility, I began to wonder about Shakespeare’s Henriad plays, specifically how the history was portrayed. I’d seen The Hollow Crown series by the BBC that dramatized these plays last year (it was broadcast by PBS in the States this year; the Twitter fan account @HollowCrownFans live tweeted the broadcasts) and I gradually became more curious about the real history versus the drama.

The Henriad is Shakespeare’s four history plays, usually grouped together: Richard II, Henry IV Part 1 and Part 2, and Henry V. Shakespeare’s history plays are usually framed as commentary, indirectly, on his own time, the Elizabethan age, and as drama; ultimately portraits of the human condition. While it can be argued that these plays are not historically accurate – Shakespeare shifting certain events or characters to suit his needs – over time, though, his writings have contributed and gradually shaped our perception of that time in history and even our beliefs about them and the individuals. Some taking so firm a hold that it’s only recently that we have begun to question the commonly accepted view – going to such lengths as to restore the reputation of the long-maligned King Richard III, whose skeleton was found in a parking lot earlier this year and it was discovered that he was not a hunch back; or, beyond the Henriad plays, the real Macbeth as a champion of men instead of the popularly held, Shakespearean image of the Scots king as bloodthirsty and lusting for power. We know about these kings without needing to have studied history or read or seen a performance of Shakespeare, for the popular images of them, both good and bad, from his plays are so ingrained into our mass consciousness.

While Shakespeare did not invent that Richard III was a hunchback or born with teeth and hair – he relied upon contemporary historical sources, most notably Holinshed’s Chronicles, for source material – he not only perpetuated certain myths but heavily influenced the king’s posthumous reputation for centuries. Less extreme but no less significant, in the Henry VI plays he made Henry a pious man who would rather not be king but there is no mention or allusion at all to his mental illness, as Elizabeth I was a descendant of Henry VI.

It’s said that truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes fiction replaces the truth.

Shakespeare’s Richard III is well-known primarily for the portrayal of an evil king, deformed and bent on murdering all who are in his way to claim the throne. Even if one does believe that Richard was a brutal, bloodthirsty king, there are still historical inaccuracies that one might take as creative license by Shakespeare to tell the story, such as shifting certain events so that Richard would be old enough to have participated in them. As I learned more about the time period and about the Plantagenets, in context of the Tudor dynasty it interested me how Shakespeare cast Henry IV and Henry V as heroes, in the simplest of terms, but both Richards – Richard II and Richard III – were maligned, and neither left heirs; both succeeded by Henrys. Richard II is portrayed as a weak and ineffectual king, whereas Richard III was hell-bent on getting what he wanted at all costs. Through their respective actions, both Richards ensured their downfalls. However, why the disparity in portrayal of these Plantagenet monarchs? I’ve done my best to attempt to provide an answer, by examining the real history Shakespeare portrayed in his plays.

Having written this post over the course of nearly two months, I’ve struggled with how best to present the material. The further research I did, the deeper I went and the further it continued to grow and expand. I’m afraid I’ve provided more questions than any solid answers, and in some respects I feel I’ve barely scratched the surface or haven’t examined aspects of this history closely enough, yet that would require an essay beyond the five pages that I’ve split this post into.

Thank you for taking the time to read this post – and do take your time, as it is long. To avoid overwhelm, I’ve split this post into five pages. When you reach the bottom of the post, simply click the next number to continue reading.

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Plantagenet

Richard II was but a boy (either eight or ten years old, sources differ) when he ascended the throne in 1377, as immediate successor to Edward III, his grandfather, after the death of his father Edward, the Black Prince. Richard was to be the last king of the main Plantagenet lineage, tracing back to Henry II: the first Plantagenet king. The name Plantagenet derived from Henry II’s father Geoffrey of Ajou’s nickname, who was said to have stuck a branch of brush in his hat. The name would not be used, however, to refer to the dynasty until Richard, Third Duke of York, asserted the Yorkist claim to the throne. Henry III, son of King John (yes, that King John in the Robin Hood tales) is generally regarded as the first Plantagenet king as he was considered truly English rather than French (the previous kings before him, descending from Henry II, are sometimes distinguished as Angevins.)

Lancaster and Tudor 

Richard’s uncle, John of Gaunt was the First Duke of Lancaster and wielded great influence during the child Richard II’s reign. It’s from John of Gaunt’s three marriages that two of the houses of English sovereigns were descended: Lancaster and Tudor. His male Lancaster heirs were Henry Bolingbroke (who became Henry IV), Henry V, and Henry VI.

Tudor was descended from his son John Beaufort, by Gaunt’s third marriage to Katherine Swynford. Thus Tudor would have strong ties to Lancaster, as Henry VII was descended from John Beaufort; additionally, Catherine of Valois, after her husband Henry V’s death, married (perhaps secretly) Owen Tudor. Their son Edmund would marry Margaret Beaufort and father Henry Tudor, becoming Henry VII and the founder of the Tudor dynasty.

York

John of Gaunt’s brother Edmund of Langley founded the House of York and it was through the marriage of his son Richard, Third Earl of Cambridge, to Anne Mortimer that the Yorkist claim to the throne was sealed. Anne was a descendant of Edward I and Henry III through her mother, Alice Holland – whose other daughter Margaret was married to John Beaufort – in addition to being a descendant of Edward III through her grandparents. Her grandmother was Philippa of Clarence, the daughter and only child of Edward III’s son Lionel of Antwerp, and would marry Edmund Mortimer, Third Earl of March.

Thus the stage was set for the fifteenth century Wars of the Roses, with the House of Lancaster and the House of York both making claims to the throne. According to Shakespeare’s portrayal, it all began with Henry Bolingbroke deposing Richard II.

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The Sunne In Splendour

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Day two of reading The Sunne In Splendour (published via Pressgram)

The first things I remembered learning about Richard III were 1) he was evil 2) he killed his nephews, the Princes in the Tower. I also remember being of an age – still a child – when one generally accepts what they’re told and doesn’t question it, so I knew that he was bad but I didn’t really comprehend at the time. I remember when my parents rented a VHS of Richard III with Ian McKellen and being told that it was scary, I wasn’t allowed to see it./p>

It wasn’t until in February of this year, in fact, that I began to learn more and understand Richard III when his grave was discovered in Leicester, in a parking lot (or car park, in British English). Either by coincidence or not, about a week before the news broke out, I had intended to watch Richard III, the very same movie my parents had watched years before. I borrowed it from the library and, well, for one reason or another, I kept putting it off until I had to return it, so ultimately didn’t end up seeing it. I still haven’t. (For sake of this post, I did consider watching it but I decided not to, except for the few clips I found and watched on YouTube.)

It was with much interest that I followed the Richard III story, as news broke out and pieces began to be put together, ultimately revealing how much his image was a product of Tudor propaganda – aided, with no thanks, by Shakespeare’s play. It was like a mystery. There is no concrete evidence that he did kill his nephews, which for some means that it isn’t out of the question – there’s just no evidence to prove it. There is just as much, or little, evidence to support either; however, the scales tip forward in his favour that he didn’t when we learn more about him as a person and how, during his brief reign, he helped the common people.

Some months ago I became interested The Sunne In Spendour by Sharon Kay Penman, after learning of it in an interview with Richard Armitage (he is named after Richard III and also has been attached, for a long time, to a project about the king). This is a historical novel that is, at heart, a biography of Richard III, beginning with him as a young boy to his death on the battlefield of Bosworth but it is also about the Wars of the Roses, especially his brother Edward IV. Sharon Kay Penman has that remarkable ability to create dimensional characters, men and women and children, that come alive and make you care about them. It was also through reading this book that I became better able to understand this particular period in time and history. The title derives from Edward IV’s (Richard’s older brother) badge of three suns or a phenomenon known as “parhelion“. He convinced his troops that the suns represented the Holy Trinity, although another version (perhaps in the book – it’s all a blur) states that he said the suns represented himself and his brothers Richard and George.

I borrowed it from the library, but for some reason did not start reading it immediately. (The length and thickness of the book – over 900 pages – didn’t unnerve me, I’ve read books longer than that, such as The Count of Monte Cristo.) I finally resolved to read it when I needed to return it to the library and I was pulled into the story, enthralled, from the beginning. I’ve not read a book in so long that has tugged at my emotions, moved me so deeply. I was involved with all the characters, and especially Richard as a boy – I felt so deeply for him and sympathized, to the point of tenderness. So wrapped up in my emotions was I that, sometimes, I was reading the words but scarcely comprehending what was happening and then–! This last sentence I refer specifically to the death of Edmund, one of Richard’s brothers. It is history, so it is bound to happen, but I invested in the characters from such an early start and so deeply that I grieved with the rest of them.

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Fitzgerald and Keats

“For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby and people’s fascination with it is something I can’t quite put my finger on. It was only after I’d read it for the first time and that I began to learn about F. Scott Fitzgerald’s influences and possible influences that I began to understand more. I don’t know how The Great Gatsby is studied in school, how the material is taught or what topics are covered, however in my self-study of the book and Fitzgerald’s writings I became interested in his apparent preoccupation with John Keats.

Keats’ influence on Fitzgerald is something that seems to be generally overlooked, but that shouldn’t be ignored as I believe it’s an important key to understanding – and perhaps even enhancing one’s own enjoyment – of his works. Fitzgerald wasn’t alone in admiring or reading the Romantic poet: many of his contemporaries and fellow writers studied the Romantics, as well as the classics, in school and continued to read them later in life, as well as being influences on their own writings. Through his admiration – and possible idolization – of Keats, Fitzgerald sought to emulate him, as can be found in examples of his work.

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Wogan on Wodehouse

Last year I chanced upon a BBC documentary called Wogan on Wodehouse. Broadcast in 2011, Terry Wogan pieces together P.G. Wodehouse’s life and its parallels in his writings, often brilliantly inspired. Unlike some documentaries that try to uncover supposed hidden truths or darker aspects in an author’s works through their life, the parallels only further illuminate Wodehouse’s brilliance as a wordsmith and his ability in seeing the humour in life.

I believe I was between the ages of thirteen and fourteen when I read my first Wodehouse book, Carry On, Jeeves. Since then, I’ve read more of his books and enjoy them as much as I did upon first reading them, if not more so. After reading any of his stories, I always come away with a feeling that I can only describe as rich and uplifted. How he uses language is invigorating.

Most of the enjoyment that one gets out of reading his writing is his use of simile, alliteration, and witty, sometimes irreverent, allusions and references to Shakespeare and classical studies, usually the Romantic poets, and the Bible. All of which are handled deftly. His writing is such that he is one of those very few writers in which one derives more enjoyment by reading it himself than hearing it read out loud or narrated, as when listening to an audiobook.

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