"Come live with me and be my love" Jenna, Blog 14, 2nd Responder

Wow- so this clip is very exciting because it features such a bold dramaturgical choice! The film has completely restructured the text of I.i by altering its soundscape.

I've discovered from experience that I often overestimate general knowledge of Shakespeare, but I suspect that Richard's opening monologue, or at least the first two lines of the speech, is one of the more recognizable passages of text in the canon. I'd certainly propose that, barring the prologue from Romeo and Juliet, the phrase “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York...” is the most recognizable opening line of a Shakespeare play. Okay- The Chorus of Henry V might be better known, and “When shall we three meet again” from Macbeth. I suppose that Orsino's “If music be the food of love, play on” could be more recognizable, but that scene is so often placed after the shipwreck scene that I doubt modern audiences would recognize it as the opening line of Twelfth Night. Anyway, I'd say that Richard III's opening line is one of the top five most recognizable opening lines of a Shakespeare play.

But this production does NOT begin with those opening lines! Instead, someone (for the sake of this class, I'll pretend it was the dramaturg) has inserted a musical rendition of Christopher Marlowe's “Passionate Shepherd to his Love.” In fact, “Now is the winter of our discontent” is an interruption of that song! Bold move! (I suppose that our production of Richard III, as Gavin was explaining, will do a similar thing, but I suspect that the material with which he has chosen to dramaturgically restructure the first scene of the play is going to undercut his production in a way that this dramaturg's choice has really enhanced the film. I'm referring to Gavin's explanation of beginning his production with a scene from 3 Henry VI. Although, I'll admit, splicing the “why I can smile and murder while I smile" segment from 3 Henry VI into the monologue was a smart and effective moment in the film. Perhaps I should reserve judgment on Gavin's opening scene.)

But, forgive me, I digress. I think that beginning with Marlowe's poem works extremely well for this version of Richard III for a number of reasons. First, it is so strongly tied to the “glorious summer” of York that Richard disrupts. There are thematic connections between the summer Richard describes and the pastoral idyll of the shepherd. Similarly, the fact that the poem is presented musically connects it to the “delightful measures” which have replaced “dreadful marches.” But the director has also chosen to visually connect the song to the Yorks by using it as the music to which Elizabeth and Edward dance. (I also wonder if the moment in which Elizabeth and Rivers dance to the song might be the first indication of their too fond relationship. Could the “come live with me and be my love” be an indication of transgression on their part?) Anyway, the song quickly becomes a symbol of decadence. It also gives an indication of historical placement.

Additionally, the song is long enough and simple enough to become boring in its musical repetition. It simply begs to be interrupted. The song plays for over five minutes, if you include the two minute instrumental interlude we hear prior to the female soloist, and is extremely pleasant. If the song, and by extension all that it represents, were never to be interrupted, we'd be in for a rather dull, if lovely, evening. Richard's interruption very quickly accomplishes a few major things. 1- Richard's boredom with the song establishes him as an outsider. 2- Richard's interruption of the song creates affinity for him. Richard is the one who ends what has become an insufferable interlude, so I at least, appreciated his action of stopping it. On a symbolic level, Richard gains audience affinity by inserting himself into the scene and disrupting its peace. Certainly, his disruption of peace is the action for which he will name himself villain, but before we hear that line, we are granted the experience of relishing his disruption of the elegant anthem of York. This establishes the enjoyment of villainy. 3- The song's length creates a dramaturgical situation which demands that the song must be interrupted. This note is really an extension of some things I've already discussed, mainly that the interruption creates affinity for villainy. However, the interruption also moves the dramatic action of the scene. If the song (and by extension, the peace of the kingdom) were never interrupted, the film would never achieve any dramatic action. Hence, the interruption of the song allows villainy to serve a structural/functional purpose. Also, since the interruption is the beginning of a soliloquy, Richard's soliloquies to the audience also gain a functional purpose to move dramatic action (which may seem antithetical as little action generally occurs during a soliloquy.) 4- By stressing the function of the interruption, the very presence of the interruption creates a scenario in which we immediately recognize that Richard's soliloquies do work within the play. By emphasizing that work, the soliloquies quickly become signposts of Richard's manipulative gestures.

Course Blog #13: The Lilly Archive [Andrea, Iris, Jenna, Sara]

e chose for our object a lavishly illuminated Book of Hours from the fifteenth century. Our first interesting experience with this object was the librarian’s reaction when she brought us lists of theatre-related books and we asked her for collections of medieval manuscripts. Sara had to defensively come to our aid and insist to the librarian that we did, in fact, want to look at the Book of Hours for a performance class. Integral in forming our impressions of the object was the foam on the table that supported the manuscript as we read it. The fact that elaborate preparations were necessary in order to view this book—registering at the library, ordering the manuscripts, setting up the foam, gently turning the pages—encouraged us to regard the book as sacred. 

Ricketts 118. A book of hours (detail, right) from the collection of Coella Lindsay Ricketts (1859-1941) archived in the Lilly Library Manuscript Collections. The more than 12,000-piece collection contains medieval and historical documents assembled by Ricketts, ranging from the 13th C. through 1848. — Photo by Sara Taylor.

We all felt timid about turning the pages, and not all of us even wanted to do so, although everyone wanted to at least touch a corner. Additionally, we delegated the job of turning pages to Andrea, as she was perceived as a medieval “expert” and therefore was granted  legitimacy to handle the object in a fashion that we “novices” felt was improper. The hand-printed text awed us a little at the thought that producing this book was probably someone’s life’s work, and we especially admired the pictures. 

Iris daintily handles the book of hours after much encouragement. — Photo by Sara Taylor.

One picture in particular caught our attention. It was the last large illustration in the book, and it used darker colors than the rest of the images. It was the image of a funeral, which was the only large picture in the book which was not specifically identified with a biblical scene, which is interesting in a book that is primarily for liturgical use. This is also the only day in the calendar that does not repeat, unlike the Saint’s Days that take up the rest of the book.

Edited to add: Upon doing some further research into books of hours last night, I discovered that this image most likely accompanies the Office of the Dead, a prayer that might have been said for a particular deceased person as a votive, but also commemorated All Souls Day which, despite not being a Saint's Day (but rather All Saints Day) it is still an annual Feast Day, and would have been celebrated by most of the faithful. In many European countries, this would have been a day to visit the dead, clean and decorate graves, and relieve the tension generated by the pagan festival Samhainn/Halloween.

Illumination illustrating prayers for the Feast of All Souls, also known as "All Saints Day" or "All Hallows Day." — Photo by Sara Taylor.

The background was striking in color and design, giving it an almost three-dimensional perspective. The movement implied in this perspective contrasted with the stillness of the death shown in the scene. The text on that page had faded much more than the text on any other pages in the book, which we interpreted as evidence of its greater use. The faces of the people in this picture were unsettling because they are highly detailed and the faces are vividly expressing pain and almost torment.

We considered the performance of this object from two perspectives, focusing on the methodological approaches of Bernstein, Harris, and Cavell. First, the book and the circumstances in which we encountered it invited us to treat it with reverence. Our perception of the book as a sacred object was based on Harris’ notions of untimely matter—the book was sacred because it was a survival of a long-lost time in our own time. Although it is not a palimpsest in the way Harris describes, but its interaction with time is not past or present, but both/and.

The foam and the rules of the reading room acted in a scriptive way, similar to the effect Cavell describes in the theatre; the setting encouraged us to interact carefully and reverently with the book. Not only did we feel that we were too inexperienced to handle the book properly, but we had some difficulty finding the kind of manuscript we were looking for. [Bernstein’s discussion of performance competency] We looked through two different catalogues and eventually chose our Book of Hours from a book the librarian provided that commemorated the Lilly Library's 50th Anniversary.  Without the historical information in this text, Gilding the Lilly, A Hundred Medieval and Illuminated Manuscripts in the Lilly Library, we would have had little to no performance competence with the manuscript.

— Photo by Sara Taylor.

The second perspective we considered was that of the medieval reader of the Book of Hours. Hodgdon and Wexler were important to our methodology in interpreting this reader’s performance with the book. The image is teaching the reader the proper way to mourn, so the performance of mourning is scripted in a literal way by the prayer (which may be in the book) but the illustration showed the reader how to dress, stand, and feel. We connected this to Wexler’s discussion of sentimentality in photographs, which also teach us to normalize and script our reactions to everyday life. Hodgdon is also helpful in allowing us read photographs, which we extended to our reading of this image. These images are visually coded in a way that is no longer easy for us to read—for instance, the image of the Holy Spirit as a bird, or Mary kneeling to be crowned are not as accessible to us without study. The funeral image may signify a much more specific scene that we can casually read. We assumed that the book mainly performed an instructive function for the medieval reader.

Blog 10: Comments on Jenna's blog (Andrea)

One of the most important framing questions of Jenna's blog is the "role that naming plays in personal identity and character creation." She considers the consequences of naming first from a personal perspective, examining why she was given her own name and the ways in which that name has shaped (or been shaped by) her interest in Arthurian myth and Shakespeare. But this discussion of personal naming introduces a larger issue of fictional names and how they affect the identity of the character: "Why is Hamlet named Hamlet? Does he feel any more or less indebted to the ghost because he was named after it? Is there a difference in being named Ophelia rather than Gertrude?" (Hello, my name is...) In another post, she ponders one of the great Shakespearean boating dilemmas of our time: Why would anyone get in a rowboat named Ophelia? This odd photo leads to a discussion of the ways these characters' names are used, and sometimes ignored.

In her post, Election Day, Jenna recalls a visit to the Tower of London and describes the ways in which that space was used to evoke a specific response in the visitor. This involved the use of several different scriptive things, such as a voting booth that was lit so as to favor one of the choices, and an eerie soundtrack of ghostly children's voices that encourages the visitor to think of that specific room in the Tower as the site of a murder. Her response to these stimuli was also reminiscent of Bernstein's transgressive performer--feeling manipulated, she deliberately voted against the highlighted choice. The blog itself is also scripted partly by the plays of Shakespeare. Quotations appear in multiple posts, and many of Jenna's reflections are inspired by or supported by her knowledge of Shakespeare. The plays seem to function for her as scriptive things, both in their physical form as books and as remembered performances, inviting interaction and engagement and shaping her discussions.

As a viewer of the blog, the images in particular invite performance. They seem to be Jenna's own pictures rather than photos taken from elsewhere online, which significantly changes my reaction to the posts. Because the pictures are her own and they are accompanied by fairly detailed and personal descriptions of where and when they were taken, they invite me to see beyond their frame and place myself in the room where the voting booth stands, or the harbor in Stratford where the Ophelia boat floats. The layout and appearance of the blog were simple and appealing, and the blue color and simple design of the background encouraged me to see it as personal and accessible, which it was. I've enjoyed reading a little about Jenna's love of Shakespeare, and I hope to read the continued chronicle of her trip to Stratford, Ontario, which she promises. I especially hope to see and hear more about her interest in Arthurian legend, as it is one that we share.

Response to the Bloggers of Prompt 5

The blog posts were highly engaging, and I’m writing one post to react to them in general, because I saw several connections between them. Regarding sincerity, Jenna draws our attention to the title, suggesting that the audience knows ahead of time that the characters have been dealt an injustice, and the audience is already primed to believe in the characters’ innocence, and thereby judge their words sincere. Audience predisposition indeed seems an important factor. Just as important is the audience’s reaction to the performance itself. Ming, Justin, and Jennifer each pointed to the importance of the telling of the stories, rather than the over-emotionalized recreation or re-living of the events, as essential to the creation of a sense of sincerity within the performance of the play. I felt the same way—that it’s best to just tell the story rather than preach at the audience. Just as Blank and Jensen write “trust the stories” (xvi), I would add trust the audience.

Ming wrote of her reaction to the focus on the dialogue, which showed us that things weren’t fair, thus eliciting an emotional response in her. Justin also wrote about how the play focuses on dialogue, referring to the way Blank and Jensen pointedly do not follow Dawson’s Unity of Piscatorian Stage Devices, suggesting that to cover the stage with realia would have been cliché and resulted in a weakening of the authenticity of the play. I agree—the use of such realia would seem too self-conscious and detract from the story. It might even seem like the director was trying too hard to convince the audience that the stories were real, thus making the audience doubt the “truth” of the performance. The sparse set allows the audience to focus more on the words, the stories of the characters themselves. The audience can see the contradictions and the hypocrisy become apparent through the simplicity; the simplicity enhances the sense of sincerity. The dissonance between what we’re taught about how the system works and the way the system is shown to actually work is thus all the more powerful—especially when this gap is exploited by Rhodes to harm Sunny and Jesse (36). The audience also sees the dissonance they are feeling played out on stage in the characters who trust the system and are betrayed by it, such as Gary (30-31) and Sunny (43). It’s also felt when David’s prosecutor lies (44). The sense of sincerity felt by the audience does indeed contribute to the feeling that what they see is the truth. I’m not sure if Jennifer is equating the two when she writes “sincere/True” in her post, but I can see her point that the play’s simple telling of these six stories, because they are mediated and crafted, is not so different from Herzog manipulating facts to lead an audience to a realization of larger Truths. I’m not sure about the role of humor in creating this effect, but I do like Jennifer’s use of the phrase “dramatic testimony” to describe the play.

Would celebrity actors cause the “dramatic testimony” to feel less sincere? Would celebrity actors make it easier for spectators to “lose [their] sense of these characters as real people”, as Andrea asks? Would celebrity actors be distracting or would using them provide the distance necessary for theatricality? As Jennifer suggests in her post, I think it would draw the audience’s attention to the fact that it’s a set of stories being told to them second hand by actors. Rather than interpreting this as “an unproductive or unpurposeful phenomenological rupture,” as Justin posits in his post, I suggest the opposite: that the recognition of the celebrity would be beneficial because it would prevent the audience from slipping into the error of conflating the actor with the character—and it would thereby create the space necessary for the audience to engage in the process of theatricality. Here’s where the issue of trusting the audience comes up again. Create the conditions for theatricality and trust the audience to make meaning.

This brings us finally to the question of the role of theater, something that Ming deals with in her post. She questions whether people go to the theater “to take part in moral decisions,” asking “why is the best thing about theater a discussion about right and wrong?” She wonders whether this is because theaters are nominally secular cultural sites, in contrast to religious houses of worship such as churches, which therefore allow an audience more freedom to both have a moral reaction and to “consider the reasons why”—and I would add, for themselves. This seems reasonable. From a Marxist perspective, houses of worship seem like they can easily be places where ideological dogma is received uncritically by an already-receptive audience (this is not necessarily the case in reality), whereas a theater is potentially freer of such a dynamic (ideology is present in theater, too), thereby allowing more room for alternatives in terms of what is being presented (no dogma dictates what the priest preaches, or even whether there needs to be any preaching!), and also more room for interpretation, decision-making, and meaning-making by the critically-aware spectator observing the theatricality unfolding before them.