Archive for Isaac Asimov

You Can’t Handle the Truth

Posted in Context, Henry IV Part 1 with tags , , , on 2014/04/07 by mattermind

In trying to make sense of Henry IV, I’m forced to confront larger issues that drive much deeper but are merely tangential to the play.  For instance, how much should the truth matter, especially when these works in particular are called the histories?

I have touched on this subject while reading Richard III.  But now it rears its ugly head again in a big way and I’m not sure what to make of it.  Isaac Asimov, for instance, points out that Prince Hal and Hotspur enjoyed more of a father-son relationship than that of rival brothers.  In fact, Hotspur was two years older than King Edward himself.

It seems Shakespeare couldn’t resist making changes that any modern screenwriter would nod and sympathize with.  These are the very points of contention that critics and fans of the novel (or historical accuracy) will inevitably bring up while slamming the said work with such comments as, “This isn’t anything like the book,” or, “That’s not how it happened.”

Well, Edward IV is another example of this, only by now so much time has passed that the actual history serves almost as a footnote, a marginal amendment applicable to scholars and wonks only.  For the rest of the civilized world, what Shakespeare dramatized has become the gold standard, interchangeable for truth.  But should we be concerned about that?

One could argue that, in making the changes, Shakespeare aspired for dramatic truth – a different form of truth, naturally, but the one nearest to his heart and talents as a playwright.  Why should he concern himself with getting all the niggling details correct?  Especially when that would mean the sacrifice of a good metaphor, irony or parallel construction.  Fudge here, compress there.  That’s how the game works.  And any reasonably literate audience ought to know that.

So why bother calling them the histories then?  Why not fictionalize them entirely, invent characters wholecloth or “based on a true story” instead of trying to have it both ways by capitalizing on the general public’s vague understanding of real events and then distorting them with hyperstylized dialogue and action?

Ultimately, I cannot escape the gravity of this rhetorical black hole.  Shakespeare wrote the plays that we call the histories which historians know are based on errors of source and errors of choice.  But then there are the plays, masterpieces unto themselves.  Why rail at Shakespeare when we can benefit from both with a little education or insight?

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A Very Fatal Place It Seems to Me

Posted in Titus Andronicus with tags , , on 2014/01/14 by mattermind

Titus Andronicus, Act II

For a moment, I wanted to stop reading and abandon the project.  I so loathed the events of Act II that I honestly didn’t think I could push my way through it, like a kid sitting at a dinner table determined not to eat his, um, vegetables.  At least I think they’re vegetables.  I hope they’re vegetables.  But even still, I have no stomach for what’s happening.

I had been warned about the excessiveness of the violence.  But until I experienced it for myself, I simply had no idea what I was in store for.  What Lavinia endures goes beyond the pale.  Revenge runs amok and beggers description.

I have chosen to soldier on, however, in the hopes that a conjecture Isaac Asimov wrote about might be true.  It goes:

Apparently, what Shakespeare was doing was experimenting with Senecan tragedy.  These blood-and-thunder plays written about horrible crimes and horrible revenges were immensely popular in Elizabethan times [Note to self…why?!].  Thomas Kyd, for example, had written such a drama, The Spanish Tragedy [Note to reader: which Shakespeare allegedly had a hand in], shortly before Shakespeare had begun his dramatic career and scored an immense success.

Shakespeare had no objection to success and was perfectly willing to adjust himself to popular taste.  In Titus Andronicus, he therefore gave full vent to blood, cruelty, disaster and revenge.  Indeed, he went so far that that one can almost wonder if he weren’t deliberately pushing matters to the limit in order to express his disgust for the whole genre.

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking on my part, but I’m hoping this is true.  There are all manner of explanations for why the greatest writer in history chose to make this his first tragedy.  Maybe it was an experiment.  Maybe he wanted to have a little “fun.”  Maybe he thought the masses would love it and make his name.  Maybe he assumed it would be a big box office draw.  Or maybe he just felt like doing it this way at the time.

But good grief, there is an awful lot of violence.  And not a trace of redeeming moral lesson anywhere except that tribal revenge is best replaced by civil and criminal law.  Blood for blood was how we used to operate.

Aren’t we all glad we’ve left such practices behind?