Those That Study History Are Also Doomed to Repeat It

Since I have been in England, I have seen a total of four Shakespeare productions for my class. They were staged in various locations, using a variety of different settings and costumes. All were good, or at least, as good as could be expected given the source material in at least one case.
The first one I saw was Twelfth Night, staged in the garden at Wadham College. The text itself is a despicable piece of nonsense. The set-up is improbable, and never explained even by invented laws within his invented realm of Illyria. Characters change personalities to suit the situation, and frankly, the ending is only happy if one doesn’t examine it at all (though isn’t that always the way with fairy tales involving love). There are really no more than two or three amusing lines throughout the entire text, which leaves actors of today (and probably other times as well), required by tradition to vindicate Shakespeare as the God of Authors, in something of a predicament. This production handled it by using a modern beach setting, and using the contrast of their water toy props with the text itself, and by playing up the bawdiness well beyond the point that would have been permissible on an Elizabethan stage. Although the production was humorous, it was rather sad to watch excellent actors forced to try so hard.
The second production I saw was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which I have already seen twice before in different theatres and at different times in the States. This production was at the Globe Theatre in London, the theatre built as a reproduction of the theatre in which Shakespeare’s plays were staged before it burned to the ground. When they rebuilt it, they kept many details the same, including the flammable thatched roof and the central area (the theatre is round) in which they force patrons to stand around the stage, through the entire production. Evidently, it was tradition that tickets were sold for a penny to “groundlings,” who could crowd on foot around the stage to watch. They have chosen to keep the part of the tradition in which they force innocent people to stand for three and a half hours, though they have seen fit to charge another £4.99 for the privilege. I assume they have also seen fit to install modern, and not Elizabethan, plumbing and heating and so forth, probably following modern fire codes, even in the thatch, despite that historical inaccuracy. But standing—no, no. They feel that is a significant part of any Shakespeare experience. And truly, it is an experience, craning over the heads of the entire western world, trying to see the stage, while one’s legs turn slowly to aching, painful lead. I saw the play mostly from the side, which meant I chiefly saw a large pillar, which is part of the support of the stage.
The production was good, however, with interesting music—sung by a contra tenor, and experience I’ll happily not repeat—and the actors were talented. However, both of the American productions I’d seen trumped them, and my favourite character, the Puck, Robin Goodfellow, was a sad disappointment. He was played by a middle-aged, plump man, who wheezed around the stage very comically, but not at all representing the “merry wanderer of the night,” or, as I prefer, Neil Gaiman’s “giggling-dangerous-totally-bloody-psychotic-menace-to-life-and-limb” wanderer of the night. Still, it couldn’t be called a bad production by any stretch of the imagination, but I was a little let down.
The third play I saw was The Merchant of Venice, at the Courtyard Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace and hometown throughout parts of his life. The town is much given over to all things Shakespearean, from naming every business in town after him, his family members, of his characters, but the theatre we were in is not entirely devoted to Shakespeare’s plays. It is built with no attempt at resembling an older theatre, and had seats and galleries much like any normal theatre. However, once again, history wrapped its ugly fingers around someone’s brain. The last row in the ranks of seats at the highest gallery was not a row of seats, but an aisle in which people were assigned places to stand. The view was no better than from a seat. The historical accuracy was all but nonexistent—the “groundlings” here were nowhere near the stage, which is several floors below them. The standing area took up exactly the same amount of room as a row of seats would have—my trusty tape measure told me so, much to the bemusement of my fellow theatre-goers—but there it was. More money spent to stand, while my feet slowly squish themselves into fiercely aching pancakes, as I try to appreciate art.
But it was a magnificent production. The actors were wonderful, the austere set fit the play perfectly, and I could even bear standing at least long enough to see every bit of the trial scene, where Shylock shone. Unfortunately, said brilliance was all but unappreciated by my peers, who clearly don’t know a good thing when they see it.
The fourth play I saw was also A Midsummer Night’s Dream. This one was in Oxford, in Headington Hill Park, and was a “promenade” performance, which meant the audience followed the actors around to various sets throughout the performance. Having already seen this play three times, and having been very disappointed at the Globe, I was loath to see it a fourth time, but had a paper to write which would be difficult to do without seeing this other production. I had low expectations, especially when a friend told me that they had made a great many changes. However, I was not disappointed.
First of all, I had a seat. Somehow, this lowly, outdoor production had managed to come upon the startling revelation that people are much better able to enjoy themselves if they are not aching from the position in which their bodies are. They had arranged logs and tarps to create moderately tolerable—absolutely heavenly, compared to the Globe or the Courtyard—seating for every single solitary patron. Truly, a commendable success right there, regardless of the content of their production.
However, the production itself was excellent. They had few actors—Hyppolyta and Titania were played by the same actor (a man in drag; it was a rather interesting choice, but it worked); Theseus and Oberon were the same; Helena and Robin Starveling; Hermia and Snug the Joiner; Egeus and Nick Bottom; Lysander and Flute the Bellows-mender; Demetrius and Peter Quince. They made Peaseblossom, Mustardseed, and the other fairies nothing but little spots of light shown on actors’ fingertips. But their performance was magnificent. Running all over the park—at Puck’s beckoning—made the scenes with the lovers less repetitive and silly, and made it feel more realistic.
And Puck. I cannot praise Puck enough. Of all the Pucks I’ve seen, he was my favourite. The actor must have been exhausted by the end of the performance—he ran everywhere, performed acrobatics, lifted other actors off the ground, delivered his every line with giggling-dangerous-totally-bloody-psychotic-menace-to-life-and-limb verve. Truly, even if the rest of the actors had been terrible, Puck’s performance alone would have made their play able to put the Globe’s attempt to shame.
However, tomorrow I can look forward to another Globe production, another three and half hours standing in a crowd on a concrete floor, while watching King Lear. Then, come the following Monday, I’ll see Much Ado About Nothing, in Oxford, produced by the same company that did the second Midsummer. Although I hold out high hopes for the actors, I’ve been warned by Douglas Adams that, once again, Shakespeare’s text is something of a cruel imposition. But, we’ll see how it goes. Wish me luck.