Ok, here’s the game.  Find a quote in one play that looks like it’s a reference to another one.  Chances are it wasn’t, but then again who really knows, right? The most obvious one, perhaps, is when Macbeth says that he will not “play the Roman fool” and fall upon his sword….exactly like Brutus does at the end of Julius Caesar.  That one only half counts, since it’s obviously more a historical reference than Shakespeare directly referencing himself.  (There’s also the part in Hamlet where Polonius speaks of having played Caesar.) I thought of this thread during AYLI it the other day, since the character playing Jaques also played Bottom last year, and there’s a Jaques line where he says “If it do come to pass that any man turn ass….” which of course is exactly what happens to Bottom. Lastly, I think it’s funny to imagine that Amiens’ song: Blow, blow, thou winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because though are not seen,
Although thy breath be rude. Is actually a reference to Lear: Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! But of course I realize that would be pushing my luck :).  Can’t you just imagine Lear on the heath breaking out into song?

The universe is treating me kindly this week.  Over the weekend, I broke my iPod.  Knowing that there is an Apple store on Boylston Street, I walk the 5 or 6 blocks there Monday morning.  On the way, I pass the Boston Public Library.  “Oh,” I think, “that’s where that is.”  My only other BPL experience was a field trip in high school, and I was hardly looking at cross streets.    (For the curious, Apple gave me new iPod.  Nice.)

Today, coworker Beryl asks if I know anything about the traveling Shakespeare exhibit currently at the BPL, which apparently includes a First Folio.  “No…” I say, grabbing my sunglasses and iPod and heading for the door, “I did not.” Took me a little while to find it, as they’ve got it buried way in the back corner of the third floor in “Rare Books.”  It is very under-publicized, I saw maybe one sign saying, “Oh yeah, Shakespeare that way.” 

I finally find the room, empty except for myself and someone I thought was doing research but who turns out to be a librarian. Lining the walls are maybe 12-15 glass cases, each with a single book (or a small handful) prominently displayed, along with a placard stating what it is.  I don’t know if it was planned this way or not, but I start reading with the closest case, which actually turns out to be a Third Folio.  The First is at the farthest end of the room. 

While I’m reading, a woman and a man come in, scan the cases quickly, and then go speak to the librarian, a conversation that I can only half make out.  There’s a gesture made to the floor above (something I hadn’t even noticed), and I hear, “…personal library….not on display….digitizing…..”  There’s mention of a brochure.  The librarian motions to a case nearest her, and I hear….”original handwriting.”  This confuses me just a wee bit.  The description of the exhibit did say “and books from Shakespeare’s time that he would have used as sources” or something to that effect (I did see a Hollished’s Chronicles, which was cool).  But as we all know, he left no books of his own.  And forget about “original handwriting.”

So I walk over to the librarian when the couple leaves, and I ask, “Did I hear you mention a brochure about the collection?” “Yes, right here,” she says, gesturing me to a pile of brochures….about John Adams. Apparently, Will is sharing the space with Mr. Adams. Before leaving, I ask the librarian if, when I return, it is okay to take photographs and notes and whether a laptop would be permitted (trying to be quiet and polite, you see). 

“No flash,” she says.  “You can use your laptop out here, but not in the reading room,” (which adjoins the room I am in).

“Are there any other special volumes in there that are not on display out here?” I ask.

“Well, mostly reference.  I mean, some of the reference books are on display out here, but if you needed something special, then you call downstairs, and they bring it out to you.”

“So then, I would need something special that I wanted in that room?  I couldn’t just go in because I wanted to touch a First Folio?”  I am joking with the woman.

“Well you could,” she says.  “They are public.”

“Thanks,” I tell her.  “I’ll think about it.” I really am thinking about it.  It’s not like I’m going to get much chance to flip through an original First Folio that often.  But I do actually have a day job, it’s not like I have hours to go through the hassle of getting a reservation, providing ID, and all other sorts of nonsense so that I can say I touched one.

I plan on going back at a later date with a camera and laptop so I can take better notes.  I thought some of the descriptions were interesting, such as how they specifically mention that Merchant of Venice, although called a comedy, is actually “extremely cruel” in the Merchant’s treatment of Shylock. Any questions I should ask or specifics I should look for?  The woman at the desk didn’t seem to have much interest in Shakespeare (I realize that she was digitizing the Adams collection), so whatever I find would be on the placards and whatever pages of the works happened to be shown.

I was going to put this in the “what makes it funny” thread, but thought it might stand better on its own. Once upon a time, after I’d seen one of my first productions of Les Miserables, a friend asked for a review.  I remember responding, “Well you have to figure, the source material that the show is working with is just so good, that any review is going to start at about a 7 out of 10, and is going to have to work pretty hard to get below that.”  The same is true for something like a Jesus Christ Superstar.  In my own little world, when you’re working from great literature, you’re starting with a leg up on the competition.  Alan may already tell me I’m an idiot, who knows. Anyway, just now a coworker asked me for a review of the Boston As You Like It, which as my readers will know I gave a “meh” review.  When it came to the question of whether I would recommend somebody else see it, I found myself giving a similar answer:  “You have to realize that you’re talking to someone who already loves this stuff so much that I’m going, either way.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Shakespeare show that was so bad that I regretted it.” Which gets me back to the “funny” thing, which is basically the same general idea – where does the quality lie, in the printed word, or the performance?  We all know that you can have a line that is funny on the page that just dies in performance, or vice versa – something that looks stale on the page that comes to life when delivered.  Is it possible to explain the balancing act that goes on between the two?  Can you ever really have a “bad” Shakespeare show, or is it a completely different review if you say “The acting and directing were bad, but the source material is good.”

http://www.shakespearepost.com/2008/07/27/julie-taymor-planning-film-version-of-%E2%80%98the-tempest%E2%80%99-with-helen-mirren-as-prospero/ Ok, TheShakespearePost scooped me on this one.  Julie Taymor, who I’d noticed did her own Tempest a little while back, is looking to do it again.  This time with a twist – Helen Mirren to play Prospera, Miranda’s mom. “It goes back to the 16th or 17th century, and women practicing magical arts of alchemy, who were often convicted of witchcraft. In my version, Prospera is usurped by her brother and sent off with her-four-year daughter on a ship. She ends up on an island; it’s a tabula rasa: no society, so the mother figure becomes a father figure to Miranda. You have the power struggle and balance between Caliban and Prospero; it’s not about brawn, but about intellect.”

I mean right now, to present day audiences.  What’s a good comedy, and why?  Is Shrew better than Much Ado?  Twelfth Night over As You Like it?  Say that you had opportunity to get all the comedies in front of a group of people who otherwise aren’t Shakespeare fans, and who were just looking to be entertained / get a laugh.  Which come out on top of the pile? Is it the slapstick?  Do people need to be falling over each other and wrestling in the mud? Or maybe it’s a “timeless issues” thing, like the battles between men and women, or everything that surrounds a “romantic comedy”?  People laugh at what they recognize to be true, so to speak.  I still contend that this is the primary reason for the popularity of Shrew. Does the writing and the dialogue count for much?  If you have one guy out on the stage saying witty things, will he carry the audience’s good favor and end up at the top of the pile?  Or most often does the witty dialogue go over people’s heads? I’m curious if we can get a discussion going on the subject.  Recently Alan was hyping the value of Shrew over in a different thread.  Having just seen AYLI for the first time, I can say that I thought a line like Rosalind’s “Don’t you know I am a woman?  When I am thinking, I must speak” (or however it was said) would have brought the house down, but it barely registered.  But the simple exchanges between Jaques and Orlando: “Rosalind is your love’s name?”
  “Yes, just.”
“I do not like her name.” and “I was seeking for a fool when I found you.”
   “He is drowned in the brook: look but in, and you shall see him.” Got a much better reaction.  The second in particular, Jaques didn’t even have to follow up with the “There I shall see mine own figure” to get the laugh, people understood it without that.