Something Rotten in Stratford

 

I really dislike Shakespearean acting; I hate listening to actors read poetry. It is because they insist on acting. They keep peppering their lines with odd pauses, caterwauls, tears and gestures, to express emotion. 

This treads all over the words. It is a distraction, like a moustache on the Mona Lisa. For either Shakespeare or poetry, they make a hash of the rhythm, and generally also other sound elements, like alliteration. They are even often inaudible.

Perhaps they do not grasp that Shakespeare was written for the stage, and for large open -air performances. The manner required is oration, like giving a speech. Small hand gestures and mumbling and grieved expressions would be lost in such a venue. The imperative is that the words be timed and enunciated clearly.

But surely ignorance is not the entire explanation. After all, Shakespeare is still most often presented on the stage, and even movie actors probably apprenticed treading the boards. I think it speaks instead of an unfortunate aspect of human nature: envy. Presented with someone else’s great art, having control of it, if briefly, the typical actor seems driven to make it uniquely their own; and to draw attention to themselves instead of Shakespeare. Or Keats, or whatever poet.

This would account as well for the undying inclination to restage Shakespeare in modern times. Or to make MacBeth black instead of Scottish. Tiresome; but the director is saying “look at me. Never mind Shakespeare; notice my clever reinterpretation of him. But there is nothing either clever or innovative about setting Shakespeare on Manhatttan’s West Side. Everybody does it.