The thirty seven plays of Shakespeare in three and a half minutes

Will Shakespeare wrote dusty death plays,

Sound, fury and all yesterdays.
He struts, frets and creeps;

Petty pace the fool keeps,

Poor brief candle lighting the way.

And so the debate simmers on;  not whether Covid is back or Monkeypox is worse or whether Johnson is a johnson. No, the current equally animated controversy is whether, Rhodes having not fallen but Colston having made his way from a lofty plinth to a prone position in a museum via a dip in Bristol's river, supposedly eminent twentieth century poets, including Wilfred Owen and Philip Larkin should crash out [ to borrow the Wimbledon jargon ] of English Literature examinable syllabuses to make way for poetic practitioners of other ethnic origins. 

I can't keep up with the even more modernistic and dramatic notion that English Literature itself should cease to be a suitable subject for university study. I suppose I might pause  to wonder whether, this madcap scheme of metaphorically burning every book ever written coming out of a university in Sheffield, the same city that attempted to take an axe to every tree within its boundaries [ fortunately halted by central government ], should now meet a fate similar to Sodom and Gomorrah and be consumed by sulphur and fire. Come on the Almighty, let's have some strong leadership here, while I restrict my musings to Caucasian masculinity versus Afro-Caribbean effervescence in the field of poetry.

Actually I probably won't dwell on that for even a nanosecond as the very contest itself removes more than a smidgen of the tedious pressure felt increasingly over the last fifty years by the reputation of William Shakespeare, the greatest playwright the world has known. He of course had a penchant for ghosts and if he was now to return to earth in spiritual form he might be shocked and disappointed to find that supposedly wise people question his authorship of thirty seven plays and a hundred and fifty four sonnets. Lampooned he has also been by, as some see it, his tendency towards racism, sexism, religious extremism, tedium and complexity. Such critics fail to realise that he does does not represent or voice prejudice on his own account. He is, among other brilliances, a shrewd observer and an expert commentator, challenging us with eternal themes about the human condition. He requires us to employ imagination, logic, empathy, sensitivity and common sense all at once. And if we thus apply ourselves, whatever the context, to pondering the essence of Shakespeare, the mental and sociological rewards can transform us.

But we do need help getting there and, with this in mind, I found myself on 28 August 1977 in St Cecilia's Hall in Edinburgh for a talk, lecture or show [ I am not sure which it was ] about Shakespeare, given by the already well established but still youthful Ian McKellen. One might have expected him to be primarily enlightening on dramatic content or expounding the eternal themes that run through the canon of Shakespeare but in fact Mr McKellen's main objective was the illustration of the language  --  beautiful, meaningful, inspirational and unique  --  as a basis for acting. The nuances of dramatic content and life's messages would naturally follow. 

It was a delicately understated yet dazzling performance and profound presentation on which he was to base such talks for many years to come. However, to my eternal shame, forty five years later, the only elements that remain firmly rooted in my memory are the two comedic touches. As an encore, following lengthy and warm applause, Ian took us to Act 4 Scene 7 of Henry V. With the battle of Agincourt just won, the young king Henry is reading a paper presented to him by a herald listing the flower of the French army, the noblemen who had died on the battlefield:

' Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;
Jacques of Chatillon, Admiral of France;
The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures;
Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guischard Dauphin; John Duke of Alencon; Anthony Duke of Brabant,
The brother to the Duke of Burgundy,
And Edward Duke of Bar ...... etc etc '

He then gave an alternative rendering, substituting the original with names of well known wines:

' Charles Beaujolais, High Constable of France;
Jacques of St Emilion, Admiral of France,
The master of the cross-bows, Lord Pouilly Fume;
Great Master of France, the brave Nuits St Georges; John Duke of Beaune;
And the Earls of Moet and Chandon, Dom Perignon and Chateauneuf du Pape ...  etc etc'

On paper it does not look half as amusing but delivered by Sir Ian in the right tone and totally unexpected, it was richly entertaining.

Sir Ian's second piece of almost pure entertainment was based on the theory that, if you take any Shakespearean lines regardless of play or context, string them together and speak them in clear stentorian tones, employed by celebrated twentieth century actors in the Olivier or Richardson mould, an audience would be profoundly impressed and uplifted. Those present would doubtless believe they were experiencing great literature even if they understood not one whit of what was spoken. To demonstrate this Sir Ian chose the first lines of twelve to fifteen plays and presented them in an almost melodramatic style as a single piece. Of course it worked for that Edinburgh audience.

Twenty five years later, in the autumn of 2002, I found myself scratching around for an assembly topic and I remembered that performance from the almost distant past. I decided to try and go one better and compose a piece incorporating the first lines of all thirty seven of Shakespeare's plays, loosely linked if at all possible. Learning the resulting passage rather than reading it was the greatest challenge and, on the few occasions I have repeated it since, I have succumbed to the idler course. For a secondary school population we endeavoured, alongside the BBC, to inform, educate and entertain. Judging by the sea of blank faces as I spouted in the direction of the indifferent youths in the back row, I failed singly  on all three counts but that may have been nothing out of the ordinary.

I present the piece here for you now, more as a quiz than anything more profound. See how many you score out of thirty seven or try reading it as if you were on the stage at Stratford and see if you transport your imaginary audience to unknown lands afar. For my part I shall be pleased to discover the works of African poets when I next visit the Poetry Corner in Blackwell's Bookshop. I might even confess to being a trifle relieved that dear old Philip Larkin will at best be consigned to an eternity of dust gathering out of sight and out of reach on the top of the loftiest bookcase.

The complete works of Shakespeare, quickly

Who's there?
Botswain!
Good day Sir.
Escalus!
When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain?
Old John of Gaunt, time honoured Lancaster;
I'll pheeze you in faith.
Sir Hugh persuade me not: I will make a Star Chamber matter of it.
Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene.
Tush! Never tell me; I take it most unkindly;
In Troy there lies the scene.
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York.
I wonder how the King escaped our hands;
I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.
Nay but the dotage of our generals o'erflows the measure;
As by your high imperial majesty I had in charge at my depart for France.
Nay say, Chantillon, what would France with us?
If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia on the like occasion, whereon my services are now on foot,
Cease to persuade me, loving Proteus;
Before we proceed any further, hear me speak.
As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will,
In delivering a son from me, I bury a second husband.
Open your ears, for which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud rumour speaks!
I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Aragon comes this very night to Messina;
To sing a song that old was sung --
Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace,
If music be the food of love, play on.
Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms. 
Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall;
Hence home you idle creatures, get you home.
I come no more to make you laugh,
You do not need a man but frowns,
So shaken as we are, so wan with care.
Let fame that all hunt after in their lives, live registered upon our brazen tombs,
Hang be the heavens with black, yield day to night!
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention;
In sooth I know not why I am so sad.

14th July 2022