The Games have
gone. They departed in a flurry of golds and closed with a ceremony that
featured what looked like old newspapers but turned out to be Eng. Lit, more
Beatles and more fireworks. Caliban’s speech popped up again, this time voiced
by Timothy Spall as our Great War Leader (Churchill, not Tony Blair) - and from the top of a Big Ben which had burst open like an over-ripe banana. I did
not attempt comprehension.
The closing
ceremony may have underwhelmed, but the Olympics seem to have been a triumph.
To everyone’s intense relief, there were no disasters. Things were well
organized. Brits won lots of medals. Even the sun shined, occasionally. We
found we were good at something after all. Hurrah.
It’s a long
time since it were possible to win an Olympic gold medal for architecture or
flower arranging, but the Cultural Olympiad that complemented the Games has
been an equal, if less celebrated success. It has involved musicians, dancers,
visual artists, film makers, writers and actors. It also centred on William
Shakespeare.
His plays have
been produced by amateur companies all around the country, broadcast on the BBC
and explored in a mighty succession of talks and documentaries. It has been
heady stuff. Highlights of The
Shakespeare Unlocked series included James Shapiro discussing Shakespeare’s
Jacobean dramas, Joely Richardson on Shakespeare’s heroines and The Hollow Crown which presented Richard II, Henry IV parts 1 and 2 and Henry V. Stunning.
There was also
a sequence of late night talks by Margaret Drabble about Shakespeare and Love
on Radio 3, but I’m vague about these as I generally fell asleep after her
first sentence and somehow failed to return to them on i-player. Better
scheduled was Neil MacGregor’s Shakespeare’s
Restless World on Radio 4.
These
programmes viewed Shakespeare’s world through a variety of objects, revealing
what each told us about his life and times. Almost all were fascinating. Some
reminded me of things I must once have known but forgotten and some about which
I was forgivably ignorant (or about ignorance of which I kindly forgave myself).
Some facts it was a delight to discover; others I was stunned not to have heard
about before.
In no
particular order, it was of interest to learn that theatres were also used to
present sword fight shows; that in 1564 (the year of Shakespeare’s birth) a
quarter of Stratford’s population died of the plague; that the earliest
mechanical clocks only had an hour hand, leaving people to guess what the
minutes were doing and that most plays (even tragedies) were followed by music
and dancing on stage.
We were also
informed us that the embalmed corpse of Henry V’s widow, Catherine de Valois,
was displayed in Westminster Abbey – where diarist Samuel Pepys later kissed
her dead lips. This sounds gruesome. Did Pepys make the story up? If so, why
write about it in a cipher diary he thought no one would ever read? If not,
what prompted him to kiss the lips of a woman who’d been dead for more than two
hundred years? Either way, psychotherapy might have helped.
The single
fact that Shakespeare’s Restless World most
stunned me with is that in 1596 Shakespeare was one of four men to attack
William Wayte outside The Swan theatre. Wayte later swore before the Court of
Queen’s Bench that he was in danger of death or serious injury. Brought before
a judge, Shakespeare and his co-assailants had to post bail and promise to keep
the peace. The matter was eventually settled out of court.
What staggers
me is that we are constantly told how little we know of Shakespeare’s life, yet
this extraordinary incident appears undiscussed. How long has it been known? Did
academics suppress the story because it conflicts with a notion of him either
as ‘gentle Shakespeare’, or the ‘Sweet Swan of Avon’? Like many of the few facts we do have, the
information is tantalising. Was it a serious assault or a scuffle? Did
Shakespeare instigate the attack or was he by-standing? Did William Wayte simply
deserve a good kicking? Were all playwrights inclined to violence? Ben Jonson,
after all, was sent to prison for murder and Kit Marlowe stabbed to death in a
pub fight.
Mention of the
incident occurred in Swordplay and
Swagger, in which Neil MacGregor discussed a rapier and dagger, found
separately on the Thames foreshore near The Globe. In his day job, MacGregor is
director of the British Museum and the weapons are on show in the BM’s
exhibition, Shakespeare, staging the
world.
They are
objects of great beauty. And there is an incredible amount of other fascinating
material to view. Some of this, such as the portraits of Richard II or John
Donne or Henry V’s battle helm is normally on view elsewhere in London. Some of
the items, such as Wenceslaus Hollar’s engraving of London (‘The Long View’)
were familiar only through reproductions, but much was new to me. One such was
the painting (c. 1600) of a Moroccan dignitary with the splendid title, ‘Abd
el-Ouahed ben Messaoud, ambassador to England from the King of Barbary’.
His features
are proud, sharp and intelligent – and astonishingly contemporary. For while
the likenesses of Henry Wriothesley, 3rd Earl of Southampton (a ridiculous,
if pretty young man) or the adventurer Captain Thomas Lee (somewhat absurdly
bare legged) are trapped in time by their raiments and accessories, the ambassador
might still be seen striding to the Court of St James (though he would have
difficulty getting his sword through security).
Many of the
objects exhibited are sumptuous, such as the wonderful Sheldon Tapestry
depicting Shakespeare’s home county of Warwickshire. These were clearly designed
to display their owner’s wealth and taste, yet some of the most affecting items
are altogether humbler. There was a delightful, loose-fitting women’s jacket
(c. 1600-1625) made of linen, with strawberries, peapods, acorns and
honeysuckle embroidered in silk.
Humbler still
were a child’s hornbook (which comprised a small wooden tablet with alphabet
and The Lord’s Prayer printed on a sheet of paper, protected by a film of
transparent horn) and a wooden drainage spade dating from the 1700s. By this we
are told that Shakespeare became a keen gardener on his retirement to
Stratford. How is this known? First we learn he tried to kill a man outside his
theatre, then that he took up gardening in old age. For someone of whom we know
almost nothing, this seems quite full detail.
Horticultural
pursuits aside, I wasn’t sure how much revelation there was in the show.
Instead, what it provided was context. It opened doors into his world. Here was
John Dee’s obsidian divination mirror, there a Venetian courtesan, pictured
with liftable flap in her skirt to reveal breeches and salacious slippers. In
another chamber was a hand written poster (c. 1603-25) that advised of a
bear-baiting contest at the Bear Garden, Southwark. Nearby was a bear skull,
excavated during reconstruction of the Globe. Its teeth had been filed smooth
to prevent it biting the dogs to death in the bear-pit.
All these
objects asked as many questions. From what attics and mouldering cupboards had
they been retrieved? Who recognized the cow-pat coloured tamoshanter as a
‘statute cap’ dating from the 1570s? How did the playing cards (c. 1590)
depicting English and Welsh counties survive? Which men lost their sword and
dagger in the Thames and why – and who found them in the mud several centuries
later? Most importantly, whose job was it to grind the bear’s teeth and what
sort of sedative was the animal given? If it wasn’t sedated, what sort of
burial did the tooth grinder get?
I took in the
exhibition on my way through London to Wembley to see the Women’s Football
Final. Like the football, I was advised to allow 90 minutes for the show. This
was insufficient. Hurrying to rendezvous with Ellen and Stuart for the match, I
had to rush through several of the latter galleries. Showcases on Cleopatra and
Macbeth were almost unviewed and I entirely missed Sonny Venkatrathnam’s
‘Robben Island Bible’. A big regret.
I needed extra
time. The final almost went to extra time as well, though in the event the USA
beat Japan by a late goal.
It is
impossible to know what remnants of our time will survive the next four hundred
years. Or to know what sort of people might excavate them. Some of what we
leave may seem as mysterious to those in the future as Dr Dee’s obsidian mirror
to us. Some things may seem as familiar as the spade, with one similar to which
Shakespeare supposedly dug his retirement garden. Yet if whatever is left ends
up in an exhibition half as good as Shakespeare,
Staging the world it will be a jolly good show indeed. Well done, Games.
Well done, Cultural Olympiad. Gold medals all round.
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