Venus and Adonis: She loves, she is love: and yet she is not loved.

Yesterday, I had my first 'real' Renaissance theatre-going experience, with a visit to Shakespeare's new Globe theatre in London, to see Venus and Adonis, performed by the Isango Ensemble from Cape Town, South Africa.

Firstly, a word on the theatre itself. I had been anxiously watching the weather all day, because I thought I had booked groundling tickets. When we arrived, it was a nice surprise to find that we'd actually got seats, under shelter (phew! it hailed at one point!). The theatre was extremely impressive, and I'm led to believe, authentic, with gilt edgings, colourful facades and worn-out posts and framing. There was, as I'd expected three tiers of seats (in a circle), and of course the middle section, for groundlings to occupy. I was pleasantly surprised that, as one would of in Shakespeare's time, the people standing could go right up to the front of the stage - practically resting on it! (with our current health and safety climate, I had assumed there would be some sort of barrier - especially as 'death' was wielding some dangerous looking, bloodstained cleavers uncomfortably close to the expectant eyes of the people at the front).

The performance began with the opening lines of the play, sung in a conglomeration of South African and English, by the female actors. It is worth noting that each one of the cast was profoundly vocally accomplished, able to sing as well in English as in other languages, and the majority of arias were truly spell-binding. The first scene featured Venus and Cupid, a comically morbidly obese man in a romper-suit, who got a lot of laughs, frolicking. Venus is accidentally pricked by one of Cupid's arrows, and this is how the love-story begins. Now, I have a slight bone to pick here. After studying Shakespeare's 'Venus and Adonis' in horribly deep depth for a recent second-year undergraduate essay, I know, as many of the theatre-goer's probably wouldn't, that this is not how his epyllion begins. However, it is found in his analogue Ovid's Metamorphoses, and I'd like to think that Shakespeare's overwhelming admiration for and indebtedness to the master-poet overrides that fact that this scene is not authentic to his poem.

Once pricked, Venus' wooing begins. Unusually, Venus was not played by a single actress. Almost every actress in the ensemble took a turn to play her, each wrapping a white linen cloth around them when they would assume the role. Usually, I might consider this to be slightly twee, however, for the character of Venus it is extremely appropriate. Shakespeare's Venus is a veritable emotional whirlwind; at some points she playfully jokes with Adonis, at others is comically lustful, occasionally extremely sensitive and loving, and, disturbingly regularly, is stiflingly oppressive and/or ferociously aggressive. Although each of the actresses displayed these various, shifting emotions during their performances, the literal changing of Venus effectively conveyed just how capricious, conflicting and perplexing she is, in the midst of overwhelming love and passion.

Another aspect of the Venuses performance was their use of the cloth (used to identify her) to bind, constrain and envelop Adonis at various instances. The company has successfully drawn out the aspect which I believe Shakespeare tries to emphasise most strongly in his poem - Venus's oppressiveness - and made it a visual symbol. This effect is particularly helpful when considering that, i'd say nigh on 99%, of the audience, maybe more, was not versed in South African. When language is a barrier, spectacle takes over.

A further notable characteristic of the Venuses performances throughout the wooing scenes, was their use of their bodies/sexuality. I'm keen to avoid stereotyping, however, the Venuses truly were beautiful, buxom ladies who knew exactly what moves to make, or hips to shake, to illustrate the lustful, sexual aspect of Venus's pursuit. Part of this was their sly glances, or covert winks at the audience, which made it lucidly clear - when language again confounded interpretation - exactly what Venus's intentions were. Oozing subtle sensuality at times, secreting raging passion at others, this female company had the goddess of Love (the vicarious goddess of Sex) down to a tee.

If they perfected Venus's sensuality, so too with her hopelessness. 'She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved', says Shakespeare. In her most desperate moments, the Venuses haunting, mesmerising voices give a true sense of her despair: her illimitable capacity to love, to cause other's to love, yet, paradoxically, her inability to make Adonis love.  

Now for Adonis. In Shakespeare's poem, Adonis is frustratingly reticent, declining to speak until around line 80, and largely vocal only to reject Venus's advances and/or, like the petulant teenager he is, to complain about the sun, or about her wringing grip. I was happy that the Isango Ensemble maintained this aspect of Adonis's character - it is not an unwarranted swipe to say that, for Shakespeare, he is not much of a character at all - as it would have been extremely tempting to make him vocal earlier, for the sake of theatrical interest. Really he is uninteresting, and uninterested: throughout Venus's elaborate wooing process, he'd much rather be somewhere else. Mhlekazi Mosiea, who played Adonis throughout - a petulant, stoic consistency which was a lovely contrast to Venus's capriciousness - had perfected the disdainful glances, pained grimaces, and violated vocal objections that characterise Shakespeare's young, narcissistic mortal beloved. Like the Venuses, Mosiea had a beautiful voice: he sang in English (which seemed quite appropriate for the young, unloving chap) and carried each note perfectly, with a tad more clarity than the rest of the company.

Other notable mentions include:

1. The treatment of the palfrey and jennet - a focal point in Shakespeare's poem, illustrating the successful sexual love which Venus attempts to persuade Adonis to - was very well done. The company used horse heads, yet, moreover, their bodies to convey the sexual act - securing a lot of laughs, imbuing the episode the comedy it deserves. 
2. The cast performing African songs and dances together, bare-footed and raw, were truly magnetic. All of the ensemble were enthusiastic, vocal, and spell-binding: this is clearly a cast who knows how to work well together.
3. Death, played by Zebulon Mmusi - not embodied in Shakespeare's poem, but embodied here, I assume, for some clarity/ to add some perspective to Venus's speech - was particularly harrowing. His frame painted as a skeleton, cavernous red mouth and serpentine tongue, bloodstained hand-held scythes and occasional menacing, animal-like hisses combined to make him a truly terrifying figure. We realise, perhaps before Venus, that he is not a character to be chastised - and his vengeance costs Venus her love.     
4. The boar was similarly effective. Wild, ferocious, rabid, we are given a true sense of the danger he can inflict.   
5. I know this is purely coincidental, but at one point, as Venus said 'the sun that shines from heaven shines but warm', the sun prophetically gleamed on the so-far gloomy stage. A sheer chance occasion, but a beautiful one at that. 

I only have a couple of criticisms about this performance. 

• One, is that I believe at some points, the cast was playing for laughs (at the cost of sentiment of the poem). I appreciate that they must cross a language barrier, and appeal to a popular audience, yet I would argue that pathos overrides comedy, and theatre trumps pantomime. 'Venus and Adonis' is an indubitably humorous poem, yet it is also a poetic master-piece: any more comic moments, and the play could have descended into farce. 
• Two, they could have made a lot, lot more of the final metamorphoses (after all, Shakespeare's analogue was Ovid's Metamorphoses!!!,  and Adonis's growth into a purple flower gives Venus far more hope and joy that this simple, unmemorable conclusion conveys.) However, I did appreciate when all the Venus's joined together again to indite her horrible prophesy (love will now be jealous, unkind, unrequited etc.), each woman versing the different afflictions in a round: they say do not mess with a woman scorned, but a woman thwarted by death is even worse.  
• Finally, not really a criticism but a piece of advice: it may be too late for Venus and Adonis, as it only had a short run here, but, if you are going to see a play in another language, read the English version. It was clear that almost 80% of the time, almost 80% of the audience had no clue at all what was going on. Obviously, not knowing the language (here, a mixture of IsiZulu, IsiXhosa, SeSotho, Setswana and Afrikaans) will always prevent anyone from grasping the exquisite lilts and facets of Shakespeare's verse (I recall them all too familiarly from my recent studies), yet having a general gist of the basic arguments definitely helps. I saw far too many confused (and quite disinterested) faces in the audience, which rather distracted me from the play itself. I know some people like to be surprised by a plot, but, if the play's in another language, you won't be surprised by the plot, you will never know it! The cast did their absolute best to transcend the language-barrier, but the audience needs to helps themselves. 

In conclusion, I was thrilled with my theatre trip. I was slightly skeptical following the recent theatrical-disaster of Hamlet, but all those concerns were dispelled from the first song of Venus and Adonis. A highly accomplished cast, a beautiful translation, a captivating, rich, multi-cultural performance. 

****

Video - http://vimeo.com/42139882 

My thoughts on Margaret Thatcher, in 2013.

OK, so this post is a little different from my usual film/theatre criticism, but I have something to say, and I feel like this is a good place to say it.

I recently posted a status on Facebook in response to Margaret Thatcher's death, and I feel that it has been misunderstood by some - so I'd better explain myself in more depth.

This is the post: Politicians are public figures, subject to criticism and judgment by the masses - but they're also people. Regardless of your thoughts on her policies and practices, Margaret Thatcher deserves the due reverence you would accord any deceased person. Celebrating/praising the death of an elderly woman says a lot more about the workings of your moral compass than it does about hers. Just my opinion.

To begin, I'd like to state that my belief is not, as some might think, that one 'should not speak ill of the dead'. I would gladly speak ill of Hitler or Mao: political leaders who subjugated their countries to unspeakable crime, genocide, famine, corruption etc. etc. Yet, Margaret Thatcher, I believe, is in a different category:

• Firstly, she was elected, by a popular vote. She was not a despot, who seized power for herself, disregarding the wishes of the people. 
• Secondly, although she was the figurehead and popular image of the conservatives, she did not constitute the whole party. Concurrently, it is absurd to state that 'Margaret Thatcher did this/ did that', and so forth. The whole point of government in Britain is that it is made up of a variety of MP's, from all areas of the country: each body of people is equally represented by politicians they elected. They form the House of Commons, and the PM structures a cabinet from these MP's. Margaret Thatcher was a strong-minded, strong-willed woman, but she was not a self-interested, un-elected authoritarian (we need only look to North Korea for an example of the like), so please, don't label her as one. 
• I would be able to tolerate some of the vitriolic, hateful garbage spewed about Thatcher across the internet if she had truly, recognisably, achieved nothing good for the country. As it stands, Thatcher made tangible, real changes that dramatically overhauled the country's economy (some policies which still stand today, for good reason), intervened when injustice was occurring overseas, in the Falklands war (dispute the justness and morality of that war as you may, but be aware that a recent referendum is likely to see the majority of Falkland Islanders uphold that they are, and their country is British, before blasting the war), amongst innumerable other achievements. She may have got things wrong, badly wrong - but it is ignorant to claim that all her political movements were failures. [NB: I vehemently disagree with a lot of Thatcher's actions, particularly her support of the Khmer Rouge, amongst other things, and fully appreciate the full spectrum of her ministership, positive and negative]. Meanwhile, take for example, Hitler. What can we say that Hitler did for Germany? One need not go into the full details of the atrocities, as they are well known. Amidst the murder, the victimisation, prosecution, starvation, and militarisation, it is insurmountably difficult to pick something out. On the other hand, Mao - like Thatcher - achieved apparent 'goods' for his country: increasing healthcare, improving education, providing social housing and promoting the status of women. Yet, unlike Thatcher, his counteractive crimes are off the human scale; he suppressed human rights, enacted multitudinous political executions, and as a direct result of his 'Great Leap Forward' China suffered widespread famine. The (preventable) deaths of citizens during his reign total 40-70 million - the largest democide in recorded history. You may, naively, argue that Thatcher did nothing for Britain, damaged it even; yet, one need only look at other political figures of the 20th century to see that her policies - even the ones which left some parts of society disgruntled - were humane. Was Thatcher a 'monster' who 'only did bad' for our country? No. To say such a thing is to violate the memory of citizens who truly did suffer the atrocities of a monster-esque, despotic reign, and who reaped little from their 'leader' but a legacy of shame and destruction. 

So, this is part of the reason why I struggle with the Thatcher riots. Here is another aspect, and forgive me for using an analogy to illustrate my point:

A wall is decrepit and crumbling, with great holes and several missing stones. People have been easily traversing this wall for several years: merely stepping over the broken sections, without any inconvenience or injury to their party. Now, if someone comes along, and finally kicks over the paltry remnants of this dilapidated wall, is this something to praise him for? Does the wall's destruction, actually, make any tangible difference in the lives of the people who cross that way every day - who, before now, happily went about their business, not minding that the sad feature was still clinging to existence. When it was first erected, the wall caused contention between the villagers and the landowner whom erected it: that grievance was of policy (the landowners desire to privatise previously public fields). However, when people became frustrated with this segregation, they pushed parts of the wall down, damaged it. The landowner eventually conceded, and reverted his judgement, re-inscribing the land's original, public function: his policy - not the wall - fell. Since that time the wall has been functionless, and suffered the physical harangues of weather, time, and the once vitriolic, but now imperceptible scorn of the people.

Now upscale a bit, take another wall: the Berlin wall. In 1989 the Berlin wall is irrefutably strong, impenetrable, uncrossable, severing western and eastern Germany in two, dividing families, separating friends. The wall is also fatally dangerous for anyone whom attempts to cross it. The Berlin wall is a direct, physical, active, acting functional tool of a rotten regime: it is the policy. When this seemingly inscrutable wall is destroyed this is victory, this is success, this is a thing worth celebrating.

My fundamental point is: If you hated Margaret Thatcher's policies, hate what she 'did to the nation', then the time to celebrate is when she goes out of power, when she is no longer the Prime Minister (when, with the people of my analogy, the landowner redeclares the land as public). You may argue that people still spit on the remnants of the Berlin wall, so we can spit on the remnants of Margaret Thatcher: they both represent 'bad' regimes. My response would be that these two things are discreet; Thatcher introduced policies, had practices, but she did not constitute those policies and practices - she may have held them, believed them, but does a policy equate a person? I am a vegetarian, but that's not all I am, I am a feminist, but that's not all I am: there are parts of my life completely distinct from my practices and beliefs. Meanwhile, the Berlin wall, that was an inanimate object, entirely representative of the regime it stood for, active, working, killing, indistinct from the GDR, with no life outside its function: without the roles of mother, wife, human being.

Now, I return back to that repugnant article I read which stated that public figures are unlike normal people in that they are not exempt from criticism after death. Yes, go on then, I agree - say she's a Milk Snatcher, hate the Falklands war, hate the closure of the mines: criticise these things forever, its your right. Every single person in Britain is entitled to their personal opinion (a right that we often take for granted, and therefore abuse). Yet, dignity in death, and respect for the sanctity of life are also rights, human rights, and criticism must contend and coexist with this right. My mind at least, would not make the illogical jump from hating a policy of Margaret Thatcher's to singing 'ding dong the witch is dead', saying I'd like to 'dance on her grave', or throw a party to 'celebrate' her demise. If I wanted to criticise her, I'd write/vocalise it in a way that did not seem so utterly disrespectful, that did not attack her as a person, and did not pull at the very fabric of society. This is why I say vitriol reflects on the 'moral compass' of the person speaking, rather than the person they attack. In saying things you would - quite rightly - be outraged at someone for saying about a member of your family (from the safety of a keyboard), all sentiment, all logic, all true criticism of lost. All real, true, accurate judgement on Thatcher is swathed in layers of crudeness, maliciousness, unthinking abuse, which infects and mars it. I read the words 'yay lets celebrate, the bitch is dead', and think not 'oh, what an educated individual this person is, her tax reforms truly were despicable, they're right', but that they have no sense of the need for justification of ones beliefs, no appreciation of rhetorical eloquence, and no respect for human life.

My last point [respect for human life] may sound sentimental, but it isn't. After going out of power, Thatcher may have acquired the title 'Baroness', but, like the rest of us will do, she became an elderly person. I do not believe that old age negates the 'crimes' of youth, but I am a strong believer in the thought that we are not one, consistent entity, but several distinct 'selves': the person I am today, is different from that I was yesterday. By 2013, the public has become detached from Thatcher. Do we know if she still holds all the same beliefs she did when she was in power? No. Do we know if she would go back and do the same all over again? No. Do we know if she is proud of herself? No. Therefore, how can we judge? How can we say she is an inherently and consistently 'evil' person? (which I don't, personally, believe she was). In April 2013, Margaret Thatcher was an extremely lonely, decrepit, aged woman, suffering the inexplicably life-altering, harrowing disease Dementia. Dementia is one of the most terrible afflictions man can suffer (I have watched it do its work on one of my own close relatives). It detaches you from yourself, leaves you constantly confused, and scared. Arguably, if you hated Thatcher so much, this would be your victory, this horrible, horrible illness. When she died, Thatcher was a shell - barely a woman, and certainly not 'herself'. Still believe that political figures aren't human, that they're not susceptible to the same eventualities to which all of us may succumb, that they can't feel pain, and confusion, and terror?

That wall, the one already defeated, no longer serving any functional purpose, one that - for years - had not been hurting anyone or anything: are you going to build it back up, to knock it down again? Hate 50 year old Thatcher, with her poll tax and war. You need not love 87 year old Thatcher, alone and dying - but, for the sake of yourself, and our nation, do not abuse and insult her: past all defence, past all use, past sentience.

I never thought myself conservative, but if the alternative to conservatism is turning up to a funeral angrily waving moth-eaten, mildewed banners of musty hate, then perhaps I am. If freedom of speech gives us these foul emissions, perhaps we do not deserve it. If public power results in personal attack, and if a life in politics means you lose your human life and the respect that accords, maybe the system is overrated.

I have a horrible, irrepressible feeling that tomorrow, a few people will expose the rot of Britain.

JEM.

The RSC's Hamlet 2013, a review: suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

On Saturday night I went to see the RSC's (Royal Shakespeare Company's) performance of Hamlet in Stratford. As we live fairly close to Stratford, I have been to the old and new, refurbished theatre on a number of occasions. Last year I saw Romeo and Juliet - a rather lack-lustre performance - and the year before enjoyed The Winter's Tale, which was excellent. In light of these variable recent experiences, I didn't quite know what to expect from Hamlet - but I was not pleasantly surprised.

Before I say anything about the performance, I think it is important to establish that - as it is well-known - Hamlet is one of Shakespeare's longest, weightiest and more complex plays, and poses a daunting task for even the most skilled and experienced of directors: including David Farr. Yet, the RSC is itself a formidable company - the defining establishment of British theatre - and Hamlet's cast includes some stellar theatre stalwarts. Despite the magnitude of the venture, the RSC had the tools and talent to produce a fantastic show.

Firstly, I must begin with our Hamlet - Jonathan Slinger. My criticisms of Slinger are multitudinous, and my praises (sadly) lacking.

• My primary problem with Slinger is his age. At the expense of appearing ageist, at 40 years old Slinger is simply too old to convincingly perform Hamlet. With a balding pate and distinctly middle-aged mannerisms Slinger is void of the youthful charm and spirited fervency one would expect a scholar recently returned from Wittenburg to posses; also - and I'll probably sound shallow as well as ageist now - he lacks any sense of Hamlet's animated attractiveness. These may sound like very superficial, pernickty points, yet, arguably our sense of Hamlet's youth and attractiveness are essential to our appreciation of his character; in the RSC's performance, there is ultimately no viable reason why Ophelia, and more importantly the audience, would be drawn to Hamlet. This inappropriate casting marrs every aspect of the play. When Hamlet is 'mad' (or feigning madness), his witty speeches and silly phrases lose effect; delivered, as they are from the vessel of a middle-aged man, they seem more like a joke your dad (or specifically my dad) would make, than brilliant flourishes of a quick, resourceful wit [in conjunction with this, Slinger's tedious - and ofttimes cringeworthy - tendency to hyperbolically elongate words or repeat them in a silly, childlike manner is unduly incongrous with his 'grumpy old man' facade, and very Jack Dee-esque, but I shall say more on his poor delivery later]. Perhaps more blasphemously, due to Slinger's maturity Hamlet's philosophical speeches on the nature of time, death and life concurrently emerge more as the embittered, dulled, disillusioned mumblings of one J. Alfred Prufrock than the fired-up, ebullient, exhaustive interrogations of a youthful Hamlet, struggling to comprehend the world's inherent complexities as he experiences the thrilling epoch of newly-burgeoning philosophical and worldly consciousness; the essential expansion of the mind (from considerations merely of the self, to musings on mankind as a whole), that occurs primarily when one makes the tentative, perplexed, perplexing transition from boyhood to manhood. [For a portrayal of Hamlet fat and oozing all his intended youthful, spirited brilliance, rhetorical skill, playful wit and philosophical aptness, see - the ineffable, unparalleled - master that is Laurence Olivier: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0xYbpYgdPQ]

• Another unignorable aspect of Slinger's portrayal of Hamlet, is his in excruciating tendency to over-act. Indeed, Hamlet is an intense, tragic, dramatic play; however, Hamlet's passionate speeches or mad ramblings are more poignant when considered in isolation. In Slinger's performance there is no respite, no relief from the relentless harangues of his constant crying/laughing etc.. A truly great dramatic performance climaxes, crescendos, deftly works up to moments of intense emotion or compelling action. Slinger's decision to play Hamlet all on one (ebulliently dramatic) level erases the subtle nuances of Shakespeare's original text: in his interaction with his father's ghost the audience's pathos is negated and the sublime cadences of the actual verse are lost, as we are unrelentingly subjected to Slinger's cringe-inducing, childish, repulsive cries. Where is the delicacy? Where is the simplicity? Why is a revered, well-known RSC actor performing like a naively exuberant, unexperienced teenager straight out of acting-school (and don't tell me that's what Shakespeare's Hamlet is - he is anything but). Unfortunately, it seems that the word 'subtle' is not in Slinger's vocabulary. 

OK, so enough about Slinger (although I could say more), and onto Hamlet's other problems.

• The staging was confused, and quite frankly, ridiculous. Although I appreciate that the RSC is always striving to do new, exciting things with their sets, here they have massively overreached. The stage is a confusing conglomeration of high-school gymnasium, old-fashioned Scottish country-pile (see James Bond's family home, in Skyfall), littered with incipient fencing paraphernalia. There are simply too many 'themes' in conflict here, and, whats worse, none of them are remotely interesting/engaging/titillating. If anything, the play would be better suited to a simple, blank stage: at least then it would avoid the criticism of being confused/amateur in design.  (A couple of extra notes on staging. The stage was littered with skulls - I assume to foreshadow Hamlet's famous 'Yorick' speech, but which actually debase it. In addition, the 'movers' took far too long to clear away the stage in preparation for the graveyard scene, totally distracting the audience from Hamlet and Horatio's conversation). 
• Hand-in-hand with staging, naturally, goes costume. Again, there seems to be no consistent theme (or even thought) behind the costumes: Hamlet appears wearing a suit (circa 1950's), then time-travels back to a doublet and hose, before donning an absurd 'modern-day' hooded parka and jeans in the closing scene. Horatio and Ophelia suffer with the trials of dodgy knit-wear, meanwhile Claudius, the Queen, and their court are attired in a similarly inexplicable/clashing array of old-world fashion, 'modern' attire and fencing vizors. Yes, Hamlet is a play that thrives on the inherent inconsistencies and inconstancies of life, human psychology and physiology - but the RSC's costume choices seem more like an un-planned, accidental menagerie than a carefully-coordinated, intentional, thematic jumbling. 
• A flaw I have touched upon, but find too ridiculous to merit discussion is the 'fencing' dimension of this production. It is unnecessary, un-textual, unriveting and - and this is perhaps the most offensive aspect of the whole sodding conundrum - isn't even executed well. Hamlet may have been a skilled swordsman - but these actors are not. The average theatre-goer in 2013 is sophisticated enough to appreciate this aspect of Hamlet's character without having it literally (and poorly) rammed in front of his eyes. 
• I found Ophelia ill-cast and ill-concieved. I can see that Farr was attempting to make more out of her character, but really, in Shakespeare's text and in almost every other production of Hamlet, she is on the periphery. Hamlet has dimensions of 'love', yes, but it is not a 'love story'. Our focus  is meant to be on Hamlet alone, which is why his relationship with Ophelia is largely left unwritten/open to the imagination. Forgive me for sounding anti-feminist, but Ophelia is an unimportant antecedent. If any female character is interesting in Hamlet, it is Gertrude: the character whose decision to marry her husband's brother tears the rug from under Hamlet, and corrupts the very fabric of the play's moral universe (On that point, Charlotte Cornwell's Gertude was bland, unmemorable, and dire: when, in the play, she is actually a rather interesting, ambiguous paradox of a woman. I do concede, however, that her performance was not exactly helped by having Mr. Over-actor - Slinger - as her counterpart, who prevented her from getting a word in edgeways, anyway). On a different note, Ophelia's eventual 'madness' was as unconvincing as Slinger's, and her smearing blood on Claudius and Gertude etc. a trivial, predictable motif - which crowned my dislike for Pippa Nixon's performance. *also, extremely superficially, I did not like her hair. Where are the famous locks intwined with flowers and weeds that drag her to her watery-grave - WHERE?!

• Hamlet is long, yes, but at four hours (including interval) the RSC's production was looong (with extra 'o's'). Given, Farr may have felt that he wanted to give the play its full-run, and allow all of Shakespeare's verse to be included - but there were scenes which were tedious and un-engaging, and could have benefited from being shortened. Although I largely believe in the 'sanctity' of the written text, it is natural and necessary that a literary piece should be formally (as opposed to thematically) modified and altered to fit its new, dramatic context. I read recently that Renaissance theatre goers were extremely adept listeners, and would sit through a four-hour performance of Hamlet with no qualms/discomfort. It is a lamentable, but real fact that modern audiences do not posses this astonishing faculty. In order to keep engaging audiences with albeit, the same material of the Renaissance, contemporary directors must at least attempt to make that material palatable and enjoyable for them. I am sad to say that if this was my first experience of professional theatre (as I suspect it was for some of the 14/15 y/o's sat in front of me) I would be unlikely to return. * NB I am not suggesting a dulling-down/de-elevation/modernisation of the text (these sorts of productions are repugnant) - my suggestions are merely in a formal sense. 
• The final scene was inexplicably poorly acted.
• As the play ends, a fire alarm goes off and sprinklers flood the stage. Why was this necessary? The audience were not surprised, taken-aback, or even momentarily affected by this (shoddy, half-hearted) 'spectacle': in my mind, the only thing it achieved was making Ophelia's white dress extremely dirty - the RSC's dry-cleaning bill is going to be extortionate by the end of the play's run. 

Despite my criticism there are a few - sparse - parts/factors of the RSC's Hamlet that I genuinely enjoyed. 

•  I thought Robin Soans was an excellent Polonious. He exquisitely portrayed all of Polonious' comic idisyncracies: from his inclination for proverbs (many of which have now entered common speech), his pompous verboseness, his sycophantic manouvers, and his insuppressible dislike for Hamlet. Soans pulled-off the character perfectly, and shone as, arguably, the most experienced and well-suited to his role. 
• The dumb-play was extremely engaging, combining humour and dark-tragedy. The use of costumes/setting that would have furnished an actual dumb-show in the Renaissance conveyed the same sense of jeopardy and titillation Hamlet's first audiences would have undoubtedly felt: as they watched Claudius, watching the play of himself. There was menace, there was sexual-innuendo, there was unease and enjoyment: in this brief dumb-show Farr manages to engage and amuse the audience wholly, when in the actual theatrical performance - of which the dumb-show is a mere part - he only half-captivates them, and merely sporadically amuses them. 

Evidently, as I warned you at before beginning, my criticisms vastly outnumber my praises. Overall, I feel extremely let down by the RSC: I expected an excellent performance of one of my favourite Shakespeare plays, what I got was a paltry 'show' of amateur dramatics, shoddy staging and sore-eyes from watching such a dull play for so long. I have booked tickets for a dramatic production of Venus and Adonis at Shakespeare's Globe theatre in May - I can only hope that it will outshine Hamlet, although that should not be too difficult. 

JEM. 

Helicon blog links!

If you are interested in creative arts, take a look at the Helicon magazine blog! http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk

Helicon is the University of Bristol's student-run creative arts magazine, and I'm one of the prose editors. It is a fabulous publication! We have three paper magazines published every year; each issue has a different theme, the last one was 'Journey' and our current theme is 'Perception'. We also have a year-round blog which is regularly updated with interesting posts. Prose, poetry, art, photography and music - its all there: so take a look!

If you'd like to read the things I have written personally, here are some links to my posts - but do take a general look, as there's always something going on!

Read about Bryan Lewis Saunders, the artist who took 25 different drugs to produce 25 fascinating self-portraits: http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/25-drugs-25-days.html

Or how about Louis Wain, the artist who suffered with Schizophrenia, and who's work reflects his affliction: http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/louis-wain-effects-of-schizophrenia-on.html

Have a penchant for Salvador Dali? http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/salvador-dali.html

Narrative's of perception: http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/if-doors-of-perception-were-cleansed.html

Daniel Richter's amazing art: http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/daniel-richter.html

Havisham! http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/i-want-diversion-and-i-have-done-with.html

A little bit of Sexton's poetry: http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/between-seasons.html

Nobel prize for literature winning Mo Yan: http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/mo-yan.html

Why do poets love bees?! http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/the-buzz-word.html

A Clockwork Orange's unique language: http://heliconbristol.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/a-clockwork-orange-zammechat.html


Happy Reading!

Flight: a journey to honesty.

Last night I watched 'Flight', starring Denzel Washington and directed by Robert Zemeckis. I was initially apprehensive about the film, as plane-crash films are not my favourite: however, I was pleasantly surprised. 

The film opens with Washington (Whip) waking up after a heavy night of drinking, drugs, and sex with a flight-attendant. He swigs beer and snorts cocaine, and then flies a plane. He consumes three small bottles of vodka whilst in air. Due to turbulent weather and faulty mechanics, the plane heads into a nose-dive. Whip (instructing his co-pilot and a flight attendant) flies the plane into an inverted position allowing it to glide to a (relatively) safe landing: only 6 lives are lost in the crash. 

Notwithstanding the palpable tension and jeopardy of this scene, the crash is -paradoxically - 'Flight's least compelling moment. The real intrigue is in the fall-out of the disaster. 

When released from hospital, Whip retreats to his grandfather's abandoned house. He scours the house, pouring away bottle after bottle of alcohol, discarding marijuana: razing the vicinity of the substances which he depended upon before the crash. However, when he meets with an attorney and discovers that a toxicology report evidences the substances in his blood on the flight, and could lead to four life sentences for manslaughter: he returns to the bottle. 

Zemeckis's focus now shifts to the mental and emotional affliction of substance-addiction. As I watched the ensuing scenes, I was uncannily reminded of the short-stories of one of my favourite writers - definitely my favourite American writer - Raymond Carver. Carver's stories often deal with the difficult subject of alcohol-addition. His style is all-inclusive, tackling everything from marital breakdowns, to ear-infections: documenting the ways in which alcoholism affects a sufferers ability to cope with the monumental and the mundane. This inclusiveness is reflected in Gatins's screenplay; we see shots of Whip struggling to change the television-channel, or rise from his chair - and equally, his inability to communicate with his ex-wife or forge a proper relationship with his son. 

No matter where Whip is, or what he's doing - there is always alcohol paraphernalia present. Zemeckis insistently and deftly insures alcohol is always in the shot, always the focal point; as Whip goes to rescue Nicole (his love-interest) from her abusive landlord, he climbs the stairs beer-can in one hand walking stick in the other, wrestles him from her beer-can still in hand. When paying the landlord, he needs two hands to access his wallet - but tucks the can under his chin rather than relinquish it. He drives Nicole home, can in hand; receives a massage, bottle in hand; fills plane-oil [?!], accompanied by a bottle (you get the picture). Arguably, this could all be crafty product-placement, but I appreciate the incredibly subtle way in which Zemeckis highlights Whip's affliction: it is a cinematic trick that unconsciously insinuates the reality of Whip's addiction into the viewers consciousness. No matter how many times he vehemently, vocally denies his problem, the enumerated cans and bottles continue to litter each scenes, taciturnly filling-up the screen: material, tangible proof of a notoriously intangible, immaterial disease. 

Whip's relationship with Nicole is also an interesting element of the film. Nicole is a heroin addict - yet she, unlike Whip, recognises and accepts her addiction (there's no way you can ignore it, really). The scene where Nicole confronts Whip about his alcoholism is emotionally-charged and compelling: he says she can't talk, considering her own problems, and she says, at least she's honest about them. This introduces some fascinating paradoxes; is accepting a problem - as the old cliche says - half way to solving in it? what, on the scale of addiction, is worse: heroin addiction, or alcoholism? what is the more ethical/honest/healthy way to fund said addiction (if 'healthy' is even an appropriate term to use here): tenuously up-keeping a dangerous, but glamorous high-profile career, or drifting through dead-end jobs, pornography and prostitution? Gatins and Zemeckis refuse to show sympathy on either side, or answer these questions: but they certainly raise them, and they hang in the air, poised and potent. 

The most poignant scene of the film (tenser even than the high-octane plan-crash) is when Whip is left in a hotel-room, before his hearing. All alcohol has been removed from his room, he has been sober for eight days, and has nothing to do but wait until morning and try and sleep. He shaves, he eats, watches television. These mundane actions knowingly build up to the scenes climax (and seem to reflect the actions of many of Carver's characters, who take special care over their day-to-day actions, in order to try and relieve and redirect some of the pressure of their very un-ordinary, life-altering afflictions). As he tries to sleep, he hears a knocking noise. It is the door of the adjoining room. The room is open. The mini-bar is full. As we take stock of the rows and rows of tiny, glimmering bottles - tantalisingly refracted and infinitely multiplied by the mirrored panels of the fridge - along with Whip, the audience feels the full impact of the temptation that confronts him. One could almost, tangibly reach out and take a bottle. And that is what Whip does: smelling it, before replacing it, and closing the fridge's door. The audience feels an - albeit brief - sense of victory on Whip's behalf. However, I couldn't help but think, in that split-second, that his abstinence was disingenuous or half-hearted (fully recovered alcoholics do not, or should not at least, count down the minutes since their last drink, nor is recovery realistically viable in a mere eight days). As we see a close-up of Whip's hand quickly, and confidently grab the bottle, and hear the metallic clink of glass departing from the granite worktop resonate throughout the movie-theatre, the audience realises the Whip's demons remain unvanquished: they were simply hovering in the recesses of the darkened room. 

There is undeniable comedy in the scenes of the following morning, as the officials struggle to prepare a horrendously drunk Whip for his public appearance, drafting in his drug-dealer to provide a line of cocaine to perk him up. Whip approaches the hearing with a calm confidence (brought about by the toxic cocktail he so recently consumed), yet it off-put by a small-child in the elevator, penetrating his facade with an innocent - but knowing - gaze, as Whip wipes dregs of cocaine from his nose. His confidence resumes at the hearing, when his suspicions about the plane's poor state are confirmed (it was always going to fall from the sky), and when his toxicology report is deemed void as a result of some crafty manoeuvres by his lawyer.

Yet, as the three errant vodka bottles (which only crew would have access to) are brought to his attention, Whip is torn. He has the perfect get-out-clause: the deceased flight-attendant (who he was sleeping with) had alcohol in her system, and was a documented alcoholic. Here, the major moral dilemma of the film emerges: do you lie to preserve your facade - to keep your wings, stay out of jail, avoid infamy, maintain the praise of the multitude, or tell the truth, to save your life - that which is unseen: your conscience, your moral integrity, your mental health. Whip chooses the latter: but it is not an obvious choice. We have watched him through the whole film, and his choices are - in the large part - wrong, and immoral: he regularly delights in getting off scott-free. Yet, his decision to do the right thing now doesn't seem incongruous, it is as if, as he says, he has 'reached [his] maximum limit of lies'. We see, not a man broken, but a man realising the limit of his capacity for wrongdoing: a man who, like a lot closeted alcoholics, can still ostensibly function and operate in society (can operate a plane, can save all the people on board from certain death) yet, has become incapable of operating morally. Importantly, Whip realises and recognises this incapacity, and can begin to recover from a disaster infinitely more sustained and affecting than a large, explosive plane crash (that's merely a blip) - can recover from the slowly simmering, everyday disaster that is alcoholism and the life of an alcoholic. 

As the film closes, the real drama of the performance resonates. Perhaps it is not the memorable, climactic moments in life which are the most affecting - but the banal: especially when the banal moments are insistently collocated with a disease like alcoholism. Like Carver's short-stories, 'Flight' investigates the human-drama of affliction, the intimate failure and alterations of a very personal addiction. Underneath the glamour of every high-functioning pilot and his gold-buttoned uniform there is, very possibly, a concealed, yet rampant disorder: alcoholism, drug-addiction, etc. - take your pick. 

Lena Dunham: voice of 2013? But for what reason?

I live in the UK, and obviously, we're behind slightly on all HBO's excellent shows (GOT series 3, cannot wait!), so I didn't get into the GIRLS hype 'till late last year: but I'm glad I did.

From the first episode of the first series, I was amazed and perplexed by Hannah. As an English student, wondering what I'm going to do with my degree/life and when I'm eventually going to have to pay my own way, I felt like everything Hannah said in that first episode applied to me. As the series progressed I also felt like Hannah's failed love-life resonated with mine: we've all been the over-zealous  Hannah to a passive, uninterested Adam.

However, this series, the tone of GIRLS changed. At first glimpse Hannah had been the hopeless, hapless, slightly irritating twenty-something we could empathise, laugh and cry with. Now, largely, I vehemently dislike Hannah; I find her desperate, self-indulgent, narcissistic, a bad friend, and frankly have little sympathy for her OCD (a fissure that seemingly came out of nowhere, and is rather over-done and cliched). At first, I though Dunham was helping the feminist cause (if that's even a viable/ tangible thing anymore); by being comfortable with her body, outspoken, inappropriate, having Marnie 'throw' an abortion for Jessa: ultimately, projecting four feisty (if not always likeable) women onto our screens and providing them with more interesting, complex and frankly realer back-stories than - this one likes shoes, this one's a man-eater (SATC, I'm looking at you!).

Yet, as I've begun to contemplate my strange change of heart, I've started to think that it's all part of Lena Dunham's master plan. What she aims for - if I've interpreted her correctly, as I feel I have - is ambiguity. Dunham isn't always trying to redraw the lines: she's asking, deftly probing and interrogating, where those lines stand - and what possible potential for movement there might be. 

Here's the break-down of my theory.

1. One of Hannah's defining characteristics is bodily self-confidence: although she is said to have been uncomfortable with her body in high school, hence the tattoos [Dunham's own comfortableness with her body, and willingness to have it screened is hardly surprising - just look at her mother's art!]. Hannah's almost constant nakedness has, to some extent, been met with positivity; some have hailed her as an inspiration for the generation, a forerunner in the fight against eating disorders and a refreshingly real alternative to magazine models, a new, original voice saying 'yes this not particularly beautiful girl can nab an attractive doctor for a weekend of uninhibited sex'. Others have been less enthusiastic, and Dunham has gathered a wide following of trolls on the internet, who enjoy scrutinising her body. Yet, arguably, this terse conflict is exactly what Dunham wants. She confidently asks, when others have approached with caution - what is the definition of beauty in 2013? does society want us to be confident in our bodies - yet keep that confidence to ourselves? what's stronger, our aversion to eating-disorders, or obesity? is playing ping-pong topless a beautiful, or repulsive sight? Dunham is no idiot, when she stripped down for the small-screen she knew her body would polarise opinion, and these are the questions - when she wore a string-vest for an entire show, or fainted in the shower - that she wanted us to ask.
2. Another question, inextricably bound with the last: where is the line between self-confidence, and gratuitous self-exposure? I begun by admiring Dunham's bravery, yet now, more often than not, feel that her nudity is unnecessary and often ridiculous. 
3. Hannah is, as I've noted - extremely outspoken. Yet, there are times when her speech is uncomfortable, and annoying (I'm thinking, for example of the episode where she spends the weekend with Joshua). Here, people have argued that Joshua is intimidated by a strong, independent woman who speaks her mind. I think it is far more complex than that: Dunham tests the boundaries between being 'outspoken' and speaking too much; sharing your mind, and offloading; opening yourself to another person, and gratuitously exposing yourself (Dunham is all about exposure); knowing what you want and who you are, and obliterating the other person in the process: making them the insignificant, silent, negated inter-locuter while you conduct your very vocal personal pity-party. My relationship with Hannah is always liminal: I occasionally appreciate what she says, but feel that the large part of her dialogue is self-indulgent drivel ~ do we want to hear other people, or only ourselves?
4. GIRLS is, at times, intensely funny: usually in a dark, scurrilous way rather than 'ha ha' hilarious. Yet, there are times when that comedy verges on the disturbing. For example, the aforementioned 'abortion' shower. I am firmly, immovably, intrinsically pro-choice. However, I still found a twinge of repulsion to hear abortion being discussed in such a nonchalant manner. A substantial group of my friends who are pro-choice: yet, I would never imagine that we would discuss what is in reality an extremely grave, sensitive issue, with such casual expression ~ again, I hasten to say: this is the point. Are these girls refreshingly, wholly liberated - the epoch and definitive leaders of modern-day feminism. Or, are they disconcertingly naive, chillingly desensitised to the reality of abortion, to the inherent psychological and social repercussions it has: are they, really, dis-morphed and mutated followers of a (and I say this warily, knowing that it doesn't quite and never will express exactly what I mean) over-liberated American female population. Dunham lights this taper.
5. And finally, I come to the most evocative and intense antithesis explored in GIRLS: where is the line between sex, and rape. In the most recent episode shown in the UK, we see Adam direct Natalia to crawl on all-fours to his bedroom; he then has sex with her from behind, whilst asking her if she likes it, and ejaculates on her - the scene ends with the camera's focus on Natalia's grimacing, repulsed face and the words 'I'm not sure if I liked that'. ~ what is it about this powerful scene that has set the internet alight?

• Firstly, I want to establish that this scene is - for a number of reasons - my favourite in GIRLS.
• Avid GIRLS followers, arguably, will have known that Adam and Natalia's relationship could not last: that there is a naturally darker aspect to Adam's persona which he had to repress when he was with her. 
• Yet - arguably - no one could not have envisioned that it would end this way. 
• Earlier in this episode we had seen Charlie, finally, take charge with Marnie - he grabs her and they have sex in an extremely passionate, consensual way. Dunham prepares something to contrast the later sex-scene with: an example of 'right' sexual-conduct. 
• As the focus comes to Adam and Natalia, her disgust is almost palpable as she surveys Adam's cluttered, disorganised flat (or should I say hovel). ~ the repressed disgust foreshadows Natalia's soon unrepressed disgust.
• He asks her if that changes her opinion of him: she says no - but one can't help but think that she doesn't quite understand the question.
• Adam commands her to crawl to the bedroom, she is unwilling. At this stage, the tone in his voice is verging on menacing, yet still controlled enough to suggest that this could just be a normal - if slightly strange - sex game. 
• Now, it is important to stress that we are aware of Adam's strange sexual fantasies. This is not new: and, importantly, at the start of their relationship, Hannah was equally as wary of Adam as Natalia is now, before gradually becoming sensitised and relaxed: and, to a large extent, adopting his peculiar border-line unhealthy attitude towards sex - see the scene when she returns home and has sex with the pharmacist, and disturbs him with her disconcerting dirty-talk. 
• So, at this stage, Dunham is still within the boundaries of what (naturally, may disturb us about Adam), but is an intrinsic part of his character. 
• This context infects our interpretation of what happens next. I felt a striking ambiguity as Adam scoops Natalia up and sex with her. I was torn between seeing this as a normal - albeit aggressive - sex-scene, and noting the fear and disgust on her face. I simultaneously felt annoyance and sympathy for her: I was irritated because I instantly thought 'just tell him to get off, tell him to stop' and sympathetic because I appreciated that she was in a subjugated state - physically and mentally less powerful than Adam. Why did I feel these conflicting emotions? This is the clincher - this is Dunham's expertise at play - I had been in this situation. The initial, harmless 'oh my god I'm Hannah, what am I going to do with my life' that I felt in the first episode of the first series became for me - and I hope, for many other women - 'oh my god, I am Natalia, and what am I, or society, or anyone going to do about that: and what could they possibly do?'
• As Natalia lies there while Adam climaxes, pulling her own dress down to save it from a stain - the passive object of his lust - the 'feminist' issue (an issue I struggle to gage my own response to, on a daily basis) rears its ugly head. 
• The sex-scene becomes SO MUCH MORE; an interrogation into gender-politics; an identification of the continued enthralment of women in the sexual arena; an examination of the phrase 'healthy sexual behaviour'; a probing of the line between consent, and rape. 
• (NB: I like that HBO have refused to define the scene (they have yet to publicly say its a sex-scene or a rape-scene. I love that: because that's the point in it ~ we just don't know). 
• Dunham - with skill, panache and confidence - manages to, in what first seemed to be a cool, but benign 'girly' show, get the world thinking about the inherently complicated, undefined, ungovernable nature of sexual conflict. I'm going to sound all pretentious here, but I've recently finished an essay focussing on sexual desire in Ovid; I don't believe that it is an over-elevation to say that I see Ovid's insistently questioning manner in Dunham. The questions his myths ask - is the co-mingling of female and male (see Hermaphroditus) beautiful or repulsive; why can't a woman be the aggressive wooer (see Venus and Adonis); and where is the boundary between intense sexual pursuit and rape (see Daphne and Apollo) - are uncannily regenerated in Dunham's art (and I do call it art, it is art). For both Ovid and Dunham the key word is ambivalence.

Bernini's Daphne and Apollo

I might not always like Lena Dunham: but I admire what she has done, is doing, and hopefully will continue to do. 

'The Glass Menagerie' : 'a deeply intimate, affecting piece of drama' *****

The Falstaff Society's recent production of Tennessee Williams' 'The Glass Menagerie' was simply exquisite. 'The Glass Menagerie' tells the story of Amanda Wingfield, a faded Southern belle, and her two 'dysfunctional' children, who struggle to get by after being abandoned by their father. Tom works at a warehouse by day, but is a poet at heart; he craves adventure and excitement, which he attempts to inject into his stultifying daily routine through incessant late-night trips to the movie theatre. Laura, crippled by a childhood illness, has an 'inferiority complex', and concurrently actively excludes herself from society, choosing to remain indoors and play old phonograph records and cultivate her 'Glass Menagerie': a collection of tiny glass animals. 

Performed in the Alma Tavern, a small, intimate location, the set was sparse; however, as the action unfolded the sparsity of the set became fundamental, offsetting the passion of the action, and the poetry of Tom's soliloquies. 

Ed Phillips embodied Tom perfectly, combining wry humour with a subtle, attractive American twang. He accurately portrays the frustration of a creative man confined by the harsh necessity of reality, in thrall to the invisible, yet un-ignorable social maxims of the sanctity of 'duty' and 'family'; his wistful speeches convey a fervent longing for adventure and titillation, superseding the stultifying drudgery of everyday life. Phillips commanded the stage beautifully, confidently projecting his voice during his soliloquies, and conveying similar strength when interacting with the other characters; Tom's exchanges with his mother were particularly compelling, presenting the tension between old-world convention and new American optimism, paling authority and aspirational youth.  

Letty Thomas as Amanda was similarly wonderfully cast. 'The Glass Menagerie' thrives as much on what does not happen as what does; Amanda's nostalgic, fragmented memories of her long-passed girlhood - the 'seventeen Gentlemen callers' at her door, the accommodating slaves, the 'Southern hospitality' - conveyed a longing which uncannily parallels that of her sons: while Tom hungers for a rich, vibrant future, she struggles to cling to a hazy simulacrum of former glory. 

Laura is an complex, inexplicable entity. Alice Kirk did a fabulous job of subtly communicating both the physical defects, and the debilitating internal monsters which plague Laura's life, inhibiting her potential to flourish. Her strange idiosyncrasy of obsessively playing with and humanizing her glass ornament collection is another mutation of the desperate longing that hampers her mother and brother; projecting one's affections onto inanimate objects is simply another form of escapism - like going to the movie theatre, or obsessing over gentlemen callers - only this escape is to the internal recesses of the imagination. 

Oliver Bahbout as 'freckles' or Jim O'Connor, burst onto the scene with incongruous optimism. Bahbout excellently injected a typically, undeniably American positivism that harshly jarred with the sensitive, delicate internal struggles we had seen develop so fully in each of the characters throughout the first half of the play. His scene with Laura really was a fascinating, compelling piece of drama; it presented the clash of the introvert and extrovert, the pessimist and optimist, the socially-stunted and the socially-inflated persona. 'Freckles' moralizing seemed - as it should seem - like a violation of Laura's individuality, and I strangely found myself willing her to resist his advances and his pompous assumption that 'public speaking' is the future of America: I wished her to be free from her private demons, but not via the methods O'Connor proposes. 

'The Glass Menagerie' was a deeply intimate, affecting piece of drama, presenting a wonderfully intricate spectrum of interweaving, inter-lapping, yet entirely distinct psychologies. In a play of only four characters, each could have an entire two hours devoted to their particular stories, and still keep an audience wholly in rapture. 

Particular credit must go to the play's directors, Maureen Lennon and Theo Scholefield, who excellently transformed the raw material of Williams's already rich script into an unforgettable theatrical performance, with undeniable skill and economy. 

Undoubtedly a five star production. *****

''Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.'' (1.1, Tom).