Book review

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead was the answer to a question on University Challenge last month – and that was enough of a reminder that I absolutely loved this play and that I ought to revisit it, especially as I had promised myself that I would read more plays this year. I warmed up by first watching the 1990 Stoppard written and directed version of the play on YouTube. This production took some liberties with the script, but no harm done and I returned to the text looking forward to Stoppard’s wordplay, wit, and intelligence. And I am pleased to say I was not disappointed.

What is that I love about this play so much? First and foremost it’s the simple brilliance of the whole conceit. Telling the story of two minor characters who feature in Hamlet with not much more than walk-on parts, trying to understand their motivation, to explain how they come to betray their childhood friend, as well as providing a drama in its own right throws new light on Hamlet itself. We see key sections of the play in a totally fresh way. Take for example the scene where R&G are trying to work out why Hamlet is so out of sorts. In asking for their help Claudius says

“Something have you heard
Of Hamlet’s transformation, so call it,
Sith nor th’exterior nor inward man
Resembles that it was. What it should be,
More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him,
So much from th’understanding of himself,
I cannot dream of.”

R&G chew this over and come to the following conclusion:

ROS: “To sum up: your father, whom you love, dies, you are his heir, you come back to find that hardly was the corpse cold before his young brother popped on to his throne and into his sheets, thereby offending both legal and natural practice. Now, why exactly you behaving in this extraordinary manner?”

Hamlet is such an extraordinarily strong play that it can survive being carved apart like this and still emerge the stronger. You don’t need an intimate knowledge of Hamlet to appreciate R&G though. Some of the humour and in particular the clowning in the play is brilliantly, effortlessly, done.

“What’s the first thing you remember?”

“No, it’s no good, it’s gone.”

I haven’t indicated in the quote above who says what line because the confusion between the characters’ identities – which is Rosencrantz and which Guildenstern – is one of the many running gaps through the play, picking up on hints in the original text that this was Shakespeare’s intention. Of course the characters are differentiated – Rosencrantz is consistently the more stupid and innocent of the two – but their often muddled identities underlines the point that their lives are of such little value to Hamlet, to Claudius, and to Shakespeare.

The play obviously owes a debt to Waiting for Godot – two characters on an almost bare stage passing time waiting for something to happen. Beckett breaks the tension with the arrival of Pozzo and Lucky; Stoppard achieves the same effect with the larger scale arrival of the players. These are another set of characters with small (but critical) parts in Hamlet given expanded roles here. Stoppard speculates on the lives of itinerant players struggling through hard times and hints at their having to resort to prostitution. It’s never said explicitly but these scenes always make me think that Stoppard was commenting on Shakespeare’s life as a player prior to his writing taking off, especially during the plague years when the company would need to go on the road to stay in business. Stoppard sees this as a hard life, which no doubt it was. Despite these hardships the players retain a dignity and pride in their performances.

Between their brief appearances in the main play, off-stage as it were, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern find ways to pass the time. When the play opens they are playing heads or tail. Guildenstern tosses a coin; Rosencrantz wins if it is heads, which it is every time:

GUIL spins. ROS studies coin.
ROS: Heads.
(He picks it up and puts it in his money bag. The process is repeated.)
Heads.
(Again.)
ROS: Heads.
(Again.)
Heads.
(Again.)
Heads.
GUIL (flipping a coin): There is an art to the building up of suspense.

(This is one of many artful breaches of the fourth wall that greatly add to the humour of the play).

As the run of heads continues improbably into three figures, Rosencrantz is simply delighted with his run of good luck, but Guildenstern becomes increasingly troubled by the implications of what is happening. It becomes an existential threat to his existence and sense of self:

GUIL: It must be indicative of something, besides the redistribution of wealth. (He muses.) List of possible explanations. One: I’m willing it. Inside where nothing shows, I’m the essence of a man spinning double-headed coins, and betting against himself in private atonement for an unremembered past. (He spins a coin at ROS.)
ROS: Heads.
GUIL: Two: time has stopped dead, and a single experience of one coin being spun once has been repeated ninety times… (He flips a coin, looks at it, tosses it to ROS.) On the whole, doubtful. Three: divine intervention, that is to say, a good turn from above concerning him, cf. children of Israel, or retribution from above concerning me, cf. Lot’s wife. Four: a spectacular vindication of the principle that each individual coin spun individually (he spins one) is as likely to come down heads as tails and therefore should cause no surprise that each individual time it does. (It does. He tosses it to ROS.)

This scene is a tour de force of writing, a spectacular piece of craftsmanship which it must be a delight to perform. Stoppard is playing lightly with ideas of determinism and fate. This combination of light comedic touches with the discussion of philosophical ideas – why are we here, is there some force determining our fate or is the world just random? – is an incredibly difficult tightrope to walk, but Stoppard pulls it off with apparent ease.

“A weaker man might be moved to re-examine his faith, if in nothing else at least in the law of probability”

I recognise this has become more of an appreciation than a review, but this is a great play that remains fresh and vibrant. It doesn’t really need a ‘what happens’ review because the clue is in the title! Stoppard went on to write plays that were more successful and more critically lauded, but I don’t think he wrote anything better.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard, 1966

Aside
Book review

Nutshell, by Ian McEwan

I am not going to review this novel. If you want to read an intelligent, thoughtful if slightly showy-offy review, try this or this even more florid review by Adam Mars Jones. This blog is a reading diary (hence the recent absence of content) where I record my impressions of the books I read. Usually these look at first glance quite similar to reviews, without the clarity of expression or depth of analysis you might otherwise expect.Nutshell

‘Nutshell’ is a curious, whimsical novel. In the last few years the Hogarth Press has been commissioning authors to write a series of novels re-imaging Shakespeare’s plays, and I thought at first that ‘Nutshell’ was a part of or inspired by this series. It appears not, it is a solo, voluntary effort.

In a nutshell, in ‘Nutshell’ McEwan takes the themes and ideas of Hamlet, and updates them to the present day. Hamlet is played by not a moody young prince, but an about to be born foetus. His mother and her brother in law lover are planning to murder his father. The unnamed and apparently unwanted baby is a passive observer of events, with much energy expended on maintaining the conceit that he can detect what is going on in the outside world through hearing, taste, and a fair amount of guesswork.

McEwan’s fierce dazzling intelligence shines through this short novel. It has an extraordinary breadth, ranging through many different genres, least successfully crime (the resolution whereby the lovers are caught by the dogged but uninspired police is appallingly clumsy). Contemporary politics, the Royal family, Brexit, Trump, are all referenced and swiftly disposed of for the more substantial feasts of philosophy, literary criticism, and absurd levels of sophistication in wine-appreciation (“No one seems to want to read aloud the label so I’m forced to make a guess, and hazard an Echézeaux Grand Cru. Put … a gun to my head to name the domaine, I would blurt out la Romanée-Conti, for the spicy cassis and black cherry alone. The hint of violets and fine tannins suggest that lazy, clement summer of 2005, untainted by heatwaves, though a teasing, next-room aroma of mocha, as well as more proximal black-skinned banana, summon Jean Grivot’s domaine in 2009”)

There is, inevitably, a ‘but’ coming. More precisely two. The first is something that seems to have only been an issue for me, and that is that the narrator character, an extraordinarily erudite and cultured baby, reminded me unavoidably of Stewie from ‘Family Guy’. Once that narrative voice got in my head that was it. Stewie, as I shall now call him, channels Jacob Rees Mogg in his social conservatism, (or is this McEwan letting loose his inner fogey?):

A strange mood has seized the almost-educated young. …A social-media site famously proposes seventy-one gender options – neutrois, two spirit, bigender…any colour you like, Mr Ford. …I declare my undeniable feeling for who I am. If I turn out to be white, I may identify as black. And vice versa. I may announce myself as disabled, or disabled in context. If my identity is that of a believer, I’m easily wounded, my flesh torn to bleeding by any questioning of my faith. Offended, I enter a state of grace. Should inconvenient opinions hover near me like fallen angels or evil djinn (a mile being too near), I’ll be in need of the special campus safe room equipped with Play-Doh and looped footage of gambolling puppies. Ah, the intellectual life! I may need advance warning if upsetting books or ideas threaten my very being by coming too close, breathing on my face, my brain, like unwholesome drugs.

The more serious issue is that McEwan is demonstrably better than this. For him to be writing a comedic novel about a ham(let)-fisted murder with a sub-Colombo style solution, constructed however cleverly around the scaffolding of the plot of Hamlet, seems such a waste of his energies and talents, almost like an academic exercise (“Rewrite Hamlet as a comic novel from the perspective of Hamlet as a foetus. No more than 200 pages, by Friday”). The jokes about the discomfort of a foetus being a few inches away from his uncle’s penis, for example, were obvious and clumsy. The novel’s anachronistic tone troubled reviewers (see for example the LRB review referenced earlier) but I think McEwan just about gets away with it, probably because the majority of his readers will share a generation with him, if not a world view.

At a shade under 200 pages, ‘Nutshell’ is an easy read with some jokes that make you chuckle, and some stunningly impressive prose. But it is not McEwan at his best, not by a long distance.

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