English crime fiction author, Milly Reynolds celebrates England’s national day, which, rather conveniently also happens to be Shakespeare’s birthday.
Milly’s books simply could not be more English!
So, to anyone who thinks about England, has English roots, or who would like to recognise the positive side of this small country, which has contributed so much to the world – have a great day!
I’m sorry, but I think you’re in my seat. OK, let’s
have a look at your ticket. Oh yes, that’s it, you
need to move along one. Thanks very much,
no harm done.
Ah, looks like it might be a full house tonight.
Maybe it’s the intrigue surrounding the play.
What do I mean? Well, you know – Cardenio,
and all that. One of his supposed ‘missing’ plays.
Apocrypha, I believe that’s the right term,
although that word always sounds so medicinal
to me! Anyhow, what I mean is, it all seems a
little too suspect, if you want my opinion,
something they’ve cobbled together from
various sources, though I’m sure it will be
enjoyable all the same. Better than reading Don
Quixote again, at any rate! What was that? You
think it is pretty close to the original? Right. Well,
we will see. I mean, who among us has read the
original? Oh, I see. Mn.
But then of course, there are still those who
believe he never wrote any of those plays.
And you must admit, you can see where
they’re coming from, can’t you? Well, he was,
after all, relatively uneducated, say compared
to Fletcher, even Ben Jonson. Could he really
have written Hamlet or King Lear, or described
places like Italy so well without ever setting
foot there? I have my doubts.
I say, are you feeling alright? You’re looking a
little off colour.
Actually, if you don’t mind me asking, have I
seen you here before? Maybe in town
somewhere. I thought so! I do apologise if I’m
staring but there’s something about your face,
your eyes. That hairline. And the beard. Wait!
Do you know, you’re the spitting image of that
portrait of… they found in Corpus Christi…
* some time ago we went to see the play Cardenio at Stratford, which was based on parts of a play which may have been written by Shakespeare, which itself was based on Cervantes’ Don Quixote. I imagined myself in the theatre talking to the ghost of Christopher Marlowe, who some believe to be the real Shakespeare. Complicated, it is! But then real history always is, not like the myth that we are presented with most of the time at school and elsewhere…
“Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget;
For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.”
from ‘The Secret People’ by G. K. Chesterton
The Country
It’s all around them, though they never see it,
like Jesus said about the Kingdom of Heaven.
Some, even a poet, say it cannot be defined,
even though they are immersed in it,
like fishes swimming blind to the sea.
They take it for granted, spurn it,
but they are born in it and nurtured by it,
educated and employed by it,
and then nursed to the very end.
They say the language is not ours,
that it belongs to the world,
or to the oppressed,
to anyone with a cause
except our own.
Countless cocks have crowed,
but each time its existence is denied,
its very future put up for discussion
by people who owe it everything –
yet who would rather die than accept it
for what it is.
*** For Saint George’s Day on April 23, patron Saint of England (and other places) for around 700 years, at least. William Shakespeare (1564-1616), a candidate surely for ‘Greatest Ever Englishman’, was born, and apparently died, on this day. This is not meant to be overtly nationalistic, but to simply, starkly, re-iterate that the feeling that poets and people in the past saw as a reality, is still clearly evident today.
* First published, without the quotation, in poetry collection ‘Anonymous Lines’, available at amazon.
**The image is reproduced from a painting based on a scene at Southwold, Suffolk, a quintessentially English seaside town.
I have adapted the shop on ebay, the logo, so that it more appropriately showpieces the art, as well as Snug’s books! One of these days, I shall elbow Snug off completely… only joking Snug!
Don’t get me wrong, I like Stratford, birthplace of one the greatest (if not THE greatest) Englishmen who ever lived. The major changes to the theatres are nearly complete and it will be a spectacular venue for the plays of which I am so fond. What I was not so keen on, a little while back, were the ‘begging buckets’ after a performance to help retired actors – a worthy cause indeed – but I found it a little incongruous immediately afterwards walking by the multi-million upgrade of the theatres. Well, what I mean is, couldn’t some of that money have been used to look after those older thespians, rather than putting it all in the new buildings? Yes, it all began before the credit crunch, and we now live in an age of austerity, but couldn’t someone with some foresight have thought that perhaps these improvements were, shall we say, a little over the top?
Anyhow, this time we went to see Morte d’Arthur, a play (based on a series of books/plays) written originally by Thomas Malory in the fifteenth century, given a modern makeover and quite honestly, it is the best performance I have seen at the Courtyard Theatre in years. Yes, it isn’t Shakespeare but it fits in wonderfully, and anyone familiar with the film Excalibur will be reminded of that fine film, with only Wagner missing to highlight the various tableaux. Nevertheless, this performance did not need Wagner. The ideas are wonderful; jousting given a realistic feel with men acting as horses underneath knights in vivid medieval colour; medieval plainsong wonderfully sung by the cast; Sam Troughton ageing convincingly, seemingly without makeup.
In a nutshell, I left the theatre more enthused and entertained than ever before. Well done Mike Poulton and Greg Doran. It was a long time in the making but worth waiting for.
Ciscography 