The Meaning of Recognition Read online

  Postscript

  Even with the deadly interposition of post-war wholesomeness, the tradition of the fast-talking dames was never quite lost. Grace Kelly did plenty of fast talking in To Catch a Thief. What happened was that the heritage was absorbed to the point where it lost its definition. Doris Day’s pillow talk was delivered at high speed, but it was the language of surrender. The problem now is not that the ideal of female eloquence has been entirely abandoned, but that it has been reduced to a component: something for a Working Girl like Melanie Griffith to do in between bouts of swooning at her own incompetence. Rarely is the woman’s brightness the whole subject. I have already mentioned Anne Heche’s performance in Wag the Dog, but let me mention it again, just to underline the lesson. The lesson is that if the scripts aren’t there, the fast-talking dames won’t be there either. Like Aaron Sorkin with The West Wing, David Mamet in his movie scripts has distilled the whole tradition of screwball comedy, giving the women, in particular, a chance to shine that they have not had for half a century. There is a radiant demonstration in State and Main, when Rebecca Pigeon and Philip Seymour Hoffman very believably fall in love with each other’s wit. (His injured finger is joined to Cary Grant’s in Bringing Up Baby, like Adam’s to God’s in the Sistine ceiling.) But really a television series, all other things being equal, is bound to leave even the most uncompromising movie for dead. In The West Wing, Stockard Channing gets the lines that her powers of delivery have always given her a right to. If the movies could have done that for her, she would have made a couple of unforgettable appearances every year since her Ida Lupino routine in The Big Bus. And the movies could never have done anything at all with Janel Maloney. Those of us who like the comediennes more than the comedians had better realize that television is where it’s at. The movies are a vast conspiracy for ensuring that we will never get enough of Annette Bening.

  ROUGH GUIDES TO SHAKESPEARE

  Alan Yentob says that Leonardo da Vinci is a great artist. Michael Wood says that Shakespeare is a great playwright. There is nothing remarkable about saying these things, even on BBC1. All depends on how they are said. Long ago impressed by how much meaning remains packed into one of Wood’s sentences even while he pounds it with emphasis from all directions, I have been living with his In Search of Shakespeare for some weeks, after securing a set of preview tapes well ahead of the launch date. The week that Barry Manilow broke his nose was a good time to start watching them. Weight-wise, Wood bears a sharp resemblance to Manilow: men like them are thin forever. Also the historian’s nose is as salient as the singer’s. Though more pointed than preponderant, it courts a similar danger as its owner lopes searchingly forward. The risk is increased by this presenter’s habit of talking sideways while the camera tracks him. A potentially impacting object might get into range without his seeing it, so that when his head suddenly resumes a normal alignment it could be too late to take evasive action. In that event, of course, the footage would end up on the cutting room floor, but not before the abruptly rebuffed presenter ended up in the hospital. Wood’s blithe courage as a walking talker is part of his boyishness.

  Another part is an urge to update his frame of reference in keeping with the current buzz. In the context of lust and love in Shakespeare, Sex and the City gets a mention. ‘The Elizabethans were very up-front about sex.’ Well, it’s true: they were. When Hamlet made his crack about country matters, the groundlings were probably elbowing each other’s ribs in the same way those dreadful lads on Big Brother do at the hint of a double meaning. That’s why the gag is there: it’s one for the punters. Shakespeare’s language is not pure. Even at its most exalted, it declines to be exclusive. It switches between one level of decorum and another as an electron shifts orbits without crossing the space between. Wood is right to shuffle his frames of reference, the better to cover the individual case, and to match the general fact of his hero’s gargantuan appetite for synthesis. The Victorian commentators, who were not up-front about sex, were at a loss properly to discuss one of the crudest, and therefore one of the most important, of the elements that contributed to Shakespeare’s richness – a richness that was not refined, like gold, but complex, like the world. Wood has a nose for that complexity. All the more reason to hold one’s breath as he steers the nose around trees, along tow-paths and through forests.

  Actually one should not be too strict even about the excessive walk-talking that eats up time in the broadcast version of his essay. As in his previous shows, he is always walking through exactly the right landscape. When in search of Alexander, he and his crew slogged up all the appropriate escarpments to reveal Alexander’s knack for positioning the enemy so that a sudden charge into the centre would do the business. To match his feeling for words and rhythms, Wood has a feeling for terrain. (The connection is not rare in literature – it helped motivate the Augustans as well as the Romantics – but among today’s TV presenters it is almost unknown, partly because for them the whole world has turned into what Americans call the Flyover.) Was Shakespeare, during his Lost Years, ever in Lancashire? Asking the question sideways while both hands weigh invisible melons, Wood strides through the Lancashire mud. If Shakespeare had ever been in Lancashire he would have probably strode, or stridden, through mud like this.

  There is usually a point to Wood’s talking walk. He strides beside the Thames. Well, so did Shakespeare. Canary Wharf was less in evidence at the time, but beside the Thames must still have been an exciting place to stride if you were a country boy just starting off in the big smoke. Mercifully, in Wood’s style as a programme maker, there is none of the sort of visual evocation known in the trade as Mickey Mouse. He and his crew can be a bit literal – we saw quite a lot of today’s wool trade while the possibility was considered that Shakespeare’s father once had the same sort of connection to fleece distribution as Tony Soprano has to waste disposal – but the tendency is kept well this side of the absurd. If Wood were to say that the young, on-the-make Shakespeare wolfed down the teeming experience of the London stews, we might be shown the presenter’s speed of stride along the smooth macadam now covering the area where the stews once were, but we would not be shown footage of a wolf.

  When Simon Schama says that Henry V was reputed in his day to have the personality of a leopard, we are shown footage of a leopard. We are also asked to believe that two intermittently intersecting tin swords represent the battle of Agincourt; but that is bearable even if feeble. The leopard is unbearable, and Schama must know it. At the same time as Michael Wood was establishing himself as one of the most promising young historians in Oxford, Schama was establishing himself as one of the most promising young historians in Cambridge, and I saw enough of him to know that he would rather be caught in a thunderstorm than in a cliché. Some students of the close relationship between Simon Schama and Mickey Mouse call such effects schamanic, but really they just mean that Schama is less in control of the producer than the producer is in control of him. He might consider trading off some of his enviable salary against more clout. Either Wood has done just that, or else he is luckier. Though often obliged to do his expounding on the move when he might have preferred to stand still, at least he can be sure that if he mentions Shakespeare’s talent reaching a peak the screen will not be occupied by footage of Sir Edmund Hillary doing the same. Merely through word and gesture, he boyishly finds means to convey the thrill of the search. But inevitably gesture crowds out word.

  When pointing something out, it takes time for a presenter to instruct us, through the window of the lens, that something worth looking at lies nearby, and then for him to go over there and point a finger at it to help us look at it, while generating repetitive emphases with the voice in order to convey how very much worth looking at it is. The voice-over is much more economical in this regard than any piece to camera. Producers and directors, however, love the piece to camera, and beyond a certain point they can’t be fought, even by a presenter with Wood’s prestige. In his book there is much more
room for words and all they can evoke without needing to show. In his book, as a consequence, the references to our current media world look less trendy. Some critics complained that the screen-time devoted to Shakespeare’s school days was too short, almost as if somebody was afraid that younger viewers might be scared off by the very mention of a school day lasting longer than a few minutes, and of lessons that had to be got by rote lest corporal punishment ensue. But on the page, Wood goes into Shakespeare’s education at length. ‘Shakespeare was the product of a memorizing culture in which huge chunks of literature were learned off by heart.’ So, to a certain extent, were you and I, but we must forgive him for insisting on the obvious, because he is well aware that the audience he is after has never memorized anything. The reader is not allowed to suppose that the most effortless-seeming progenitor of the English language did it all by natural warbling. Ben Jonson, who said that Shakespeare had ‘little Latin’, could say so only because he had a lot of Latin: Shakespeare had enough.

  Though denied a university education – the denial might have been his biggest blessing, because it forced him to operate in a context other than purely literary – Shakespeare was a great reader before he was a great writer. Ovid’s Metamorphoses, for example, he knew by heart, and in the Latin, although he used a translation for speed. Leaving us in no doubt of what learned times the playwrights lived in, Wood earns his right to the apparent flippancy of saying that Marlowe’s mighty line was ‘the sound everybody wanted’. The rock and roll frame of reference fits well. The playwrights were young, hungry and competitive, and the first blank verse, when they heard it, must have hit them in the head in the same way that the first rock stars who are now old or dead were hit in the knees by rhythm and blues records and suddenly realized that here was a musical language in which anything could be expressed without the listener ceasing to yell for more. Wood isn’t lowering the tone by drawing such analogies. He is raising it. He is talking about language as a marketable thrill, and that was the first thing Shakespeare’s language was. It wasn’t the last, but he would have had no theatrical career without that. He would have been just a poet.

  Whether being ‘just a poet’ means being less of a poet is a nice question. On Newsnight Review, Germaine Greer said she would make up her mind about Wood’s series when she had heard him on the subject of Shakespeare’s poems. She wasn’t pressed on the point: a pity, because I would have liked to hear more. She has formidable scholarly credentials – Wood must be waiting for her verdict with thighs atremble, and thus with gratitude that his jeans still fit so loosely – but I would have thought her best credential was that she knows an awful lot about the theatre, and is therefore proof against any notion that Shakespeare’s poems are the acme of his poetry. An accomplished actress herself (there are those of us who think that her show of considering the opinions of some of her fellow Newsnight Review panellists merits a BAFTA award of its own) she is well aware that a line which has to be understood the first time it is heard can achieve the status of the poetic only by a far bigger miracle than a line written to be figured out on the page. Frank Kermode, in his fine book Shakespeare’s Language, dares to suggest that some of the dense imagery of the later plays might have been as hard to follow for its contemporary audience as it is for us. He is almost certainly right. But equally there can be little doubt that Shakespeare had created a climate of trust in which his audience was ready to let some of the meaning go as long as they could follow the drift.

  There was always a drift, and for a long time, until near the end, the drift was a flood. To assess the composition and dynamics of this torrent of meaning is where the student of language comes in, if come in he must. Wood’s qualifications to do so are of a respectable order. ‘Like the paintings in the guild chapel with which this story began,’ he writes near the end, ‘humanity’s encoded memories are being erased everywhere across the planet.’ The word ‘encoded’ sounds a bit Matrix-conscious, but the proposition is sadly true. In his screen performance I noticed only one solecism (‘Apart from being a country bumpkin’ means the opposite of ‘far from being a country bumpkin’, and he obviously meant to say the second thing rather than the first) but in the text there are none. He is a clean writer so it is no surprise that he is a clean reader. Germaine Greer might pounce on his apparent assumption that the line in the sonnets about the dun breasts is further evidence of the lady’s darkness, whereas the argument insists only that she is not perfectly white, which no one but a freshly made snowman is. On the whole, however, Wood reads the dramatic poetry at the level on which it was written, with the proper sensitivity for both the theatrical requirements that shaped it and the theatrical opportunities to which its protean flexibility gave rise. There have been critics who could do that – Shaw could do it better than Coleridge and Hazlitt put together – but none of them has been a television presenter who could talk about the structure of the iambic pentameter while striding blind through Stratford upon Avon.

  Wood has all the dubious skills, and all the undoubted publicity value, of a television presenter. He can thus call attention to his book, so we are lucky that it is excellent. It would be less so, however, if he knew less about showbiz, so there is no conflict. Making television documentaries, you either make compromises or you don’t get the job done. You either learn to work with other people or you don’t work. Veteran of many a weary argument in which he saved the project by appearing to yield a point, and then saved the point the next day by an adroit psychological manoeuvre – almost always it entails confirming a director in his opinion that he is Federico Fellini, but sometimes you have to convince the company catering manager that he is Marco Pierre White – Wood is unusually well placed to make plausible deductions about the man behind the name, the man we know so little about. Faceless and yet forceful, Shakespeare emerges from the book as the master general he must have been. From that fact alone, one further deduction might have been made: a deeper reason for Greene’s flaring envy in the ‘Shakescene’ diatribe. Greene might have been annoyed by more than Shakespeare’s unfair knack for a phrase and his energizing effect on the theatre: an effect which did, after all, boost the market for his fellow practitioners. Greene might also have been annoyed by Shakespeare’s ability to bank the earnings. Greene might have spotted that Shakespeare had no plans for living from hand to mouth, and was on his way to good clothes, a coat of arms, and New Place. Greene couldn’t have guessed that it would be called New Place. (Who could have guessed that the greatest poet who ever lived, after buying a new place called New Place, would go on calling it New Place?) But Greene, as he sucked on the last of his pickled herrings, could probably see New Place looming in the distance. Hence the bile. As a general rule, poets can stand it if one of their number shows an exceptional lyrical gift. But if he also shows a gift for worldly success, the knives come out.

  Even Greene’s knife, though, only pricked like a pin. Ben Jonson would have been a frightful enemy if he had so wished, but something about his ‘gentle Shakespeare’ soothed incipient ire. We can assume it was the gentleness. If Shakespeare, like Dr Johnson or Oscar Wilde, had talked for victory, we would have heard about it. How little we have heard about him tells us a lot about him. Part of his gift was to blend in, so that people would tell him things – diplomatic aides, receivers of stolen goods, sailors who had been washed ashore on the coast of where was it? Illyria? We can infer that his face was not striking. Wood shows us a portrait painted in 1588, the year of the Armada. But we can tell by the way Wood fails to walk past the portrait, walk back, and lean over it while emphatically pointing out its features, that he doesn’t care whether it is a portrait of Shakespeare, Marlowe or the current Earl of Wessex dressed for a costume ball.

  Those who don’t already think that such an indifference to the perennial topic of Shakespeare’s appearance is exactly right should take a quick look at Shakespeare’s Face, a compendium of essays dedicated to the questions supposedly raised by the ‘Sanders portrait�
�. A judicious essay by Stanley Wells might slow the quick look down by about thirty minutes. Wells talks nothing but sense about Shakespeare. As a result he has almost nothing to say about the portrait. The other contributors, among whom the editor Stephanie Nolan is the most prominent, have a lot to say about it. The portrait came to light in Canada, where it was big news. ‘Is this the face of genius?’ asked the Toronto Globe and Mail. Art experts confirm that it is indeed a contemporary portrait. What nobody can confirm is that it is a portrait of Shakespeare. The scientific dating was a bit of a blow to my own theory that it is a portrait of John Malkovich, but I have whistled in a scientist of my own who suggests that the prankish and well-funded Malkovich could have engineered the whole deal with the aid of artificially aged carbon. Marjorie Garber, a Professor of English and Director of Visual Arts at Harvard, assures us that ‘the male minx in the Sanders image, with his knowing eyes and flirtatious, up-curved mouth, seems about to burst into words – words as witty and perhaps as improper as our current taste will permit.’