"Blah, Blah, Blah . . ." or Points about Writing Life learnt from Shakespeare. By Penny Dolan

(As August is the silly season and History Girls are surely in a holiday mood, today’s post is a non-academic diversion plus a few thoughts that mumbled into my mind. A more sensible HG post should arrive in time for 17^th September.)

“Blah, blah, blah!” – exact context later – is how this post starts, and it is partly about some writing points learned from Shakespeare or, more accurately, whilst watching BILL, a fictional comedy about Shakespeare’s lost early life.

Created by the Horrible Histories team, BILL echoes the “historical” style of Python or Blackadder, with members of the company playing several roles. The film is light-hearted fun although one can also play the slightly smug-faced game of spotting the Bard quotes and historical references.

The plot is simple: young Bill - full of dreams, vanity and confidence - sets off to make his artistic name in London, leaving his wife and children behind in rural Stratford-on-Avon. Meanwhile, King Philip of Spain is hatching a dastardly Catholic plot against Protestant Elizabeth and arrives with his men on a disguised diplomatic visit. What better way could there be to get close to the Queen than to stage a play in her honour and invite along? Surely nothing can . . .

The enticing play, of course, first has to be written, and at the end of a series of errors, entanglements and revelations, young Bill unexpectedly gains the favour of Queen Elizabeth I, a little financial security, and the “William Shakespeare” of that image is born.

Some of the best Horrible History moments included:

-         Bill the dreamer, losing his bundle-on-a-stick of belongings as he enters the filthy, crowded and violent city.

-         the man in an iron gibbet who chats to all passers-by

-         the over-eager plague-wagon pushers

-         the leather-clad King Philip of Spain - a man of many moustaches – practising his sword-skills. 

-        the sudden appearances - and disappearances - of  cunning Spymaster Walsingham.

-         the hidden war-room of the Catholic insurgents.

And additionally

-  Queen Elizabeth, played by Helen McCrory, displaying Big Royal Attitude as well as ghastly teeth and make-up, who alone is worth a mention on the History Girls blog.

As well as  Occasional interior images of the Globe Theatre.

I admit that BILL was neither deep nor soul-changing, but the film felt right for some cheering-up on a grey afternoon. The film made good holiday viewing with older children a second time around too. Besides – and the point of my HG post – is that all the way through the script, Bill is learning useful things about the work of being a writer. 

Here’s a glimpse of the trailer.

And here are some of Bill’s useful life-lessons.

*Bill, unwilling to conform to the lute style of the local music group Mortal Coil, leaves Stratford and sets off to find fame. Moral: Sometimes you have to believe in your own talent and set off in other, more solitary directions – and sometimes it’s best not to upset everyone at home when you do.

*Bill, starry eyed, arrives in London, trying to find where it’s all happening. Moral: Try to find out about the networks and structures of one’s craft but be wary: not every offer that comes along will be beneficial.

*Meanwhile, Lord Crawley, who plans to win Queen Elizabeth’s favour by writing a play, decides it will be easy. “It’s just talking written down,”he declares. Too soon, and under pressure, he discovers “Blah, blah, blah . . .  (followed by a big, angry sigh of exasperation) God, writing is HARD!” Moral: Writing is not as easy as some people think it is, nor done at all as quickly as one might expect.

*Bill, in an enthusiastic frenzy, writes an over-blown script crammed with every “Shakespeare” plotline we recognise. Moral: Bill’s crazy first draft isn’t perfect. He has to shape it into something that makes sense to his audience, but those discarded ideas can be used for another story or another genre.

 

*“You’re a writer. I’m a writer too!” young Bill declares, sitting closer to Christopher Marlowe. Despite Marlowe’s own troubles, he spends time helping Bill to structure his play, “modelling” how to work hard on a project. Moral: A good mentor is invaluable to a young writer, especially when they demonstrate how to work like a professional.

*Unfortunately, Christopher Marlowe, although a “successful playwright”, is already fatally troubled by debts. He tells young Bill. “There’s no money in it. I can’t even buy a house without borrowing money I can’t pay back.”  Moral: Writing doesn’t often bring a cosy, profitable life. Nor, for Marlowe, does Spying.

*Bill’s early “acting career” (within this film) shows him dressed as a tomato in the market, handing out leaflets promoting the eating of vegetables. Marlowe, alongside, appears dressed as a cucumber. Moral: Bill has big dreams but he has to do less noble work before he hits the big time, even if his family are horrified.

*Bill, struggling to write a new play, despairs and feels he doesn’t know what or how to write. Moral: Bill learns to “write what you know”, drawing on his own knowledge and emotions, even though his plot might be set in an enchanted wood.

Finally, Bill learns to be alert to other people’s agendas too, especially when they involve barrels of gunpowder and plots against the Queen.  

Moral: Make sure you have good ending!

Released to celebrate Shakespeare’s 2015 anniversary, the BILL DVD brought some enjoyable “holiday” moments this summer, including the glimpse into the scriptwriters thoughts on the world of writing.

  

Now that the visitors have left, I’ve peeped back into the world of “Bill” again, as I am reading SHAKESPEARE’S RESTLESS WORLD: AN UNEXPECTED HISTORY IN TWENTY OBJECTS BY DR NEIL MACGREGOR. An interesting collection, only just begun – and I had never quite realised the precise importance of calling one’s theatre “The Globe” at that moment in time.

And, yes, the Mortal Coil do “shuffle off” and John Gerard’s Herbal, written in 1587, dismissed tomatoes as “poisonous and of rank and stinking savour”, so this would have been a very trying task for a young and hopeful actor.

Penny Dolan

THE STARS' TENNIS BALLS by Ann Swinfen

We are merely the stars’ tennis-balls, struck and bandied
Which way please them.
            John Webster (1580?-1625?), The Duchess of Malfi, IV.iv.52 

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
            William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Julius Caesar, I.ii.134

It seems appropriate on this astronomically important day, which sees the spring equinox and an eclipse of the sun, to take a brief look at the relationship between celestial bodies and humankind. 

The two quotations above from near contemporary Renaissance dramatists reflect two diametrically opposed views: is our fate determined at our birth by certain conjunctions of the stars, or is our fate in our own hands? It is the age-old dispute between predestination and freewill, which has torn mankind apart in violent religious disputes. If it is less bitter nowadays, it is perhaps because we live in a largely secular society. 

When for thousands of years humans lived in a world free of light pollution, it is little wonder that they looked up at a night sky peopled by a changeable moon and wheeling stars and believed that their own lives must be inextricably linked to these distant and unknowable bodies. Early peoples developed extensive astronomical knowledge, as demonstrated by their monuments like Stonehenge:

and Maes Howe:

Tales of the gods living amongst the celestial bodies must have existed long before writing and are firmly embedded in the traditions of all early nations. The Greeks saw and named images in the patterns of the stars which we still recognise today in the symbols of the Zodiac.

The wise men, coming from the east, were led to the birthplace of Jesus by a wandering star, which may have been a comet.

Comets, even more than fixed stars, evoked wonder by their seeming visitations from some incomprehensible Elsewhere and by their mysterious transit of the heavens. Surely they must foretell some joyous event or – more likely – disaster. The Norman invasion of England:

Even more terrifying is an eclipse of the sun, when (depending on your religion) the sun is gobbled up and spat out by some monster, or the hand of God blots out the sun as a warning to mankind of His power and mankind’s helplessness. According to Virgil, there was an eclipse of the sun on the day Julius Caesar was murdered:

If our fate is somehow tied up with the movement and positions of the stars, especially at the moment of our birth, then surely a man skilled in reading the heavens can help us make sense of our lives, warn us of times and places to avoid, inform us of appropriate dates for important ceremonies, even foretell our death. The art of drawing up astrological charts was known to the Romans and persisted right through the Renaissance and beyond, until the development of science in the late seventeenth century and the eighteenth century Age of Enlightenment cast scorn on such beliefs.

Simon Foreman

 Simon Foreman, apothecary, alchemist, astrologer and serial rapist was a contemporary of our dramatists Shakespeare and Webster. He made a very comfortable living out of the preparation of astrological charts for his clients, who came from every walk of life. (At any rate, those who could afford his fees.) 

John Dee

Another contemporary, Dr John Dee, mathematician, mystic, book collector, alchemist, astrologer, and amanuensis to angels, cast charts for the greatest in the land. Queen Elizabeth I chose the most auspicious date for her coronation based on his advice, and she was a woman of immense intelligence and learning. It was not merely the ignorant and gullible who believed in the influence of the stars.

Today, of course, we know better. Or do we? Why, then, do magazines and newspapers persist in publishing predictions based, it is claimed, on reading the stars? And it seems that the ancient debate about predestination versus freewill must continue for ever.

 By the way, I’m a Libra, so that must mean that I am a rational, well-balanced person, mustn’t it?

Ann Swinfenhttp://www.annswinfen.com

(HOW) DARE WE WRITE HISTORICAL NOVELS? by Leslie Wilson

David Starkey has announced in various media that Wolf Hall is a 'deliberate perversion of history', (though he has neither read the books nor seen the television adaptation so I do wonder how he can assert this). Someone, however, has told him that Mark Rylance, playing Thomas Cromwell, is portrayed as showing grief when his wife and daughters are carried off in a day by the sweating sickness. 'I gather Hilary Mantel has imagined this wonderful tender experience of Thomas Cromwell losing wife and children,' he says, and 'there is not a scrap of evidence for it at all.'


Not all historians hate historical fiction, and many of them are hugely generous towards fiction writers  - I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Professor Michael Biddiss, for one, who referred me to several useful texts on Nazi Germany and particularly to the invaluable documentary history of Nazism by J Noakes and G Pridham - so helpful, particularly when I was writing Saving Rafael. However, much as I respect and value historians, I do not need their permission to write my fictions.
The thing is (Doctor Starkey), that a novel set in the past is not an easy-read alternative to a history book (however carefully we do our research, and some of us, notably Dame Hilary, do it very carefully indeed. Indeed Hilary Mantel's work is widely respected by historians). The term historical fiction may perhaps be a tripwire here. We are writers of fiction, and some of us choose to write about historical subjects.That means that we apply our imagination to those subjects, which is what writers do, and of course we go to places (like someone's probable response to a bereavement) that historians must in honesty hold back from.
In exactly the same way, I might write a story about someone, say, who is a teacher in a North of England town. There is no evidence that such a character exists or that any given human being ever behaved exactly as this character did. If I cannot find it, it is not incumbent in me to leave it out, because the job of a writer is to say: 'What if? Supposing?' It is to write a story.

My grandmother in the '30s

Actually, I researched the novels I set in Nazi Germany very carefully, but this was because my enterprise was to understand what it was like to be a person who had to live in Nazi Germany. That is - as readers of my blogs here will readily understand - something very important to me. The enormous amount of reading I have done about the period, as well as watching videos, talking to people who remembered those times, reflecting on the things that came to me from my own family, was not directed at making my works good textbooks for Year 9s. Some people have found them so, but what drove me was that need to open a window for myself on twelve dreadful years that marked and scarred my immediate family as well as damaging and bereaving millions of others.

In the end, though, it came down to 'What if? Supposing?' Supposing one of the boy soldiers who were drafted into the German Home Guard in 1945 was the sole survivor of his unit; supposing he met a girl on the run from Berlin, who had a very different background; supposing the interaction and relationship between them changed both of them as they trod the refugee road with the fighting going on round them? Supposing  the girl was jazz-crazy, and could play the harmonica, and supposing a fantasy grew legs and desperate people started to believe it? Then you get Last Train from Kummersdorf.

There's another idea about historical fiction that is popular among the chattering classes, even post Wolf Hall. It is that it is somehow tacky, chocolate-boxy, that the proper enterprise of novelists is to describe the present day (preferably grittily). Now I have no objection to grit, but there was just as much of it around in the past - and indeed there is a whole generation of excellent novels that deal with the undersides of history, some written by fellow-contributors to this blog. 

One of my history teachers at school took this line: she said we should avoid historical fictions, which were always misleading and trashy, and concentrate on fiction written at the time we were studying. Maybe she would have liked to have a go at the English literature syllabus and excise such trashy works as Henry IV Part One, (which I studied for A Level). Also, she must have despised such trivial works as War and Peace, Schiller's Maria Stuart, Vanity Fair, all of Shakespeare's History plays, Büchner's Danton's Death, Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral (which I first saw, incidentally, at Kendal Grammar School with my brother as one of the Women of Canterbury and David Starkey in the star role. The poetry blew me away.)

If the past is another country, it's one that is part of our present. Humans have many means of visiting it and trying to inhabit it; through histories, biography, visiting historical sites, and drama, in which I include the novel. To talk about, mythologise, and speculate on the past is part of what it means to be human, and that makes it a valid subject for literature.

Elizabeth I, Richard II and Dr Who

 ‘I am Richard II, know ye not that,’ is what Elizabeth I is recorded as saying in 1601, with reference to Shakespeare’s play of that name, demonstrating the extent to which such a drama, written in the late years of her reign was as much about the present as the past. The most recent production of Richard II from the RSC is running at the Barbican with David Tennant in the title role. Most well known, judging by the queues of fans at the stage door, for his stint as Dr Who, Tennant takes us on another sort of time travel with a rendition of the beleaguered king that manages to combine both Elizabeth and Richard, visiting at once two distinct periods in history, each turbulent in its own way. In the late sixteenth century the deposition of Richard II, within such a dramatic context, articulated the suggestion that there were circumstances under which justification could be found to go against the divine right of Kings and be rid of a flawed ruler. This would have resonated with an Elizabethan audience aware that Richard’s demise allowed for the rise of two legendary monarchs (Henry IV and V) known for their great martial victories over France. Indeed, the deposition scene was sufficiently controversial in its time, drawing dangerous parallels between Richard and Elizabeth, as to have been left out of most performances and printed versions of the play.

We tend to think of the long reign of Gloriana as a great triumph from start to finish, with the Spanish threat defeated and the violent religious polarisation of her sibling’s reigns solved. But as the Queen aged she relied increasingly on unpopular advisors and her vacillating temperament, which had worked in her favour for so long (playing off the rulers of Europe one against the other with indecision over which she would marry) crystallised into a stubbornness that was ruled by fear. Elizabeth’s refusal to name a successor, for fear of people’s tendency to look, as she described it, ‘to the rising than to the setting sun,’ and having passed the age when she might realistically be able to bear an heir of her body, had by the 1590s created a problematic instability in an England that was increasingly perturbed.  For years after the great defeat of the Armada the country was in a state of jitters, fearing Spanish reprisals and, despite Elizabeth’s policy of religious toleration, the threat of Catholic rebellion within England’s shores had become a permanent concern, added to that four consecutive years of failed harvests meant people were starving. It is no wonder then that plays such as Richard II, with a weak and vacillating king at its heart, emerged at this moment in time, to hold up a mirror to the Elizabethan court. It was an oblique way to criticise the status quo without ending up on the scaffold. Shakespeare’s Richard, a man clearly demonstrated as being overly dependent on the advice of suspect favourites, is deposed by the decisive and assertive Bolingbroke who stands to represent just the safe pair of hands late Elizabethan England might have wished for.

Tennant brings to the role of Richard less of the fay girlishness of some interpretations and more of a regal stiffness and distance, a rigidity of mind and body that articulates an entrenchment of stubbornness and an inability to change. He has long hair, white wafting robes, a ghoulishly pale face and, as he is lowered into view to sit motionless in his throne above the action, he is both a sexless image of the saviour and also the doll-like Elizabeth of her famous coronation portrait. At a distance it is easy to forget, given the many successes and the length of Elizabeth’s reign, the extent to which it was difficult for England to accept a woman at the helm. These difficulties are articulated in the figure of Richard who displays many of the negative tropes considered to be the essence of femininity in the period: weakness, mutability and so on. Elizabeth had successfully rebranded herself, from the illegitimate daughter of Henry VIII and the loathed Anne Boleyn, into the Virgin Queen, mother to the nation, an untouchable icon of perfect ethereal womanhood, as if she were an Athena born from her father’s helmet. However as her body began to decay, forcing people to think of the uncertainty beyond her reign, her status as icon became increasingly difficult to pull off, requiring increasing artifice as each year passed.

In the play’s final scene when the enthroned Bolingbroke is lowered down onto the elevated set, as was his predecessor at the play’s beginning, we see an entirely different figure. As Henry IV he has discarded his chainmail for something altogether more regal, but beneath the purple silk sits a warrior ready to take on his enemies, an ideal the beleaguered English could only hope for. In 1661, on the eve of the Essex rebellion – in which the disaffected Earl of Essex, the popular warrior with the common touch, hoped to raise the people up to depose Elizabeth in favour of her Scottish cousin James – Essex’s steward bribed the Lord Chamberlain’s Men to put on a performance Richard II including the deposition scene. The intention was that it would encourage people, girded by the sight of a weak king deposed in favour of a strong one and the dangerously subversive notion that there are times when divine right is wrong, to join the cause. The plot failed, Essex lost his head and two years later James Stuart came to the throne anyway.

What then is the political relevance of such a play for the twenty-first century audience? Is it possible to see echoes of post-Iraq Tony Blair pushed off his perch by Gordon Brown – not really, because we no longer live under the tyranny of absolute rule or divine right. Richard II does not have the contemporary parallels of a play like Hamlet, with its focus on surveillance and political paranoia. Its lessons are more personal and intimately psychological, allowing us to see the problems of intractability and the reliance on dubious advice writ large. What it also tells us is that history always remains relevant – I feel sure the Time Lord would approve.

The RSC production of Richard II runs at the Barbican until 25^thJanuary and is being screened at cinemas nationwide.

For novel news go to: ElizabethFremantle.com