Hold your hand my lord!

Back in the mists of time when I was not aware of my acting limitations I auditioned for a production of King Lear at the Marin Shakespeare Festival in California.  I had the ambition to play either Edmund or Edgar and prepared accordingly.  I thought my audition went well but my hopes came crashing down (probably a good thing) when the roles went to other, probably more qualified, Shakespearean actors.  I was, however, offered the role of the servant who objects vociferously when the Duke of Cornwall (Lear’s daughter Regan’s spouse) attacks the venerable Gloucester with the intention of blinding the poor old Earl.  Some rousing swordplay ensues and the servant succeeds in mortally wounding the Duke but makes the bad mistake of turning his back on Regan, who viciously stabs the poor wretch in the back, dispatching him forthwith.  So what do I do?

I accepted the part because it is meaty and action-filled, albeit small and short lived (literally) and I got to murder a major character and then get murdered in turn by yet another major player, but this time by the hand of a hysterical, venomous woman.  As directed there was lots of screaming and screeching Hitchcockian sound effects because the Duke, before he dies of the wounds I inflicted upon him (despite my best efforts), completes his goal of gouging out Gloucester’s eyes.   Sturm und Drang!  I did this 45 (or so) times that summer and loved it every time despite the fact that the actress playing Regan got more and more out of control and my poor back and shoulder paid the price for her brand of “method” acting.  Black and Blue!  And then there were torn tights from being dragged off-stage with unseemingly alacrity because the bodies and the gore had to be cleaned up during a 15-second blackout.  I’m getting stimulated just thinking about it.

This core memory is brought to you by “Station Eleven” by Emily St. John Mandel, a novel that kicks off almost immediately with the death of a world-renowned actor on stage during a performance of King Lear.  From there the plot goes post-apocalyptic and a traveling theater group called the Traveling Symphony is performing Shakespeare in the country side around Toronto and points south across the Canadian border around Lake Michigan.  The plot jumps back and forth in time (over a 20 year period) and pulls together the stories of several survivors against the backdrop of Shakespeare and classical music.  It’s whiz bang mostly with, of course, a major villain whose story is also tied into the final denouement.

By sheer coincidence the next book in line was “The Millionaire and the Bard,” by Andrea Mays, which is biographical and tells the story of oil baron Henry Folger and his quest to collect as many of Shakespeare’s First Folios as possible.  The first four chapters are sort of a Cliff Notes version of Shakespeare’s life and times and what was going on historically during the years of his prominence in theatrical environs of London and the subsequent gathering (several years after his death) of his written word(s) which made up what eventually became the first folios.  It was a miracle, really, that it ever happened.  The personal history of Folger and, finally, his obsession with collecting (hoarding?) the folios make up the rest of the book.

During the reading of both of these books I was pleased to have at hand my own personal copy of the collected works of WS.  Because of my early connection to King Lear in particular and Shakespeare’s other work in general it was cool to be able to refer to the original text.  Dare I admit that this evening before bed I murmured Edmund’s “letter” speech to the echoing tiles in my bathroom?