The Wooden O

A walking shadow

This from a gentleman reader, Douglas by name:

Thou art wronged, Master Shakespeare, in that thy honey-tongued words have become beasts of commerce. Your belief may strain under the weight of my report, but by clever art the struttings and frettings of poor players are captured in a book known as film. By a flickering light, the players are released once more. Your wonderous play Othello was captured in this manner, and played once more under the title "O." Your most ingenious comedy of Petruccio and Katharine, The Taming of The Shrew, became what is now called a movie, "The 10 Things I Hate About You."

For thy care of my works, sir, I humbly thank thee. For by what means shall my tales yet live in this world, if not through the good will of such as thyself, who know them and love them well?

Yet thus much in thine ear: I was not the first to tell many of these tales. If thou seest any work of mine, 'tis most like to be merely old wares patch'd and sold as new: old Boccacio of Italy, honest Geoffrey Chaucer, Holinshed's histories all provided me with much matter. My Richard Third made many hearers to roar: soothly now, dost thou think the worse of it for that Sir Thomas More told all before me?

So if others choose to tell my tales anew, or to patch out their own inventions with matter from my plays, I think no harm: rather, I bid them joy. And if some of their workings speed well and others die the death, that indeed is the humour of it, even as it was when I did live.

For this new wonder, film, iwis I know it well: I have heard much of it from such players as Masters Richardson, Welles, Olivier and Gielgud, after they made their final bows upon the earthly stage and came where they might drink a bout with me. (Full many a merry hour have we spent since then, i'faith.)

And truly 'tis a marvel. I remember me at the old play-houses, we knew never whether Burbage would come reeling in half drunk, or whether Kempe would forsake his part and speak extempore, or whether those villainous squeaking boys had troubled to con their words at all. So to contain a cry of players within a box shot through with lights seems to me verily a playmaker's dream.

Yet for all this, there is an angelic awe to hearing a play spoken by living voices, in a theatre such as I wrote and play'd in. Breathing throats, beating hearts, sweating brows: my plays were made for these, and by these, and of these. Mortal men and women, human and flaw'd as we are, are ever my theme, and these same are my best players.

Players and makers of plays, though we personate kings and gods, we are but shadows all. Pray pardon, then, the ramblings of an insubstantial spirit, who saith he knows not what. Rest ye merry all, and give you good day.

Posted by Shakespeare at April 10, 2004 2:27 AM