Thus far one Bryan Curtis, scribe of Slate:
It's ironic, then, that part of the appeal of Shakespeare in the Park is its negligible demand on the brain. One need not know anything about Shakespeare going in, and, if my experience in Central Park Sunday night is any indication, one will not know much more going out. As I left As You Like It, I had only a sketchy grasp of Rosalind's big speech at the end, and a vague notion of the machinations of Duke Frederick's court, but I was suffering an unusual amount of self-approbation.
The gentleman then, forsooth, refers us to a study of the Park's public, done by learnéd doctors:
The study found that Shakespearean middlebrows had a few common features. One was a struggle to wrap their brains around the Bard's English. "Few admitted, directly, to difficulty with the language," the authors wrote. "Rather, they ascribed this problem to others." Another feature was an inability to recall even the basic rudiments of the plot shortly after the performance. (One "inveterate theatergoer" burbled, "At the end, they all turn out all right.") Finally, Shakespeare in the Park produced a gentle narcotizing effect, a contact high of "genuine pleasure," that made the middlebrows' intellectual powers fade into the moonlight.
Which maketh me inwardly to ask what this gentleman might have made of a day spent at the Globe, the Curtain or the Rose? Doubtless he would have censured both gentlemen and groundlings for paying more heed to one another (and to the bona robas near at hand) than to my words; for precious few of them went from the playhouse with my story all intact in their brains. Nay, if this Curtis found Master Papp's style overbroad, then Burbage in a royal passion, or Kempe in high fooling, must have brought the poor scribe near to death of an apoplexy.
All of which is to say: those players of mine that strut and sweat upon the greensward do so with no less honour than any who play within doors. 'Twould be a poor world indeed if there were but fine cakes and no honest barley bread; or sherris-wine alone with never a pot of small beer. Nay, when the day is hot 'tis your only drink; much merit in small beer. A cask of the same to Master Curtis, then, with my goodwill.
Gentles, a joyful Midsummer to you all: fair befall ye this long day and this brief night.
The inconstant Moon is at her full tomorrow eve, and like a scurvy politician, doth delight to seem greater than she is. If thou look'st upon her, thou wilt sure run lunatic: I have warn'd thee, and now leave thee to thine own midsummer madness.
Much hath come to mine ears this sevennight past of one Mark Felt, he that Deep Throat was call'd. For thirty years, even such time as a man might be born, study, take to drink and bawdy-houses, repent and turn priest in-- for all this while, it seems, the name of Master Throat was kept close as maidenhead. And this by a parcel of broadsheet-mongers, who live by gilding the many tongues of Rumour! Rare gentlemen, surely, these few.
Through all this time, none have known (though many have proclaim'd it) if Sir Throat was one person or many, whether he was politician, spy or courtier, traitor or true man. What must he have felt as the thirty years' war of scholars and pamphleteers rag'd about him, each man crying "'Twas he! nay, 'twas he," offering weighty arguments in abundance, proofs palpable that Deep Throat was this man or that, his name nigh drown'd in a Nile of ink? And all that time, he uttered never a word, nor his confederates neither.
May Time be kind to him! For I feel, forsooth, a certain kinship with this Master Throat.
Why, I have not been absent from these pages but a little space and already the welkin ringeth with news, right good news, I tell thee. While I was man living, I would never have dared dream such honours as the New World doth heap upon my works: nay, wouldst thou credit it? That same city of Washington DC, cradle of both great deeds and great foolery (the business of governing being ever thus), doth now announce a half-year's festival to honour me. And indeed I am much honour'd to hear of it. 'Tis overseen by mine honest friend Michael Kahn, one who knoweth me right well, and master of a most sublime theatre there. An if thou passest through that same city, go and pass a merry evening there: 'tis as brave a troop of players as ever drank deep at the Mermaid.
In mine own well-lov'd London, meanwhiles, master Mark Rylance of mine own new-made Globe doth make preparation to hang up his buskins (and his farthingale, forsooth) and bid farewell. For these ten years past, he hath done most nobly by his stage and his cry of players, that the shade of Burbage look'd pale with envy and call'd for more drink. And deep we drank to the continued health of this most amiable master, and success to master Dromgoole who comes after. For master Rylance, though he leave our Globe, yet is he under our eye, on whichever stage he may tread; may good fortune follow him.
Then came in two fools together: Will Kempe and good Robert Armin, and ask'd of myself and Burbage: had we ta'en note of the two parts of my Henry IV, now in play at the National Theatre by the banks of grey Thames? "Or art thou, Will," spoke Kempe "so deep in thy cups that thou mindest not when new marvels are wrought upon thy halting verse?" And so we mark'd well the play. And sooth to speak, gentles, I have much to say in behalf of that Falstaff. Master Gambon doth body forth my fat knight as feelingly as ever I saw man do, that even Kempe wept true tears. Nor is this great round jewel without a princely setting: 'tis a formidable company, i'faith. Masters David Bradley and Matthew Macfadyen, that play the King and the wild Prince, are most brave players, as is David Harewood, whose Hotspur seems verily a born leader of men. And John Wood posesseth a marvellously temper'd voice, that his Justice Shallow giveth joy of heart to hear and see. Nay, in the whole company there is not one player ill-fitted or tedious: masters all, that it doth my long-dead heart good to see, and we dead players did drink their health in many a cup of sack.
For now comes in the sweet o'the year, when my works are played far and wide, on stage, street and greensward: and fair befall all that speak my words, their masters of play, and all those who serve in the tiring-houses! Amen, amen, say I.