Wives May Be Merry And Yet Honest Too.

7 September 2008

Today was something of a letdown, at least until Lauren and I got to the Globe Theatre and saw their production of William Shakespeare's The Merry Wives of Windsor. I was tired due to the late night at the clubs, and still sick. The weather was deplorable. It was cold, overcast, and damp. If I were half as responsible as I claim to be, I probably shouldn't have gone, but I've developed a taste for Shakespeare and, what's more, I felt obliged to go since Professor Rudalevige had purchased the tickets for all of us. So, I went--and it was awesome! Awesome! Awesome! Awesome!

The Merry Wives of Windsor is not one of Shakespeare's most highly regarded pieces. Though scholars and critics generally rate it a little higher than Timon of Athens, most commentators are disappointed by its depiction of Sir John Falstaff, the round-bellied, gregarious, amoral knight who fills such an important role in Henry IV and Henry V. They also object to its broad comedic style and hurried pace, which is not too hard to understand. The play deals very heavily in sexual innuendo and physical comedy--imagine two rather scrawny manservants trying to lift a basket of dirty laundry in which the massive Falstaff has concealed himself--and almost like a runaway train, the plot propells forward to its merry conclusion. I must admit, though, that all those "problems" or "flaws"--the frenetic pace, the lowbrow comedy, the buffoonish Falstaff--are the reasons I enjoyed the play so much. Perhaps, now is the moment when I should re-examine my credentials as a pretentious intellectual? Anyway, I simply loved it, so much so that I even paid three pounds to buy the programme, which is something I almost never do.

Since The Merry Wives of Windsor was the second play I have seen at the Globe Theatre, comparisons between it and the first play I attended, Timon of Athens, come pretty naturally. The most significant thing I noticed was that while Timon was, in many regards, a more impressive and a more innovative production, I enjoyed The Merry Wives of Windsor so much more, because I could imagine more what the Globe must have been like in Shakespeare's day. The music was played on instruments from the period. There were no men and women dressed as vultures climbing on a net above the audience. And what's more, unlike Timon, the production was staged during the day, which is when it would have been held in Shakespeare's day. Realistically, Timon could have been produced anywhere and met with a similar degree of success; The Merry Wives, on the other hand, truly benefitted from the fact that it was staged at the Globe.

Paranthetically, I should mention that I saw my first British celebrity while I was at the Globe for The Merry Wives: Andy Serkis, the performer responsible for bringing life to Smeagol-Gollum in Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings trilogy and King Kong. I didn't notice him until the start of intermission, when Lauren nudged me and asked cryptically, "Are you a fan of The Lord of the Rings?" I answered that I was. "Look to your left."

I looked-- "Oh my God," I said, trying my best to muffle my shriek of elation, "it's Andy Serkis."

"I know!"

"Oh my God, it's Gollum! It's really Andy Serkis!"

Neither Lauren nor I presumed to approach him since he was attending the play in the company of his family. Fortunately, the second half of The Merry Wives of Windsor was a delight and for the most part fixated my attentions, because otherwise I might have spent the whole time staring at his curly black hair and shrivelled face, anxiously hoping to hear him to slip into Gollum's voice. Lauren didn't possess the same degree of willpower, but we both agree that we need to e-mail him and apologise for staring at him.

After the play concluded, I returned to the Arran House where I completed my journal entry for the preceding day before going to an Indian restaurant with Leah and Shannyn for dinner. I ordered the chicken chilli masala and rice--nothing better for the congested! I also enjoyed a pleasant conversation with my parents before retiring early to bed, around ten-fifteen in the evening. A good day, all and all. A good day.