Book Note: Death at the Dolphin

Marsh, Ngaio. Death at the Dolphin. Glasgow: William Collins Sons, 1967. Also available as Killer Dolphin. New York: Amereon, 1983.

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Ngaio Marsh is one of the great mystery authors of all time. She's mostly quite a bit gorier than Agatha Christie, but her characters are just as—if not more—deeply developed.

Don't let the cover image to the right (the image of the brass dolphin appearing to weep blood) put you off—the contents of this novel are genuinely fascinating in any age, even if the cover was designed in the late ’60s.

And, since you're reading about this novel here, you realize that there are connections to Shakespeare in it.

The plot involves an actor named Peregrine Jay who, though a set of circumstances that I will not spoil for you, ends up being involved in the renovation and re-opening of a London theatre that had been damaged during the Blitz. The Dolphin (that's the name of the theatre) is to open with Jay's new play: The Glove.

I will give away why the play has that title (pages 28-29)—it's one of the most interesting parts of the novel (click on the image to enlarge it and to read it):

“Mayde by my father for my sonne on his XI birthedy and never worne butte ync” (29).

If that doesn't give you something of a frisson, I'm not sure you can call yourself a Shakespeare fan.

“HS,” as you may have divined, stands for “Hamnet Shakespeare.” And all the pieces start to fall into place.

The play Jay writes after seeing the glove sounds a bit maudlin—it contemplates the circumstances under which such a glove might have been made—but Marsh is astute enough to avoid giving us too much of the play itself within her book. Instead, she sticks to the lives of the actors—and the mystery that envelops them.

I'm done with spoilers—I'll leave it to you to read the book and to find out if this is a forgery like those of William-Henry Ireland (for which, q.v.) or if it's genuine.

And do read the novel. It is just stupendous.

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Book Note: Joker

Ranulfo. Joker.  New York: HarperTeen, 2006.

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A much more interesting Hamlet novel—more interesting than Hamlet: A Novel (for which, q.v.) is Ranulfo's Joker. The novel's narrator is a Hamlet analogue who genuinely seems (at points) to be insane. Ranulfo, the novel's author, was born in the Philippines and lives in Australia, where the novel is set. I don't know much more than that about him, but his writing is quirky and, on the whole, enjoyable. As an example I'm providing the first two short sections. The first seems to be in the voice of Hamlet's father's ghost—but is it? When the second section begins, the book throws a curve ball:

Fall 2004: A Season in Hell

So here I am in hell. Who would have thought it? Oooh! Aaaah! Ouch! Hell is hot—really, really hot. And there’s no cool evening to look forward to. No snows of winter coming around the corner. No jolly spring to frolic in. Just a monotonous room temperature of a million degrees Celsius or Fahrenheit, makes no difference which.

Hey, Elvis, how are ya doin’?

Hey, Hitler! But Hitler does not return my Nazi salute. Thinks I’m poking fun at him. He’s sooo serious. Lighten up, dude! But then again, he’s already lit up. Ha-ha.

Incredibly, no matter how cremation-hot it gets, the skin does not burn or melt—it just sizzles and crackles, so everybody’s still recognizable. It’s jam-packed here. Chockablock with politicians, generals, CEOs, celebrities; in fact, I think all of humanity that ever was is here. The joke is God hates humans. He loves dogs, and only dogs go to heaven. So if a child asks you if dogs go to heaven, tell them yes, but you’re not because you are a dirty, lying, hypocritical, apathetic, bigoted, self-righteous, self-deluding human.

Oooh! Aaaagh! It’s hard to hold a conversation in hell when everybody’s screaming in agony all the time. Extreme pain is not conducive to hobnobbing and small talk. Out of my maw: just deep primeval screams, hysterical shrieks, lamentations, beastly grunts, horrendous howls. AWOOOOOOOOHHHH!!!!

I hope I get used to it. I have 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 years of immortality ahead of me. Or until the sun sizzles itself out.

You didn’t know that this fine hunk of an orb that greets you in the morn is actually a fiery penal colony. You see, all the stars are places of punishment. So don’t get romantic when you gaze at the twinkling stars, for before you are 4 billion souls crying for mercy that never never comes.

But that would be nice. To be able to gaze at the stars, holding hands with someone you love. A soft, kind, breeze. An ice-cold drink. A lingering, mushy kiss. A river to dip in. Cool, refreshing, clean. Oh, if I could only sleep.

Me and my Shadow

Just kidding around. Hee-hee. I’m still much alive on this dumb-ass planet. Except the last bit, which is true. I can’t sleep. Or rather my busy brain can’t shut down—it’s just bubbling, festering, exploding, corroding, spitting, spewing all kinds of thoughts/emotions/fantasies. But there was a fairy time ago I could just hit the pillow, bring down the curtains of my eyelids, and I’d be snoring away in slumberland.

But no more. Not since the birth of Joker.

Who is Joker?

He is crazy, a lunatic, a fool, who laughs at everyone and everything. He is a voice and a shadow. He is inside me. Sometimes he possesses me totally. Sometimes he hides and crouches, ready to pounce. Endlessly, I hear his laughter. He makes me see things—visions, hallucinations, nightmares, epiphanies. I love/hate him.

Before Joker I was serious Matt—athlete, top student, and Mr. Cool of Elsinore High. I had a great mate called Ray, had (actually still have, but the sweetness has soured) a sweet, beautiful girlfriend, Leah—I was one lucky dude. My parents envisioned great things for me. Elsinore, a little Aussie town off the north coast of New South Wales, was of the opinion that I was going to conquer the world. Then it all fell—crash! kaboom! —apart on me.

My mum left my dad and remarried. My best friend Ray got murdered. Two towers came crashing down—Love and Security. My soul is ground zero: smoldering ashes and ruins.

At seventeen I have hit rock bottom.

The day Joker was born I was at church with Leah. In his sermon (typically soporific) the priest commented on how much God loved us. Normally I don’t dwell too much on what the priest says—I let everything slide by. Priests are Muzak to the soul.

But this time a voice whispered to me. A weird, derisive voice. At first I couldn’t catch what the voice was telling me. Slowly it became clearer. “If God loves us, why doesn’t He pick up a phone and tell us so? Why doesn’t He give us a big hug when we’re down? Why doesn’t He fly about like Superman and protect people from danger? Why doesn’t He speak to us instead of letting anybody who calls himself a believer speak in His name? Why doesn’t He make everyone good-looking and sexy? Why couldn’t He create a bigger planet to cater to our greed? Why couldn’t He give us wings so we wouldn’t need to consume oil? Why didn’t God create us in His image—a cat? [sic: no closing quotation mark] I felt like I was cracking open my mind for the first time. All my life I had asked the wrong questions. Questions which already had the answers. Questions provided to me by authorities. Questions which did not spit or snarl or scream. But these questions I was hearing were different. They pushed and shoved me out of my comfort zone, led me down a dark terrifying hole, subverting everything I believed in, tearing and churning up my brain. I began to giggle. Perhaps at the priest, who couldn’t answer Joker’s questions. Perhaps at God, who created us—or did we create Him? Perhaps at myself, who was the biggest idiot of all, who jumped and rolled over when commanded, who got top marks by memorizing and repeating lies dumbly like a parrot. I who thought I knew everything now knew nothing. Big fat zero. Life was just a big joke. I desperately tried to suppress my laugher. Leah kept elbowing and hushing me to quiet down. I couldn’t contain myself anymore so I rushed out of the church to let it all out.

I was laughing so hard that my ribs began to hurt and I thought I was having a heart attack. Sometimes I wish I had died then.

During my hysterics I noticed a teenager breaking into a car and swiping a cell phone, which the owner had foolishly left inside. Customarily I would have done the superhero—Mighty Matt!—deed and nabbed the thief; instead I just enjoyed myself like I was watching Funniest Home Videos on TV.

The thief glared at me and said, “What’s so funny?”

I smiled at him, like he was my best-ever friend.

“You’re nuts” he said.

“I am,” said the joker to the thief. And lo and behold, a voice from heaven said,

“This is Joker with whom I am not pleased.”

That should give a flavor of this novel.

The novel also deviates from the plot in intriguing ways.  I'll give you one set (even though it's a slight spoiler).  The Hamlet analogue's father isn't dead.  He's divorced, and he tends to drink too much and hang around outside Hamlet's house—haunting it, as it were.  As a connected plot twist, the Horatio analogue has died—and his ghost periodically haunts the Hamlet analogue.

Joker is a bit uneven, but it's still quite intriguing.  If you like the section above, you're likely to like the rest of it.

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Book Note: Hamlet: A Novel

Marsden, John. Hamlet: A Novel. Somerville: Candlewick, 2008.

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I've been very torn about this book. For some, this is their entrée into Hamlet (and, thereby, into Shakespeare). But I can't help giving it a new title in my mind: Hamlet: The Novelization.

Essentially, that's what this book is. The plot of Hamlet is retold as a novel. That's all. Here's the beginning of Chapter Five as an example:

The ghost growled the last word. Hamlet thought it the loudest sound he had ever heard.

"Murder?"

"Murder most foul."

In agitation the man began to walk away from the lions, as if he did not know where he was going.

Hamlet stumbled after him. Behind him, Horatio too started to walk, and farther behind, Bernardo. The dog slunk away toward the eastern corner of the courtyard, then broke into a run, disappearing around the side of the library.  (24)

Well, that's not quite all. There's some consideration of the interior of both Hamlet and Ophelia; that part is almost-exclusively sexual in nature. I've selected this passage because it gives the flavor of that motif even though it's one of the mildest in the novel. I'm fairly sure you don't want to read the more explicit ones. Here's the beginning of Chapter Thirteen:

There's that (which, at least, has a cadence and alliteration in "Would you care to share a sherry?"), and then there is some strong profanity.

I found the novel on the dull side. Yes, even the sexualized sections are flat (not to mention unprofitable). They're also a little stale, and they make me weary. In any case, I didn't find much of interest. If you've read this blog, you know that I don't object to setting Shakespeare in other places, other times, other cultures, or other languages. Indeed, I find a lot of that to be utterly fascinating. This novel is set in a vague castle setting (which makes it odder whenever Hamlet is described as wearing jeans). It's not vague enough to be universal nor precise enough to be significant.

There are just a few moments that are intriguing, but they're dropped pretty quickly. During the novel's equivalent of Act I, scene ii, Hamlet responds to Claudius' articulation of death's inevitability in this way: "Hamlet shrugged and looked at the wall opposite, at an oil painting of Joseph of Arimathea" (36). That juxtaposition of images could be really meaningful—but it's just left hanging. Later, the players say, ". . . we can do Romeo and Juliet if that is your wish. It's not a bad bit of work, although a bit far-fetched" (75). The meta-theatrical possibilities are opened there—but they are not re-addressed.

All in all, I'd advise reading Hamlet: The Play rather than Hamlet: A Novel[ization]. The play has everything the novelization has—and much, much more!

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Shakespeare in The Lion King—And, No, it's not the Hamlet Stuff

The Lion King. Dir. Roger Allers and Rob Minkoff. Perf. Jonathan Taylor Thomas, Matthew Broderick, and James Earl Jones. 1994. Walt Disney Video, 2003.

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Yes, plot elements from Hamlet make their way into The Lion King (you can start exploring the idea here). But did you notice a specific quotation from Romeo and Juliet there, too?

It's in the image above:  In Timon and Pumbaa's first big number, Timon sings the "What's in a name?" line.

He also shares a name with the eponymous character in Shakespeare's Timon of Athens.  I'm just sayin'!

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Links: The Film at IMDB.

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Book Note: The Madman of Venice

Masson, Sophie. The Madman of Venice. New York: Ember, 2012.

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I'm preparing to teach a course entitled "Modern Shakespearean Fiction," and I'm thrilled. For one thing, it means that I get to re-read, teach, and explore some of the most amazing Shakespeare-related fiction—e.g., The Wednesday Wars (for which, q.v.), Undiscovered Country (for which, q.v.), and I Hate Hamlet (for which, q.v.).

It also means that I can justify reading a whole host of other books that I might find it harder to squeeze in.

One of those I've read lately is The Madman of Venice.  It's an intriguing young adult mystery thriller set primarily in 1602.  The protagonists are people from London who have travelled to Venice to investigate some ongoing oddities, including piracy and the mysterious disappearance from Venice's Ghetto of a young Jewish woman.

William Shakespeare doesn't make an appearance in the book, but he is mentioned.  Ned Fletcher, our hero, has seen and enjoyed many of Master Shakespeare's plays at the Globe theatre.

Emilia Lanier, on the other hand, does appear in the novel.  Yes, I thought that might get your attention!  She's part of the motivation for the trip to Venice.  It's a minor role, but an intriguing one.

The book itself is well-written and enjoyable.  The Shakespearean connections are oblique, but the plot, the romance, and the intrigue are a great deal of fun.

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A New Tempest—Somewhat after the Manner of Looking for Richard

Tempest. Dir. Rob Curry and Anthony Fletcher. Perf. Mitchell Bonsra, Paris Campbell, Kieran Edwards, Charlotte Gallagher, Afra Morris, Stef O'Driscoll, Zephryn Taitte, Emily Wallis, Roy Alexander Weise, and Nathan Wharton. Fifth Column Films. 2 November 2012 [UK Theatrical Release]. Note: The film is now available for view on demand at Vimeo! Give it a try.

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Once again, the amount of time at my disposal is infinitesimal, interfering drastically in my ability to keep up with all the amazing new Shakespeare out there.

One of the wonders is Rob Curry and Anthony Fletcher's Tempest, an intriguing mixture of documentary, rehearsal, performance, and stop-motion animation sequences that is beautiful in just about every sense of the word.  Since I've been far too lax in commenting on it—and since its UK release is just over a week away—it's time to bring our collective attention to it.

The film shows a number of people from—well, I suppose I can use the cliché and refer to it as a so-called "blighted" area of London. The film follows their engagement with The Tempest over a period of several weeks—or even months. The chronology is not nearly as important as the way the film reveals both the play and those enacting it.

 The film starts with traditional images of looting and rioting—and then images of profound beauty. I'm struck with the cinematography of the film—it's not a rough-and-tumble documentary: it's remarkable in its detail and its aesthetic appeal.

 On the IMDB page for the film, its director, Rob Curry, describes the film: “Using a blend of drama and documentary, the film follows the kids’ progress as they stage the play, building a portrait of the contradictions of what it means to be British in this brave new world.”

I've selected a brief clip that will not give away too much but which will reveal several different facets of the film. It shows actors talking in character about their roles, a short animated sequence, a bit of rehearsal, and a bit of staging:

The film in its entirety is thrilling and moving.  If you are in any way able to see it, do so.

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Links: The Film at IMDB.

William Shakespeare in “Peabody’s Improbable History” (from The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show)

“The Last Angry Moose, Part Two / A Punch in the Snoot or The Nose Tattoo.” By George Atkins, Chris Hayward, Chris Jenkins, and Lloyd Turner. Dir. Gerard Baldwin et al. The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show (a.k.a. Rocky & His Friends). Season 2, episode 44. ABC. 16 April 1961. DVD. Classic Media, 2004.

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William Shakespeare and his biography—and a purported war with Francis Bacon—make their way into the classic television show Rocky and Bullwinkle.

In the clip below, Peabody and Sherman travel back in time to Stratford in 1611 and “help” with a production of Romeo and Zelda.  Admittedly, this is very late in Shakespeare's career and at the wrong location for him to be working away on Romeo and Juliet, but the show generally demands a pretty liberal suspension of disbelief.

To tell you any more would be to spoil the clip below; therefore, you should simply proceed to the clip below and enjoy it for all it's worth.

“O, hark, what hallow light burneth in yonder patio?”
“Egad, the lad's an ad libber.”

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Links: The Episode at The Big Cartoon Database.

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Book Note: Falling For Hamlet

Ray, Michelle. Falling for Hamlet. New York: Hachette, 2011.

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Falling for Hamlet is a novel that resets Hamlet in a modern era and tells it from Ophelia's perspective. I read some of this novel—the tagline ("First Comes Love, Then Comes Madness") is intriguing, after all—but I never really got very far in it. One of the sections I managed to read contained, on page 155, the following text message from Laertes to Ophelia:

Laertes: R u stupid? what did I say? 

You may, if you wish, click on the image below to enlarge that page and to read a bit more.  That's about where I put the book down, hoping time would fortify me for the rest. Even to my untrained ears, that rang false. It just didn't sound authentic.

Instead of finishing the book and writing a brief review of it, I'll point you all toward the reason I didn't feel a need to finish reading it. Try this astonishingly-funny and magnificently-detailed review by one of the good people of Pursued by a Bear (also embedded below). The reviewer is in the book's target demographic, and she is delightfully-scathing in revealing her thoughts about its inauthenticity.

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On Shakespeare's "Christian" Sonnet, Its Hymn Tune, and the Wonder of Librarians

Songs of Praise: Enlarged Edition: With Tunes. Words ed. Percy Dearmer. Music eds. Ralph Vaughan Williams and Martin Shaw. Oxford: Geoffrey Cumberlege, 1926.

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While reading an article on Sonnet 146—Shakespeare's "Christian Sonnet," as it is often called—I found the interesting fact that the sonnet had been printed (at some point) in a hymnal (of some kind) to be sung in churches. The two questions that sprang immediately to mind were "Which hymnal?" and "What tune?"

The article, unfortunately, answered neither. And I had neither the time nor the expertise to track down the answers myself.

Enter the Reference Librarian.

Reference librarians are simply magnificent.  I sent my request off to ours, together with all the bibliographic material I could muster, and she tracked it down in a few short days.

The sonnet was sung to the hymn tune Congleton. The sonnet and the hymn tune appear together in the 1926 Songs of Praise—which had, as one of its music editors, the great Ralph Vaughan Williams.  In that volume, the hymn tune is described as coming from "The Standard Psalm Tune-book, 1852" and as "attributed there to M. Wise, c. 1648-87" (746).

No, I'm not going to sing it for you.  But I did track down a MIDI file of the tune, and I made this brief video that gives it to you, along with the third verse / stanza.  And I'm sharing the wealth of knowledge provided by the reference librarian by including the full hymn in an image below.

Click on the image below to enlarge the image and to sing Sonnet 146 for yourself!

This sonnet, with its address to the soul and its encouragement for the soul to pay more attention to its own development than the mind does to the accoutrement of the body, does seem appropriate for Christian worship—though the sonnet never reaches the Christian heights of John Donne's Holy Sonnets.  But the last line is lovely:  "And death once dead, there's no more dying then."  It can be compared to 1 Corinthians 15:26:  "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death" (KJV).

Now that we have that hymn tune, we can sing any one of Shakespeare's sonnets—even Sonnet 126 ("Shakespeare's Short Sonnet," which has only twelve lines) to it.  We can even sing Sonnet 99, which has fifteen lines—if we sing two of them together really quickly during one line of the hymn.  But we could also sing them to Ralph Vaughn Williams' tune Sine Nomine, to which "For All the Saints" is often sung.

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Shakespearean Wong-Baker

Wong, Donna, and Connie Baker. "Wong-Baker FACES Pain Rating Scale." Wong-Baker FACES Foundation. Originally published in Whaley & Wong’s Nursing Care of Infants and Children. Copyright Elsevier, Inc. Web. 9 October 2012.

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If you've spent any time in hospitals—and, unless you are employed in the medical profession in some way, I hope that you haven't had to—you've seen the Wong-Baker Faces. The scale is used to help assess a patient's level of discomfort or pain, and it's a marvelous resource.

I was wondering, though, if it might—with a little tweaking—be used to assess the pain of Shakespeare aficionados. Out of this thought arose the scale below:  The Shakespeare Edition of the Wong-Baker FACES Pain Rating Scale (click on it to enlarge it). And I do hope that each of you is on the 0 end of the scale (Rosalind, As You Like It, End of the Play) and will stay there for a considerable length of time.

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Links: The Foundation's Official Web Site.