Primrose Road

There is something more at work in Sarah Smith's Chasing Shakespeares (which I labeled a "guilty pleasure" in an earlier post) than just the "who was Will Shakespeare?" question: Joe Roper, the main character, reads himself into Shakespeare's biography. Early on, he wants Shakespeare to be a glovemaker's son-turned-playwright not because of the facts (which are mostly absent in this novel's universe), but because he himself is a window installer's son-turned-ABD Shakespeare biographer.

"Academic mysteries" like Chasing Shakespeares, Possession, and The Archivist may fictionalize certain aspects of academia for plot-related purposes, but they remind us of the points at which we slip up a bit and read ourselves into the works that we study, perform, and teach. As much as I argue that Hamlet-the-character is not meant to be sympathized with, sometimes I can't help but understand his bad decisions; last year, I inadvertently labeled Stephen Gosson an "Early Modern recovering playwright" in a seminar paper; Troilus and Cressida, an excellent example of how English Renaissance plays are often informed by choice rather than chance (or Fate), can nevertheless be heartbreaking to read or watch. Enough about my own reading and writing - let's move on to Kenneth Branagh. The following is from his Hamlet screenplay (NY and London: Norton, 1996):

HAMLET
... This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof.

Don't you realize what was between us?

I did love you once.

I don't know anymore. I hoped so. I hope so.

OPHELIA
Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

He seems to understand her confusion and berates himself. She is right. He is unworthy. He ought to end it now.

.......

OPHELIA
At home, my lord.
[Ophelia is lying; in Branagh's production Hamlet knows she's lying.]

And with that phrase their love is dead.