A couple of days back, we previewed a discussion of Hamlet’s madness “so call it” (II.ii.5), with some definitions of “mad” from our old buddy, the Oxford English Dictionary. That was the argument or dumbshow… today, let’s take a dive into the great mad playhouse, shall we?
Continue reading “Hamlet: mad, not mad, mad north-northwest, mad with method”
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This week’s Shakespeare news review includes New York Shakespeare Convention, the influence of Lady Macbeth on House of Cards, Double Falsehood, an all-female Othello, and a musical called Something Rotten. PLUS our usual recap of this week’s daily highlights in Shakespearean history.
So yesterday, we took a little look at melancholy. Today, a (very) little look at madness in our boy Hamlet.
To quote Polonius, first we must ask, “To define true madness // What is’t to be nothing else but mad?” (II.ii.93-4). The key word here, I’d argue, is not “madness” but “true.”
Is Hamlet truly mad?
But, what is “mad”?
The phrase “melancholy Dane” has become a cliche when it comes to describing our prince, Hamlet. A quick glance at Google’s Ngram application shows the first usages of the phrase come from the 1830’s; then there’s a dormancy period, followed by a slightly larger spike in the 1850’s, with the phrase really taking off in the 1870’s and hitting twin peaks in 1909 and 1922 with a fairly steady decline since (interestingly, usage has remained pretty steady for the last three decades, matching the frequency of 1875, when it was in its ascension).
So, the phrase has been used. A lot.
But correctly?
I’m not so certain.
(and yes, I know, questioning time in Shakespeare can be a shaky proposition [pun totally intended…])
Let’s set Hamlet in the eleventh century (based on some historical context). Given that setting, let’s start (perversely enough) at the end of the play and work backwards…
OK, we’ve looked at the paths to succession in Hamlet, as well as a paper-thin historical analog for our Danish tale. But what of the situation in which Shakespeare was writing and his audience was living?
If Hamlet was written sometime between 1599 and 1602, we’re nearing the end of Elizabeth’s nearly 45 year-long reign as the English monarch. As we noted before, primogeniture was the “go-to” pathway to succession. And while the Queen had done a pretty good job at keeping rebellions and threats of usurpation at bay (ranging from the Essex Rebellion of early 1601, to the many attempts to take the monarchy from Elizabeth and place Mary Queen of Scots [and Catholicism] on the throne), the problem here is that not only does Elizabeth have no eldest-born son, she has no offspring at all. So what to do? So who would (or even could) be next?
Today, Denmark is a peaceful state. In Shakespeare’s day, at the time at which Hamlet was written, not so much; at that time, Denmark’s rule spanned south to some German duchies, as well as into Norway and Sweden, and over both Iceland and Greenland. But think back further than that, back to a time when England did pay Danegold, or “tribute” (III.i.170) and “homage” (IV.iii.64) to Denmark. Then was Denmark a warlike Viking nation. This is Hamlet’s Denmark.
As Hamlet begins, when we think of royal succession, most of us spring to the concept of primogeniture: the eldest-born son of the dead king becomes the new king. Traditional. Very patriarchal. It’s conceivable that a daughter could become queen, but only if all her elder brothers and their sons pre-deceased her.
But having read our Shakespeare, we know there are a couple of additional possible ways to take the throne:
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This week’s Shakespeare news review includes Kentucky Shakespeare’s Shakespeare in the Parks Tour, Shakespeare in the Parking Lot, Ghostface Killah, Psychological Science, and “10 ways Shakespeare changed everything”. PLUS our usual recap of this week’s daily highlights in Shakespearean history.
Hamlet, Act Four, Scene Five:
Polonius, dead. Gertrude, warned. We, the audience, have had Ghostly suspicions confirmed. Claudius has had his princely suspicions more than confirmed. And thus Hamlet, sent to England. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, sent to deliver Hamlet (only never to return). Fortinbras, has marched his army through Denmark to kick the butts of the Poles. Ophelia, distract over the death of her father, and well on the path to suicide (though we haven’t seen it quite yet).
And as we wait to see it, Gertrude “will not speak with her” (IV.v.1). But she’s convinced to do so by a gentleman and Horatio.
Horatio?
Horatio.
Why is Horatio here, still in the palace at Elsinore, after his friend and his only link to the royal family has been removed and sent to England? Why isn’t he on his way back to Wittenberg?
And why is he giving advice as politically astute–and cynical (“’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew // Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds” [IV.v.14-5])–as any Claudius ever presented?
It just doesn’t make sense to me…
