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'This object kills me': the intersection of gender and violence in performance of Shakespearean tragedy

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'This object kills me': the intersection of gender and violence in performance of Shakespearean tragedy

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“THIS OBJECT KILLS ME”:
THE INTERSECTION OF GENDER AND VIOLENCE IN
PERFOMANCE OF SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY

by

Laurie Dawn Fisher

A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE USC GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(ENGLISH)

May 2012

Copyright 2012 Laurie Dawn Fisher

ii

Table of Contents

Abstract iv

Introduction: Shakespeare’s tragic ways of killing a woman 1
Gender unrest and violent expression 3
Fathers, daughters, and the problem of the broken ritual 8
Modes of viewing: stage and screen(s) 11
Chapter summaries 15
Introduction Endnotes 26

Chapter One: “This Object Kills Me”: Collapsing gender paradigms in
Titus Andronicus 28
Setting the stage for violence in the twentieth century 39
Titus on screen: a history of violence 49
Titus on stage in the twenty-first century 69
Chapter One Endnotes 86

Chapter Two: “Unmanly grief” and woman’s “frailty”: Gender, violence,
and the battle of “becoming” in Hamlet 91
Hamlet on film: the battle of “becoming” versus the battle of
containment 96
RSC stage productions from the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s:
Hamlet’s aggression versus Ophelia’s “learned” behavior 113
“To thine own self be true”: Surveillance as contamination in
three millennial/post-millenial productions of Hamlet 127
Chapter Two Endnotes 153

Chapter Three: “I am not what I am”: The fractured narratives of the self
in Othello 157
Bodies, gender, and violence on stage 163
Bodies on screen: translation, adaptation, and hybrid 177
Othello on the small screen 197
Full-screen Othello 202
Chapter Three Endnotes 210

Chapter Four: King Lear and the representation of violence: Mapping the
gendered self 215
King Lear on screen: cutting out female space 226

iii
King Lear on the small screen 248
Mapping the gendered self in the twenty-first century:
King Lear at the Globe and the RSC 255
Chapter Four Endnotes 272

Conclusion 276
Conclusion Endnotes 285

Bibliography 286

Appendix 293

iv

Abstract

My project examines the ways that acts of violence intersect with notions of gender in
stage, film, and television productions of Titus Andronicus, Hamlet, Othello, and King
Lear. In these four tragedies, an unrelenting amount of verbal and physical violence is
perpetrated against the female body, and I find that these acts—especially as revealed
through violence of male figures against females—reflect an underlying sense of faulty
gender construction. As Titus tries to transition into civilian life as a heralded citizen of
“honorable” Rome, or Hamlet attempts to “become” a man in charge of setting his
political and familial environment straight, or Othello struggles to live up to the
honorable narratives he has built for himself, or, finally, Lear makes the cataclysmic
mistake of determining that he can “shake all cares” and still maintain his position in his
family and society, these male figures show how their disrupted transitions are innately
tied to a troubling sense of just what makes a man or a woman. The male ideal in these
plays is tied to a notion of martial might and honor, while the female is defined by her
lack of space and voice, and her main measure of value is her chastity. Thus a
subject/object divide is exposed, and gender and violence collide in scenes such as
Lavinia’s rape and the way the males interpret Lavinia thereafter, the nunnery scene and
Ophelia’s mad scenes, Othello’s fit and his subsequent accusations and murder of
Desdemona, and Lear’s alternate banishing and cursing of his daughters or his fear of
succumbing to such “female forces” as “hysterica passio” or being exposed as weak by

v
emitting tears or “women’s weapons,” as he calls them. And through these violent
episodes, the previously sanctioned gender constructs—both male and female—prove
untenable.

I argue that the faulty gender constructions are a crucial structural element to these plays;
thus, regardless of the cuts, edits, camera framing, or staging, the selected subsequent
stage, film, and television productions maintain this gender struggle as a central
component of the tragedies that unfold. My project thus argues for a transhistorical
understanding of the gender/violence conflicts within the plays and productions, which
goes against New Historicist or Materialist Feminist readings. I explore many twentieth
and twenty-first-century stage, television, and film productions of Titus, Hamlet, Othello,
and Lear and I assess how different mediums present the gender conflicts and, in some
cases, offer alternative models. For theatrical productions, I focus mainly on the RSC,
National Theatre, and the Globe Theatre, because I see the gender conflict most fully
realized in “traditional” productions—ones that use the text in more traditional ways.
Further, certain film productions that do take some license through extra-textual images,
flashbacks, or fantasies, such as Buchowetzki’s silent film of Othello, Branagh’s Hamlet,
or Parker’s Othello, still solidify and expose the gender conflict or even offer alternative,
homosocial relational models. And particularly in television and film productions, I
assess the way the camera enacts a sort of violence of its own through extreme close-ups,

vi
wide pans, and “cutting” bodies out of frame to redirect our view. Ultimately, on page,
stage, or screen(s), the violence that males enact against females exposes the inefficiency
of both models and thus, arguably, calls for a reassessment therein.

1

Introduction: Shakespeare’s Tragic Ways of Killing a Woman
1

In Shakespearean tragedy, excessive violence is visited upon the female form. Almost all
of the female characters in Titus Andronicus, Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear succumb to
brutal deaths. But long before their gruesome demises, they are both verbally and
physically assaulted, and the duration and manner in which these abuses or tortures are
carried out are quite extreme. In fact, the female form becomes the target upon which
both male and female figures of power “work out” their anxieties about personal, social,
and political identity. Reading these texts in this light raises some compelling questions:
as they “work” on those bodies, what are they fighting for or against? Why and how does
the female body reflect a reigning social or political ideology and instigate the need to
redefine it at the same time? Importantly, how do these plays, and the brutal actions
therein, enact gender-driven ideology and conflict, and what is revealed by the exposure
of arguably faulty gender models? And, finally, what happens when these overtly violent
acts of “redefinition” are performed, on stage or screen, before an audience, blurring the
boundaries between the world of the play and the world at large? To what extent does
the mediating force of the camera impose a distance—or provide a closer, directed
focus—for viewing of these gender conflicts? Similarly, what effect does the
representation of violence in a live stage performance of any of these plays have on our
understanding of gendered bodies in pain?

2
In these four Shakespearean tragedies, the verbal and physical violence perpetrated
against female bodies reveals a universal underlying current: both female and male
gender models as presented are unsustainable. In Titus Andronicus, Lavinia’s rape and
mutilation juxtaposed with Titus’s and other male characters’ inability to read her body
as anything other than a reflection of their own status illuminates female space as devoid
of subjectivity and thus betrays male space as existing at the expense of female
autonomy. Alternately, in Hamlet, the gender conflict is revealed through both Hamlet
and Ophelia’s inability to transition to their (assumed) prescribed roles due to the faulty
models they are given: for Hamlet, a ghost-father who demands violence be enacted to
reclaim his (the father’s) space and a murderous uncle who also advocates violence as a
means of gaining and maintaining his position as head of the patriarchal order; for
Ophelia, a model of (arguably) unrestrained desire in Gertrude or a father who defines
Ophelia’s (female) space for her as something to be guarded, reduced, or even denied.
These corrupted models are further explored in Othello where the stories of male martial
might aligned with honor are exposed as fallacies and the idealization of females
perpetuates a model that negates experience and thus is unsustainable when applied to
actual, living female bodies. Finally, through the link (or broken bond) between Lear and
Cordelia, King Lear betrays not only a familial conflict but one that is specifically
aligned with gender concerns in that Lear’s understanding of his daughters’ space is
dependent upon the notion that they give him “all,” which again positions the male as
existing at the expense of the female, and which ultimately causes the collapse of both
models. And while it is evident that tragedy as a genre tends to rehearse and repeat ideas

3
of collapse, I would argue that what makes the conflicts in these plays particularly
resonant is that these spectacular disruptions, declensions, and annihilations hinge on
faulty models of gender (or gender expectation) that have reached their breaking point,
thus suggesting a more causal relation between problematic incarnations of gender and
the collapse of familial, social, or political systems within the plays.

Gender unrest and violent expression

When Lady Macbeth claims her wish to “unsex,” she identifies a gender-specific
concern: her desire to remake herself to commit herself to violence (to “fill [her], from
the crown to the toe, top-full of direst cruelty,” I.v.43-44) is attached to a notion of what
she can or cannot accomplish due to restraints of her sex, or, I would argue, gender, in the
Judith Butler-defined sense of the historical construction and implementation of the
term
2
. The sense of confinement associated with expectations of gender, in this case,
leads directly to violence. And, arguably, violence is the avenue by which both Macbeth
and Lady Macbeth are defined, or redefined, and ultimately destroyed. I use Lady
Macbeth here as a model of gender unrest because her unrest is directly linked to a desire
for violence: she sees it as the only means with which to escape her role and to advance
within (or redefine?) a patriarchal power structure, so she uses a decidedly “un-female”
method of expression to redefine both herself and her husband and, as a result, their
gender associations are reconceived. Even in “supporting” her husband, pushing him to

4
“greatness” or raised status, she enacts her gender in a way that upends expectations: she
uses her voice for coercion (“that [she] may pour [her] spirits in [Macbeth’s] ear,” I.v.27)
and her hands to finish the violent deed (placing the daggers at the murder site) when
Macbeth seems incapable of completing his bloody task in a manner that is satisfactory to
her. Further, the violence in this text indisputably changes both figures. The reality of
murderous violence—both in terms of dead bodies and in the finality (“undoability”) of
the acts— turns Macbeth the hero into suspect, villain, haunted figure, and traitor, and the
inability of Lady Macbeth to wash off the deed (both literally and figuratively) leads her
to end her own life—the opposite of her original intention to increase her space (and with
it, the province of power).

My project examines the way that acts of violence intersect with notions of gender in
Titus Andronicus, Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear in order to demonstrate how,
specifically, the impulse to commit violence reflects an underlying fear of the inadequacy
of the bearer of violence and a fear of the power of the target of that violence—a power
that betrays the fallacies underlying gender construction. Historically, in a Western
patriarchal society, the power of the influence of words and physical force has
traditionally been assigned to the male. Further, the male maintains control by enforcing
the boundaries of the public state, while the space for the female is limited to the private
sphere. Yet even in the domestic space, the female has limited control over voice and,
arguably, body, under this construction. Further, the rigorous attempt at maintaining this
power structure relies on a heteronormative model of gender relation, as the enormous

5
catalogue of feminist, gender, and queer scholarship has fiercely argued. In Titus
Andronicus, Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear, I find that on page, stage, and screen,
instance after instance of violence—especially in those acts perpetrated by males—is
either driven by or reveals the inadequacy of these gender models. Through my
investigation, I hope to show the ways in which 1) these tendencies are innate, or at least
a crucial structural component, to the written texts
3
even if the notion of the body—and
thus what it means to be male or female
4
—was different at the time the original texts
were composed and performed, and 2) select stage and filmed productions in the
twentieth and twenty-first centuries use the original textual language (“hysterica passio”;
identifying tears as “women’s weapons”; “passions”) and acts of violence (the rape of
Lavinia and its interpretation therein, the treatment of Ophelia—such as in the nunnery
scene—that extinguishes any autonomous space and leads to her death, the murder of
Desdemona, the banishment and then consumption of Cordelia) through which to explore
contemporary gender concerns. In fact, in these stage and film productions, the ways in
which verbal and physical violence changes the characters shows that these models are
no longer tenable. While this project began as an exploration into the violence against
the female body, it soon expanded to include a reassessment of the male figures as
presented in these texts (written and performed), because the two genders are clearly
linked. The male construct is based on its difference from the female, and it relies on that
notion of difference to maintain its status (again, as much feminist scholarship, including
Valerie Wayne’s A Matter of Difference, has noted
5
). And the overriding revelations from
my investigations are that in the undeniable nature of violence and its effects, the male

6
and female constructions are not only revealed as false, but, if that is so, then once the
collapse is recognized, an expanded notion of gender—one not compelled by
heteronormative constraints, can be explored.

Further, I understand/argue for the collision of gender and violence as being of a
transhistorical nature: it is something that, to me, is an underlying concern in the original
playtexts, and thus, arguably, maintains its structural component in subsequent
incarnations and adaptations, as is evidenced in the select production histories I assess.
While scholars from New Historicists like Stephen Greenblatt to Materialist Feminists
like Jean Howard and Valerie Wayne have argued for readings of Shakespeare that are
grounded in material, historical concerns, my project asserts that the underlying gender
conflicts in the written and performed texts I analyze seem innate to those texts and thus
transcend history. As I acknowledged earlier, just what comprises a “male” or “female”
body may have been different in the Early Modern period than those models we see now,
however the expectations of gender roles seem to me less lodged in time. In fact, I argue
that counter to not only Greenblatt, Howard, or Wayne, but also Susan Bennett (whose
book Performing Nostalgia: Shifting Shakespeare and the Contemporary Past ultimately
claims that current historical concerns can be explored through Shakespeare mainly
through alternative productions that consider what is “missing,” like mothers, in
Shakespeare’s texts), by investigating more “traditional” incarnations of Shakespeare—
from RSC and National Theatre stage productions to BBC television productions to such
seminal films as Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet and beyond—the transhistorical nature/effect

7
of gender construction within the plays achieves its most profound influence.
Additionally, even in those adaptations that take more license with the texts, such as
Buchowetzki’s 1922 silent film of Othello, which offers visual pairings that transcend the
heteronormative, Peter Brook’s bleak 1971 King Lear film that fragments language
almost to the point of shorthand, or Julie Taymor’s Titus, which offers extra-textual
“penny-arcade nightmare” sequences to illustrate the characters’ redefinition, violent
stress associated with the building, maintenance, disruption, and destruction of gender
models is still of primary concern. My understanding of the ways in which violence
functions on bodies is informed by the theories of Michel Foucault and Elaine Scarry. I
use Foucault’s idea of the nature of power—that it is exercised rather than possessed—
and its relation to the regulation of bodies in my assessment of shifts of power in
connection to gender as it is displayed on bodies within the plays and productions
thereof. Similarly, Scarry’s notion that the imposition of pain changes both the tortured
and the torturer’s ideas of truth underlies the way I read the various bodies in states of
distress on stage and screen. As the various bodies are “marked” by violence, I consider
what is revealed about both the perpetrators (those doing the marking) and the victims
(those marked), and I argue for shifting power structures that are directly related to
specific gender concerns emanating from models that no longer work. Further, in
productions such as Nicholas Hytner’s, Michael Almereyda’s, and Gregory Doran’s
filmed and stage versions of Hamlet, which emphasize technological surveillance as the
predominant way of controlling (or molding) bodies (and souls), I see a Foucauldian

8
undercurrent in just how these bodies are produced, named, and ultimately marked for
destruction.

Fathers, daughters, and the problem of the broken ritual

My study is centered on select pairings: in Titus Andronicus, I primarily focus on Titus
and Lavinia in light of how violence unites and undoes them; in Hamlet, I explore Hamlet
and Ophelia in terms of their inability to assume their gendered, adult roles; in Othello I
illustrate through Othello and Desdemona how violence ruptures their ability to transition
into married life, and, finally, in King Lear, I assess the devolution of Lear as linked to
Cordelia in terms of what is missing in his construction of both himself and of her.
Underlying these pairings, whether they are father/daughter, intendeds, or newly married
husband and wife, is an acknowledgement of the way their paths to fulfilling their
assigned roles are inhibited: through some form of perversion of the marriage ceremony.
And for this, Lynda Boose informs my understanding and analysis of the texts. Her
excellent article, “The Father and the Bride in Shakespeare,” astutely assesses the role of
the marriage ritual (ceremony) in many of Shakespeare’s plays and illustrates how its
violation and interruption steers characters (in the case of Hamlet, Othello, and Lear—
Boose only mentions Titus once in passing) on the course to tragedy. My project takes as
its starting point Boose’s in-depth analysis of the varied ruptured rites into consideration,
and then I expand the analysis to suggest that these interruptions occur at such moments

9
that specifically bring to light not only familial concerns (as Boose claims) but gender
unrest because these violations prevent the characters from fulfilling their prescribed,
gendered roles. And the frequency with which these interruptions, perversions, and
violations occur throughout the four plays I analyze indicates an inherent problem in
relational and gender status.

Each play—and the productions thereof—that I cover points to places where a character
is either prevented from (or refuses) adhering to the expectations of gender as they
supposedly transition in key moments aligned with the wedding ceremony. Titus
interrupts Lavinia’s betrothal to Bassianus by transferring her to Saturninus, and when
the ceremony is perverted by Bassianus stealing her back without Titus’s blessing (as is
traditional, per Boose), her “honeymoon” is Bassianus’s murder and her violent rape and
dismemberment. Similarly, when Brabantio finds that Desdemona is missing from his
house, as Boose states, “Shakespeare here stages an inverted model, with the father
storming the groom’s quarters and attempting to recapture the bride.”
6
Further,
Brabantio’s backhanded “blessing” upon losing the debate in front of the senate (after
Desdemona illustrates the difficulties of her “divided duty”) confirms that the proper
order of things (the father giving the daughter away) has already been disrupted, and
from this the peaceful transition to married life never occurs—only violent repercussions
are marked. Ophelia cannot even reach married status: the nunnery scene serves, as
Boose suggests, as “an inverted marriage ceremony,” where, when Hamlet asks Ophelia
where her father is, in her answer of “At home, my lord,” “…not only does she lie but,

10
more importantly, she chooses: through the very words she desperately seizes on, she
indicates her own inability to break away from the weighty bonds of home and father.”
7

And what is the result of this severing of ties with Hamlet and of her father’s subsequent
death? Madness, and in death, a macabre “profaned” funeral ceremony that also functions
as a mock-wedding as Hamlet and Laertes jump into her grave and fight over her corpse.
8

Finally, Lear disrupts Cordelia’s betrothal scene (1.i) in such a way as to “substitute the
illegitimate transfer of kingdom for the legitimate one of his daughter.”
9
The effects of
this substitution produce cataclysmic violence as kingdom and family all verge on
collapse. And in this declension, Cordelia’s choice—to go back to her father, alone, and
live out his “prison fantasy”—underscores the initial problem: the inability to enact her
prescribed role (other than giving Lear her “all,” which goes against the marriage ritual).
In all of these situations of perverted ceremony, a rite of passage is distorted or denied,
and the inability to act as called upon betrays the inefficiencies of the models presented.
From this, I ask: how do the expectations of gender collide with their abilities to enact
gender therein? And why do these moments of ceremony initiate violence? Finally, how
does this violence ultimately reveal specific problems with the constructions of gender
within these plays and productions?

11
Modes of viewing: stage and screen(s)

My project assesses four different types of productions—stage, filmed stage productions
(single-camera videotaped recordings of stage productions), films, and television
(including stage productions that have been specifically adapted using multi-camera
filming for the small screen), and these different methods of presentation obviously
suggest alternative modes of viewing. Thus, it is important to distinguish how these ways
of viewing affect my assessment of the gendered bodies in pain. For the stage
productions assessed, both live (those I attended) and viewed via single-camera videotape
(RSC, Globe, and National Theatre productions), I look to Antonin Artaud and Peter
Brook in terms of how a sound, a gesture, or the sight of a wounded body disrupts an
audience and thus calls conventional notions of self into question (see below). Further, I
include taped performances in my stage sections because even though a taped
performance creates a level of distance through a static point of view (a single camera at
the back of the audience, usually) that sometimes cuts off the full stage view at the edges,
the recordings maintain the audible audience reactions (and, as in the case of the Globe
and National theaters, some audience members remain in frame), which serves to bring
the viewer in to the “environment” in a way that differs from conventional television or
film viewing. I would argue that this preservation of theater-audience
reaction/attendance in a certain sense releases the production viewed from its place
lodged in the past, instead creating an alternative space for the viewer.

12
For the stage performances I assess, I see the viewing space as one where the audience is
particularly susceptible to the influence of a sight or sound, and Artaud and Brook
provide the link between representations of violence and the disruption of selves—both
on and off stage. Artaud understands the power of a gesture, and his notion of “cruelty”
or “violence” encompasses more than blood: it is an overall shock to the system of the
spectator, thus redefining him/her in the process. It is this “shock,” and the way it is
accomplished, that interests me, and I believe that redefinition of self, both on and off
stage, occurs in Shakespearean tragedy when violence and gender collide. It is more than
simply holding Gloucester’s bloody eyeball out to the audience for shock effect (we have
seen or read about the famous productions where people ran screaming down the aisles or
fainted at such a display); it is the meaning that these broken bodies convey and how they
disrupt our own notions of self. By viewing Lavinia post-rape, or, as seen in Lucy
Bailey’s 2006 Globe Theatre production of Titus Andronicus, by having her (Laura Rees)
brought through the audience, bloodied, swiping audience members as Marcus (Richard
O’Callaghan) carries her through the crowd, and then seeing her displayed on stage as the
blood and gore seeps from various orifices, the shock is specifically aligned with gender
as we seek to understand just what we are looking at and our notions of safety are
exploded. Or, as Artaud would advocate, an extra-textual utterance such as the
protracted scream uttered by Marcus (Haruhiko Jo) in response to the sight of Lavinia
(Hitomi Manaka) in Yukio Ninagawa’s 2006 production at the RSC vibrates through the
theater as an aural assault also forces us to reassess just what, or whom, it is that we are
viewing.
10
Artaud informs my project in that I use his ideas of spectacle, gesture, and

13
cruelty in the theater to reassess how the moments of intersection of gender and violence
assault the audience in ways that disrupt common notions of gender and call for a
reidentification.
11
Similarly, I use Peter Brook’s notion of a Holy Theater—a theater of
connection to the audience through an emotional charge elicited through gesture or
sound—as a touchstone through which to assess how the presentation of gender conflict
in these productions of Shakespearean tragedy manages to engage or “work on” viewers
and link to specific cultural moments, and thus exert historical influence as well as a
transhistorical connection.

The film and television portions of my project are particularly informed by the ways in
which the camera, blocking, and editing influence the presentation of bodies in distress.
The film productions I analyze use both close-ups and long shots to provide a sense of the
vastness of the landscapes in which the conflicts unfold, while the television productions
tend to use the camera in extreme close-up to provide the viewer with a sense of bodies
confined—bodies that no longer “fit” their space. I see the camera (as guided by its
operators) as an active force or “technology of power,” one that directs our view toward,
or away from, scenes/sites of distress, and by directing our focus in specific ways, the
gender construction and conflict within the specific productions is emphasized or altered
in compelling ways. In fact, I see the camera as committing a type of violence of its own:
it has the “power” to make or unmake a person.

14
Both Walter Benjamin and Laura Mulvey underscore my understanding of the ways in
which the camera view affects audience viewing and disrupts our ideas of the gendered
bodies in distress on screen. Benjamin recognizes the difference in viewing, as
orchestrated by the camera (through the director and all of the other people on the set,
and, finally through the editing process): “…a different nature opens itself to the camera
than opens to the naked eye—if only because an unconsciously penetrated space is
substituted for a space consciously explored by man.”
12
As Benjamin claims, “the
audience’s identification with the actor is really an identification with the camera” and
“the audience takes the position of the camera”; and this is where the social context
becomes so significant in terms of cultural influence. While Benjamin provides a
structure through which to understand the shift of the power of the aura of an object to
the power of the camera’s eye, my exploration of bodies in distress on screen is mostly
influenced by Laura Mulvey’s idea of the gaze. As Mulvey posits, the way in which the
camera focuses on the female body creates a way of viewing for the audience that pushes
them to scopophilia—a pleasure in viewing that reflects the controlling gaze of the male
characters in a film and reinforces the notion of “woman as image and man as bearer of
the look.”
13
This confirms the notion that “[a female’s] visual presence tends to work
against the development of a story line, to freeze the flow of action in moments of erotic
contemplation.”
14
Films such as Julie Taymor’s Titus, Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet, and
Oliver Parker’s Othello frequently use the camera view of female bodies—or body
parts—to arrest the flow of the plot. However, Mulvey is just a starting point for me.
While I do understand that scholars have taken issue (to which Mulvey herself has

15
responded) with Mulvey’s sense of a monolithic audience and a camera view that would
seem to only consider a male director and point of view, I agree with her assessment of
the ways in which the presentation of the female reinscribes her within the confines of the
patriarchal power structure. My investigation extends beyond that: I see the camera (and
editing) as not just reinscribing or memorializing but also exposing these constructs in
such a way that calls them (the gendered figures, the camera view, the viewer’s
understanding) into question. I see the camera opening space—whether it is through
Buchowetski’s Silent Othello’s redistribution of space from heterosexual to homosocial
or through the BBC and Orson Welles’s filmed Othello productions cutting Desdemona
out of frame—for discussion of expanded notions of gender.

Chapter summaries

I begin with a chapter on Titus Andronicus not only because it was the earliest in
composition of the plays I analyze, but because, as many scholars, including Jonathan
Bate, Alexander Leggatt, and Pascale Aebischer, have noted, Titus sets out specific
relational structures that are revisited or enhanced in the later plays. I, like others, see the
problematic Titus/Lavinia introduction (where he defines her as “the cordial of mine age
to glad my heart”, 1.1.162
15
) as a proto-Lear sentiment (he wishes to “set [his] rest on her
kind nursery”, 1.1.136-7
16
). Further, the complicated betrothal scene echoes through
Othello, Lear, and, to some extent, Hamlet (as explained above). And Titus’s tears, his

16
“prevailing orators,” come to undo and redefine the declining male figures I explore in
the other texts and thus offer a key to the gender concerns. Most importantly, though, the
rape of Lavinia and its aftermath provide the model for the most extreme collision of
gender and violence: it tests the limits of language, body, and representation upon which
constructions of gender are built.

My chapter on Titus Andronicus begins by determining the male/female divide: male
expectation is dependent upon martial prowess and access to voice (words), while the
female is positioned as a prize or “ornament” used to enhance male status, and whose
voice is only meant to serve as echo to further solidify the male order of propriety. I
argue that a male martial prowess that is linked to honor (Titus as war hero) is
systematically revealed as false—first in the killing of Alarbus, and then as Titus kills
Mutius. Further, this problematic of male subject/female object is most fully exposed in
the ways in which the male figures “handle” Lavinia. For the men, Lavinia is an object
of exchange, valued by her “virtue” (chastity), a figure who can alternately be “given” or
“taken” with no consideration of her consent, as is exposed in the “fight” over her
between Titus, Saturninus, and Bassianus. This lack of consent—or autonomy—is most
harrowingly explored through Lavinia’s rape and mutilation. The violence that
“changes” Lavinia from object of desire to object of shame exposes not only the power of
male violence to destroy, it also illustrates how ineffective—or damaging—the male
voice has become as the male figures struggle to define Lavinia post-rape. After my
preliminary analysis of Shakespeare’s text, I investigate Edward Ravenscroft’s

17
adaptation, titled Titus Andronicus, or The Rape of Lavinia, which was the basis for most
stage productions on record from 1687 to the early twentieth century. In Ravenscroft’s
text, I argue that the elevation of Lavinia to subtitle inextricably links Titus, and his story,
not only to the female, but to violence. Further, I show how changes that Ravenscroft
made to Shakespeare’s text enervate her character further by refocusing the revenge plot
not only on Titus, but on Junius (Young Lucius from Shakespeare’s text) and making that
plot a “test of manhood” for Junius, thus erasing Lavinia.

My Titus chapter then turns to twentieth and twenty-first century production analysis, in
which I show how various stage and screen productions wrestle with how to present
Lavinia’s body in a way that is “acceptable” to audiences—when, of course, the point is
that this violence is unacceptable and, because this violence is enacted based on the ideas
of what constitutes male or female space, it reveals that both male and female gender
models are no longer sustainable. Through Peter Brook’s and Deborah Warner’s
standard-bearing stage productions, I assess how the presentation of Lavinia’s violated
body through stylized means (the “silent tableaus” of Brook’s production) or through a
more “realistic” representation of violence through the use of clay and blood packs
(Warner) affects our viewing of Lavinia’s changing status. I argue that while Brook’s
methods of presentation actually enact further violence by making the tableau of Lavinia
“beautiful” and thus evacuating the horror (or providing a different type of horror in its
further constraint), Warner’s “realistic” presentation of Lavinia in torment not only
illustrates the gender conflict/collapse in the undeniability of Lavinia’s maimed body on

18
stage, but that the sounds that emanate from Lavinia betray the cost of these faulty
models most fully. A “new” language, or as Scarry would argue, a sound anterior to
language, is the province left to the female, and it is a harrowing sound that exposes the
horror and inadequacy of the patriarchal regime. From these two productions, I then
show how Jane Howell and Julie Taymor use the camera (Howell for television and
Taymor for film) to accentuate—or shift focus away from—the violated female body and
its implications. Howell uses the camera to shift the focus away from Lavinia in crucial
moments such as Marcus’s speech after he sees her in distress, and thus illustrates just
how much space is allotted to the male, at the expense of the female. By focusing
primarily on the males, I argue that Howell enacts and thus betrays the ways in which
both male and female models are unsustainable. Alternately, Taymor uses extra-textual
sequences (“penny-arcade” nightmares) to show just how much the imposition of
violence—or of gender stereotypes—alters the status of both males and females and
reveals them as untenable. Further, both Howell and Taymor see violence as a
transhistorical method through which we define ourselves, and they both try to offer a
“lesson” in the transmission of violence by enhancing the role of Young Lucius and
showing how he absorbs, is consumed by, or ultimately rejects the violence he has been
taught to enact. Thus they offer an alternative “model” by showing that the male
construct has failed and by having him witness the destruction of both male and female
models as a result. Finally, I turn to recent stage productions from Lucy Bailey and
Yukio Ninagawa, who “hearken back” to Warner and Brook in terms of the methods
(realistic or stylized) used to portray the effects of the violence. Bailey recalls Warner in

19
delivering a Lavinia whose undeniable physical and audible presence (Laura Rees’s
unrelenting convulsions and screeches recall those of Sonia Ritter) harrowingly call the
gendered power structures into question, and Ninagawa uses long, red strings to represent
blood and gore, similar to Brook’s cascading ribbons in his presentation of bodies in pain.
Yet I argue that both Bailey and Ninagawa crystallize and enhance the violent, gendered
conflicts in truly Artaudian (theater of cruelty) or Brook-like (holy theater) ways: through
screams and on-and-off-stage movements that disrupt the audience. Through analysis of
the above texts and ensuing stage and screen productions, I illustrate just how the
violence is used to expose the faulty gender models and to thus initiate the need for
alternatives.

My Hamlet chapter reveals the violent gender conflict as a battle of “becoming.” I argue
that for both Hamlet and Ophelia, as representative of gendered bodies in transition from
schoolboy/son (not fully assuming adult male duties politically or personally, even
though he is of adult age) or chaste, inexperienced daughter, they are unable to transition
to their expected positions as political, social leader/head of household or dutiful
intended/wife because the models that have been presented to them are corrupted.
Further, they are not only stifled by corrupt models, they are inhibited by the impositions
of others’ desires or constraints that are constantly being placed upon them, from
Hamlet’s father’s wishes for Hamlet to enact the former’s revenge to Claudius’s desire to
contain Hamlet to Polonius’s frequently expressed desire to limit the motion and,
arguably, thought of Ophelia. Thus, neither Hamlet nor Ophelia is able to fully realize a

20
space of their own. Within these constraints, however, in Hamlet’s struggle to “become,”
he does find space to act: in the ways he verbally and (in production) physically abuses
Ophelia. So, as with Titus Andronicus, the female body is the site upon which gender
conflicts are acted out. Through the assessment of Hamlet and Ophelia particularly in
relation to the nunnery scene and Ophelia’s mad scenes, I argue that the madness
(whether feigned or authentic) is the result of both characters’ inability to enact their
prescribed roles, thus exposing Hamlet and Ophelia’s contamination by the faulty gender
constructions imposed upon or expected of them. Further, from Jean Simmons’ Ophelia
in Olivier’s 1948 film of Hamlet, whose sobs sound the alarm for just how untenable the
gender constructs have become, to Kozintsev’s representation of Ophelia as “puppet-
like” in his 1964 film, to Linda Marsh’s representation of Ophelia as “suicide-jumper” in
the Gielgud/Burton production of 1964, these three productions illustrate the lack of
space allotted the female and the degrees to which the imposition of stress, or violence,
on the female body ultimately collapses both models of gender. Additionally, in the 1989
Daniels/Rylance and 1993 Noble/Branagh RSC productions, I argue that the extreme
physical violence enacted upon Ophelia in the nunnery scene results in an Ophelia that
either mimics/parodies the male in her mad scenes, turns the violent behavior upon
herself, or enacts male fears by miming sexual acts in a picture of unrestrained sexuality,
all behaviors which expose the inability to personally flourish in this contaminated
atmosphere. In Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 film, he uses extra-textual scenes of
flashback/sexual play (this Ophelia has sex with Hamlet) or physical containment
(padded cell) to amplify the “trouble” with Ophelia: in presenting her as sexually free or

21
totally emotionally/mentally untethered, Branagh presents Ophelia as the realization of
the men’s fears. Further, any “license” she may have in “acting out” as she does
ultimately does not confirm an enhanced sense of agency: it betrays an even greater drive
to contain her. Finally, from the ways in which Branagh uses flashbacks, fantasies, and
mirrors to “view” or spy on Ophelia and Hamlet, I turn to three fairly recent productions
that are driven by new technologies of surveillance: Michael Almereyda’s 1999 film
adaptation, Gregory Doran’s 2009 filmed version of his 2008 stage production, and
Nicholas Hytner’s 2010 filmed version of his National Theatre stage production. In these
three versions, I argue that the technologies of power—mechanical surveillance—serve
to further evacuate agency from both Hamlet and Ophelia. Instead of proffering “docile”
or self-regulating bodies, these technologies commit violence in that they produce figures
who are evacuated of their interiority. I ultimately argue that in all of the productions of
Hamlet I assess, the ways in which bodies are monitored or imposed upon limit and
eventually prevent the transition to “becoming,” and those disrupted transitions are
marked with violence.

From the battle of becoming in Hamlet, for Chapter Three I shift to a conflict of
unraveling narratives in Othello as both Othello and Ophelia struggle under the “stories”
they have forwarded of themselves or that others have prescribed for them. At the start,
the male model is aligned with honor in the form of adventures or battles and the female
is valued in terms of her honor/honesty as expressed through chastity. Yet once these
notions are called into question, and the characters are thus left vulnerable to

22
interpretation, more insidious invectives are applied to them: ones they cannot fully
shake, whether true or not. And as they are perceived as one thing (hero/angel), then
another (cuckold/strumpet), and then another (murderer/victim), I argue that all models
come into question, and an underlying sense of what makes a man or woman is proven
false. Further, scenes such as the revelation of the Othello/Desdemona marriage in front
of the senate and the subsequent fallout with Brabantio, Desdemona’s defense, Othello’s
fit, and Othello’s eventual murder of Desdemona and his suicide all provide forums for
the unmaking and remaking of selves, and these transitions are marked by verbal or
physical violence. And through my analysis of various productions, I argue that
alternative models are suggested or even sanctioned. First, through Terry Hands’s 1985
RSC stage production and Sam Mendes’s 1997 National Theatre production, I argue that
even through competing/contrasting representations of both Othello and Desdemona (an
elder Othello and young, docile Desdemona in Hands’s production and a young, vibrant
Othello and equally vivacious Desdemona—who fights back—in the Mendes
production), the (arguably) overriding revelations are the collapsing gender models as
revealed through violent episodes and ultimately “written” on Desdemona’s body in the
final scene. Then, I shift to film in order to explore the ways in which the camera is used
to expose—or commit violence against—gendered bodies in conflict. I explore
Buchowetzki’s 1922 silent film in order to illustrate how it cuts out the female (through
framing) and ultimately favors or sanctions homosocial relationships. I then show how,
in his 1952 film, Orson Welles continues the predilection set up by the Buchowetzki film
for cutting out the female—or cutting her into parts—and how that, along with the use of

23
shadow, light, and disembodied voices, contributes to a feeling that all of the gendered
constructs are false. From there I analyze the 1964 filmed version of Olivier’s Othello
(directed by Stuart Burge) in terms of three modes of camera manipulation: extended
close-up focus on the Othello/Desdemona kisses as used to arrest the narrative, the
camera pull-back on Desdemona during the willow song that effectively obscures her
from view, leaving her as a disembodied voice, and Othello’s manhandling of
Desdemona after her death, all of which offer a picture of heteronormative desire as
uncomfortable or disruptive. My final observations in this chapter shift from small
screen to large screen through Jonathan Miller’s 1985 BBC TV production and Oliver
Parker’s 1995 film. The Miller production gains an intimacy from its extreme close-ups
on Othello, and we are invited to witness a very private undoing in that way. Further, the
close-up camera allows us access to what seems like an unending stream of tears, as this
Othello is defined by “women’s weapons” early on and never “regains” a sense of a solid
male form. However, this intimacy only extends to the male, for Miller uses
reflection/deflection of the female form via mirrors and continues the tradition of “cutting
out” Desdemona in the murder scene in order to create a distance and expose the lack of
female space allowed (or, arguably, that space is taken up by Othello and his tears in a
new restructuring of his own gender). And in Parker’s film, he uses flashbacks, fantasies,
and nightmares to not only bring the various “narratives” of self to life, but to also create
a case against Desdemona for not only Othello, but for the audience. In all of the above-
referenced productions, I show how an array of manipulations still serve to underscore
what are revealed to be quite questionable narratives of self.

24

In my final chapter, which covers King Lear, I illustrate the gender conflict and its link to
violence by exposing the connection between the apocalyptic sense of loss that pervades
the play (and productions thereof) and ideas of masculine versus feminine threat. In this
play, Lear establishes the male space as one that encompasses all voice and all action.
Every other figure, to Lear, exists only for his benefit. Thus, he exacerbates the
questionable gender construct by proffering himself as “king” (using the royal “we”),
“father,” and, in his mind, the only model that counts. Yet as the ideal male, who has the
power to make or unmake all others, he still ties his vague understanding of a slippage in
status to some form of feminine threat. He curses or banishes his daughters, calls on a
“feminine” Nature to either sanction his curses or to rebirth him in the storm, and
determines that “women’s weapons” and “hysterica passio,” both feminine forces, are
overtaking him. Further, his daughters are interpreted as either monstrous or angelic—
demonizing concepts or idealizations that cannot possibly hold. In fact, the only way that
Lear can “realize” these characterizations is by teaching his daughters, through violence,
to ape his tyrannical order or by making Cordelia into a “soul in bliss” through his prison
fantasy or her eventual death. I begin my analysis with one more textual example:
Nahum Tate’s 1681 script, which served in some form as the basis of stage productions
between 1681 and 1838. I argue that Tate’s text is important to the gender/violence
discussion particularly because it introduces the threat of rape into the text, thus
reshaping the male/female threat. I then shift to twentieth and twenty-first century film
and stage analysis, and I begin with an assessment of the Peter Brook-produced 1953

25
made-for-television 73-minute version of Lear starring Orson Welles, and Brook’s bleak
1971 theatrical release. In both of these black and white productions, the text is heavily
cut in favor of staging and close-up shots that reveal the shifting position of Lear in terms
of loss of power and show how little space female figures are able to occupy or maintain.
Brook’s 1971 film escalates the violence in a startling way (both personally and
environmentally), culminating in two gender-specific—or gender breaking—acts of
violence: Goneril’s one-swipe murder of Regan (which she copies directly following
from Edgar’s one-swipe murder of Edmund), braining her against the rocky terrain,
followed by her physical enactment of hysterica passio as she works herself into a frenzy
before braining herself against a rock. She thus embodies both the male violence and the
female (the “mother,” or “hysterica passio”) and shows how both lead to annihilation.
Further, I argue that in this brutal environment there is no space for Cordelia; thus, she is
indeed a soul in bliss—a fictional projection of Lear’s desires—from the time of their
reconciliation to Lear’s death. From Brook’s brutal world I turn to Kozintsev’s film and
Richard Eyre’s televised version of his 1997 stage production: Kozintsev offers a vision
of a heavily populated terrain and so imposes the violence not on “man” or “the body”
but on the many individuals who bear the consequences of the decisions of those who
rule them, while Eyre encloses the combustible conflict into a red or steel-blue space—
each resembling their own version of a tyrannical hell. And finally, I explore three
twenty-first century British stage productions, which all use spatial configurations to
illustrate the shifts in status and collapse of gendered forms.

26
Introduction Endnotes

1
This title is borrowed from Nicole Loraux’s book Tragic Ways of Killing a Woman, which details
methods of killing women in Greek tragedy.

2
I derive my understanding of the sex/gender divide from Judith Butler. She distinguishes gender from
biological sex by identifying the former as a social construct rather than an innate force, as it has come to
be accepted. Further, Butler argues that gender norms—which underscore a heteronormative power
structure—derive power from repetitive performance: one “acts” one’s gender according to social codes.
And, again, this suggests an artificiality and a political component to gender construction. Butler’s notion
of performativity underlies my understanding and analysis of gender construction throughout my project.

3
By “text” I refer to the written quarto and folio texts from the Early Modern period. I acknowledge that
there by no means is one “overruling” text of any one play and that the differences between the various
drafts (some by compositor, some by transcription error, others by editing considerations, and still other
unknown reasons) sometimes offer a change in meaning or characterization that can at some times be
radical.

4
By this I refer to the notion that there was one body, and the male/female distinction was a matter of
difference in heat depending on what organs were inside or outside. Further, I find the Galenic model of
the humours to be particularly useful in my explorations, as the “imbalances” that various characters in
these plays experience are assigned particular gender significance, and the fears that accompany these “fits”
(Lear’s hysterica passio, Othello’s fit, Titus’s descent into tears, or even Ophelia’s madness) seem to undo
the very gender roles they have sought to build and maintain.

5
I bring up Valerie Wayne here because I she defines her materialist feminist position in contrast to New
Historicists and thus tries to recuperate space for questions of gender.

6
Boose, p. 331.

7
Ibid, p. 329.

8
See Boose, pp. 330-331.

9
Ibid, p. 332.

10
From The Theater and its Double. While advocating “to put an end to the subjugation of the theater to
the text,” Artaud does see in speech “its possibilities for extension beyond words, for development in space,
for dissociative and vibratory action upon the sensibility” (89).

11
As Artaud claims, he advocates for a theater that “recounts the extraordinary, stages natural conflicts,
natural and subtle forces, and presents itself first of all as an exceptional power of redirection” (83), one
that “wakes us up, nerves and heart” (84).

12
Ibid, p. 1181.

13
In the anthology Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings. Eds. Leo Braudy and Marshall
Cohen. New York: Oxford UP, 1999, p. 837.

14
Ibid.

27

15
All citations from Titus Andronicus are taken from the 1995 Arden edition, edited by Jonathan Bate.

16
All citations from King Lear are taken from the 1997 Arden edition, edited by R.A. Foakes.

28
Chapter One: “This Object Kills Me”: Collapsing Gender Paradigms in
Titus Andronicus

During Lucy Bailey’s stage production of Titus Andronicus at the Globe Theatre in
London in June 2006
1
, the house was packed, the temperature was hot and muggy, the
sun shined in on the open-air theater, and the “groundlings” were positioned as active
participants of the production. Their laughs, sighs, and swoons were often seen and
heard in reaction to direct address from the actors. The performers ran through the
standing audience, cajoled them with their lines, and even tussled with audience members
at certain moments. This was a hyper-realized “live” theater—a twenty-first century take
on a sixteenth-century theater type of experience, with palpable energy emanating from
body to body. At one point in the afternoon, the newly maimed and raped Lavinia (Laura
Rees) took center stage. The actress stood there, unsteady, covered with dirt, and
“bleeding” in large brown globs from her hands, down her front, and finally, slowly,
ominously creeping and seeping out of her mouth; a gruesome image, realistically
representing the effects of violence on the body in a way that recalled Deborah Warner’s
1987 production. The figure was stunning and startling to members of the audience,
many of whom gasped, and, at that moment, a young, teenaged girl in the groundling
portion of the audience fainted. Was it the heat? Perhaps a reaction to standing for so
long? Or was the horror of Lavinia’s maimed figure undeniable and, for the audience
member, unbearable?

29
A week later in Stratford, Yukio Ninagawa’s Japanese language production of Titus at
the Swan Theater presented the blood and gore by way of red strings streaming from the
various body parts of the mutilated characters, in a stylized representation of wounding
reminiscent of Peter Brook’s seminal 1955 production. Here Lavinia, post-rape,
wandered across the stage like a frightened, glazed-eyed deer, with red strings cascading
from her arms, genitalia, and mouth. The sight of this figure prompted Marcus to scream,
“AAAHHHHHH!!!” as a primal/ primary reaction. This extra-textual utterance seemed
to me, as an audience member, to be the most startlingly accurate assessment of the sight
before him, and the yell was made especially poignant by its contrast to the awkward,
lyrical speech that followed
2
. Witnessing the body in such extreme distress elicited
reactions that went beyond words—in the case of the Globe Theatre, the overload of
“mess” seeping out of every orifice of an obviously violated body caused a momentary
lapse of consciousness: perhaps the realization of a too-terrorized body on stage could not
be contained in the audience member’s understanding of how the limits of human
suffering are defined. For the Ninagawa production, such a horrible sight initiated a
guttural unleashing. One production made an audience member shut down, while the
other showed a character onstage in need of extra-textual expression. In both cases,
words were insufficient in describing, or, I would argue, even fully understanding the
sight of the ravaged body in pain.

30
As many scholars, critics, and audiences, from Eugene Waith to Jonathan Bate to Cynthia
Marshall, Katherine Rowe, Alexander Leggatt, and Michael Billington, among others,
have noted, Titus Andronicus centers on the body in states of extreme distress. Leggatt
and many others see the “central act of violation”
3
in the play in Lavinia’s rape and
torture, and with violation comes re-identification. Violence not only defines, or
redefines a gendered figure; it calls into question the very definition of what it means to
be human. Further, I would argue that the paradigms for both male and female genders
which are set up from the very start of the play, when closely assessed, are revealed to be
inherently problematic and, importantly, unsustainable. And it is the “language” of
violence that brings the faulty gender construction to light.

From the first scene of the play, the male figures are identified—and revered—through
their associations with weaponry or martial might. Instruments of violence such as
swords (and even armies) are meant to both preserve and advance the male position in the
ancient Rome of the play. Saturninus first entreats the Roman patricians to “defend the
justice of [his] cause with arms” and “plead [his] successive title with [their] swords”
(1.1.2, 4)
4
, while Marcus announces the preparation of noble Titus’ return, citing Titus as
“renowned” for his “flourishing in arms” in his recent triumph over the Goths (1.1.41).
For men, military prowess or threat “speaks” the loudest—their “voice” is punctuated by
physical action. Yet this identification of males with violent weaponry is problematic in
that first they use physical force to undo others and, since physical violence is the only

31
language they seem to understand, ultimately this violence undoes them all rather than
“protecting” or “serving” them. Further, the veneer of martial might serves as weak
cover for bodies already in distress, which indicates that the paradigm itself is inherently
faulty: Titus is given a hero’s welcome in Rome due to his military prowess in service of
Rome, yet in his oration, Marcus notes that “five times [Titus] hath returned bleeding to
Rome” (1.1.33-4). Thus, Titus as embodiment of male strength and honor is already
exhibiting loss. His blood not only signifies his war wounds—he is literally losing blood
for his country—but it also represents his bloodline and the sons he has lost in service to
Rome. Male martial might “engenders” loss and death. Though he brings the actual
bodies of his sons home, arguably his own blood also represents the cost of allegiance to
certain notions of male identity/identification. In addition, tears—another physical
representation of loss from the body—come to signify not tribute or salutation, as they
are used early on in the text (1.1), but collapse of both male and female paradigms. As
Titus sees his political and social position diminish and his family become ostracized,
tears become his “prevailing orators” (3.1.26). And these tears, “women’s weapons,” as
Shakespeare would later term them in King Lear, undo Titus to such an extent that by his
“I am the sea” speech (3.1.220-234), gender (both male and female) is on the verge of
total collapse.

While the male model is aligned with, and subsequently destroyed by, physical force,
especially if defined as bodies in action (acting upon others), the ideal female in the

32
play—represented by Lavinia—is solely viewed as an object. Further, whether described
as an ornament or prize, or even as the ultimate symbol of loss in reflection of Titus’s
diminished status, she is always identified in association with another entity—be it a male
or Rome itself (“Rome’s rich ornament,” 1.1.55). She is not talked about by the males as
a stand-alone figure, but as a concept—“virtue”—or property. And the problem with
defining the female in this way becomes harrowingly apparent when her maimed,
tortured body does (will?)
5
not leave the stage for most of the play after her rape and
dismemberment. She becomes an undeniable “body,” yet one that still cannot be read
aptly by the males or male society that surround her, which is ironic in that her mutilated
body is the result of male violence: to “prove” manhood, the female body (and soul?) is
subject to physical and emotional possession, attack, violation, and ultimate annihilation.
So, in not “seeing” her, they also cannot identify themselves. Further, in the world of this
play, if a female is defined solely by her virtue/chastity, “what” is she when that is gone
or taken away from her? The play presents one other female model—that of
lasciviousness gone awry in the form of Tamora. The Goth Queen is the ultimate
threat—uncontrollable lust and desire. Yet for Lavinia, whose voice begins as an echo to
Titus (Lavinia’s first words are “In peace and honor, live Lord Titus long” in answer to
his “In peace and honor rest you here, my sons” (1.1.159-60) and her “tributary tears”
and “tears of joy” echo those of Titus), she “speaks” louder as a body that reflects the
violence and repercussions of a male desire that sees the female as an object. She reflects
what is wrong with both paradigms: the ideals don’t consider the individual and,
especially for the female, the physical and social impositions cause a stress that is

33
ultimately uncontainable, resulting in a bodily breakdown, be it Lavinia as open,
undeniable wound, “sounding” the misfortunes of both male and female forms or as an
entity that ultimately must be extinguished to “stop” it from emitting the messages that
betray the effects of male violence.

The production and reception history of Titus Andronicus has focused mainly on how the
excessive violence was/is represented: how does one broach the line between tragedy,
horror, and farce? How much violence is too much? What needs to be seen versus told,
or cut altogether, in terms of making the production “playable” to specific cultures, and
how do these decisions regarding the representation of violence affect the various
audiences’ understanding of male and female identity on stage and screen? For answers
to these questions, and others, I look from Ravenscroft’s longstanding adaptation to Peter
Brook and Deborah Warner’s standard-bearing twentieth-century productions and then to
Jane Howell’s well-respected BBC production and on to Julie Taymor’s vibrant screen
interpretation. Then I explore how twenty-first century interpreters view these faulty
paradigms through Lucy Bailey’s and Yukio Ninagawa’s 2006 stage productions. All of
these productions struggle to find a balance for the violence where there is no balance,
only excess. And each production, whether through “stylized” bloody representations
such as ribbons or more “real-looking” fluids such as mud and/or blood packs, startlingly
reveal how much of a toll the imposition of gender paradigms takes on the human body.

34
I focus on Lavinia and Titus, and their relation to each other, because they reflect gender
crises in the play, and in the various productions, at their most extreme: Titus as
representative of the ideal Roman male (at the start of the play), defined by virtue, honor,
and nobility, all tied to his martial might, and Lavinia as the ultimate prize, defined by
her obedience and her chastity, yet simultaneously as the ultimate reflection of loss and
of false (male?) values. Neither model holds up in this play, and the productions therein
show just how scathing a criticism is revealed in the near-total collapse of gender.
Further, Titus is a male figure in transition: he is at the pinnacle of his career success, and
is now looking to rest, with Lavinia as “the cordial of [his] age to glad [his] heart”
(1.1.169)
6
, while Lavinia is on the brink herself: she goes from betrothed girl to newly
married (a frequently complicated transition for fathers in many Shakespeare plays) to
sexual assault victim, a finally troubling status in that the male figures—most notably
Titus—cannot seem to allow her an autonomous status even in her distressed state. I
focus on the complicated betrothal scene because the decisions directors and actors make
in the presentation of that scene set up the intricacies of the relationship between Titus
and Lavinia and show how much, or little, space Lavinia has to act, or react. I then
concentrate on Lavinia as she appears, and is dealt with, post-rape, by Marcus and then
by Titus. I also consider how directors show Lavinia in her final stages: specifically, I
investigate the degree to which she participates in the scenarios that lead up to her death,
from the collection of Chiron and Demetrius’ blood to her ultimate demise at Titus’ hand.
All of these scenes illuminate just how much stress is placed on the body, and how that
stress belies the instability of gender constructions within the play. Further, the decisions

35
made in each production highlight specific cultural prejudices in their presentation of
“acceptable” versus “unacceptable” stress and use the violence to communicate to the
audience.

EDWARD RAVENSCROFT: Adapting “A Heap of Rubbish”
7
and concentrating the
focus on rape

Edward Ravenscroft’s 1687 adaptation of Titus Andronicus, titled Titus Andronicus, or
The Rape of Lavinia aptly illustrates key components of the longstanding struggle related
to the representations of violence and the body that artists and audiences have perceived
make this play difficult to produce from the Restoration onward.
8
Ravenscroft famously
noted that his adaptation was an attempt to improve upon what he felt “seems rather a
heap of Rubbish then a Structure”.
9
Ravenscroft applied numerous changes to
Shakespeare’s script, including toning down the on-stage violence, changing or
eliminating scenes, and even adjusting characters’ motivation for certain actions.
10

Importantly, on the most obvious (yet substantial) level, Ravenscroft announces the
linking of gender identity to violence via his altered title: Titus Andronicus, or the Rape
of Lavinia. This is a point of interest, on the most elementary level, because it aligns
Titus—and his story or identity—with the rape of his daughter. It elevates the status of
the morbid, invasive crime within the context of the play by making it a subtitle, which is
also significant in that Titus is linked not with his daughter, but with the crime enacted

36
upon his daughter, one which “changes” or “violates” her identity. It also shows the
significance Ravenscroft gives the event in terms of what he “crafted” from
Shakespeare’s play. It is crucial to notice this elevation of status in the title because
Titus’s identity crisis is painfully, memorably reflected or reproduced on Lavinia’s body.
Thus, as much as Lavinia does not have her own emotional or social space within
Shakespeare’s or Ravenscroft’s texts, this linking of Titus to Lavinia’s rape from the start
argues for a Titus who is just as defined by a female as the female is defined by the males
in her life.

Ravenscroft’s act and scene breaks further elevate the focus on Lavinia, which reinforce
how her changing status is undeniably linked to Titus, especially in terms of peril or
violence. As Alan Hughes notes:

Act 1 ends as Bassianus abducts Lavinia and Titus pursues, Act 2 as Chiron and
Demetrius set out to rape Lavinia, Act 3 as Marcus leads the mutilated girl away
to show her father, and Act 4 with Lucius’ exile. In each case the audience asks,
‘What will happen next?’ and is left in suspense through the interval. That
question usually concerns Lavinia: she is in the new subtitle, and is generally
more prominent than in Shakespeare.
11

Hughes states in his commentary that the act breaks during this period came about
because of Restoration theater conventions—the need to clear the stage between
scenes/acts before the set can be changed,
12
and because of this, the scene endings are
stronger in terms of action (dramatic exits “make a lasting impression,” according to

37
Hughes
13
). Still, even though some changes may be driven by adaptation to stage
conventions, the linking of heightening-scene-end action to Lavinia coupled with her
name placement and the crime against her in the title, put her and her crises on equal
footing with Titus in the chaotic maelstrom of identity shifts. In her essay “Lavinia’s
Rape: Reading the Restoration Actress’s Body in Pain in Ravenscroft’s Titus,” Karen
Reilly suggests that the introduction of female actresses to the English stage at this time
also factors into the elevation of rape in Ravenscroft’s text. She claims that, “Lavinia’s
rape transforms from a gruesome spectacle of Elizabethan violence into a Restoration
vehicle for exposing actresses’ bodies onstage.”
14
Yet one must ask: how do
Ravenscroft’s changes alter the perception of the character of Lavinia and her relation to
Titus and to the other male figures that define her or direct her fate? Whereas
Shakespeare “names” Lavinia Rome’s “rich” ornament, Ravenscroft has Bassianus
describe her as “Rome’s bright ornament” (2)
15
, while Ravenscroft’s Saturninus calls
Lavinia a “trophee of the day” (9) and “foolish toy” (10) rather than the “changing piece”
in Shakespeare’s text. Does Lavinia’s “brightness” shift focus to her as an object to be
viewed, and does Lavinia-as-toy dehumanize her—or her power—further? Also, Hughes
notes that Lavinia is a “proper” lady in accordance with the historical time (1687)—when
Bassianus and Lavinia catch Tamora with Aaron, Bassianus taunts them, but Lavinia
doesn’t join in the taunting to as full an extent as in Shakespeare’s text.
16
Hughes
remarks that she’s “too ladylike to join her husband in calling them names.”
17
So
Hughes’ suggestions regarding propriety show how Ravenscroft crafted an “acceptable”
Restoration lady, yet I would argue that these mild cuts to Shakespeare’s text further

38
illustrate that the female picture being presented here is one of decreasing agency. In
fact, when Bassianus is killed, Lavinia immediately tries to kill herself, rather than in
Shakespeare’s text, where she waits to plead with Tamora for death when she is under the
threat of impending rape:
Bassia. Lavinia—oh!--- [Bassia. Dies.]
Lavin. I come--- [Lavinia Catches up his Sword & offers to kill her self, is
prevented by D.] (21)

Here we see that Bassianus’ final thought—or plea, through his utterance—is on Lavinia,
and Lavinia’s automatic response is to cease as well, showing that her position as wife is
all-encompassing: she does not wish to have a separate identity, which would mean to
exist without him. Alternatively, this can be read as a call and response with Bassianus
calling on Lavinia to go with him, and her answering obediently. Either way, this
alteration of dialogue and acceleration of Lavinia’s wish to die illustrates her lack of
autonomy. Ravenscroft also takes the act of identification away from Lavinia, to a
certain extent: It is Titus who writes the word rape in the sand for all to see, and then he
tells Lavinia to write the rapists names. Importantly, as Alan Dessen notes, Ravenscroft
alters the text so that when Lavinia identifies Chiron and Demetrius by writing their name
in the sand (moved to III.i, before the heads of her brothers are brought back), she uses an
arrow rather than a staff.
18
This more tellingly represents written language—and voice—
as male: Lavinia must use a male weapon to write, and she must write as males instruct.
Further, she is later eclipsed somewhat in that the revenge plot for the Andronici is taken
over by the actions of Junius (the figure of Young Lucius in Shakespeare), who is

39
enlisted by Titus to lure Chiron and Demetrius to Titus’s garden as a test of Junius
“becoming a man.”
19
Overall, Ravenscroft’s text complicates the violence-gender link of
Shakespeare’s text: While highlighting the focus on Lavinia in terms of the crime(s)
against her, and in relating that to Titus (through the title), Ravenscroft illustrates just
how deeply the characters commingle, yet he also shows the link to be a violent one—
Lavinia represents the devastation caused by male violence. Further, by cutting the text
to suggest a “proper” lady (as Hughes so names Lavinia), Ravenscroft identifies the
notion of propriety with a lack of autonomy in the female. Words—and weapons—are
the province of men, and Lavinia’s body is the site on which the ills of the problematic
patriarchal structure become apparent.

Setting the stage for violence in the twentieth century

The main issue of concern in twentieth century stage productions of Titus has been how
to present the violence, and especially the aftermath of the central act of violence,
Lavinia’s rape. Two productions have set the standard for interpretation: Peter Brook’s
stylized 1955 production
20
, which uses ribbons to represent blood and gore, and Deborah
Warner’s 1987-88 more realistic production that relies on clay, dirt, and blood packs to
illustrate the wounding. The stylized versus realism debate is important in that each

40
decision affects our viewing—and understanding—of the gendered body in pain in
different ways. For instance, does Brook’s decision to stylize and thus ritualize the
presentation of violence, especially as related to Lavinia, fetishize it, further enervating
Lavinia by imposing an artificial element of “beauty” to her (much like Marcus’s
imposition of inappropriate words upon seeing her maimed figure)? Alternately, does
Deborah Warner’s representation of Lavinia, post-rape, as a bloody, dirt-covered, oozing
“open wound” bring us any closer to an understanding of who she has become, what has
been taken away from her (voice, body, chastity), and how that redefines her in gendered
terms, or does this type of viewing, as with the stylized production, also fetishize
violence, and in particular, the female body in pain?

PETER BROOK: Titus, Lavinia, and “a ritual of bloodshed”
21

Peter Brook saw the overriding force in his 1955 RSC stage production—the force that
ultimately connected with audiences—as one of ritual violence. Commenting in The
Empty Space, he claimed: “this obscure work of Shakespeare touched audiences directly
because we tapped into a ritual of bloodshed which was recognized as true (15)” [quoted
in Dessen].
22
And this “truth,” as Brook understands it, is the purpose of his “holy
theatre,” a theatre of connection to the audience through stage experience known as “the

41
invisible made visible.”
23
Brook, and many critics, felt that a public not far removed
from the atrocities of World War II
24
had a deepened understanding of the way in which
violence “speaks,” and changes things, thus reinforcing the way that violence holds its
transhistorical connection while at the same time making it personal and culture-specific:
it speaks across the ages in a personal way. And the violence was ritualized through
stylization. As Bate states in his introduction to the Arden edition of Titus, Brook’s
production, with its stylized presentation of Lavinia (Vivien Leigh) post-rape using long,
red ribbons streaming from her mouth and wrists to represent blood, is an “achievement
of visual stylization.”
25
Yet, as he notes, that “achievement”—making the scene “into a
silent tableau in a kind of discovery space upstage centre”
26
where Lavinia is viewed
comes at the expense of “verbal stylization” in that Brook cut Marcus’s ensuing speech.
Bate sees this as a stunning organic rethinking of the text:
The long red ribbons serve as a translation of the language of the text in that they
stand in the same evocative but oblique relation to blood as do such similes as that
of the bubbling fountain: the innovation may thus be said to grow from the
original script. And at the same time they speak in the new language of the post-
Artaudian theatre in which stage events are ritualized and their correspondence to
reality outside the theatre is skewed and problematized.
27

If the use of ribbons does serve the same “oblique relation” as Marcus’s (Shakespeare’s)
text, then does it also “not fit” what it represents? And how does ritualizing the violence
against Lavinia offer an understanding of what happened to her and who she has become
as a result? Is making her a piece of art to be viewed (“a silent tableau”) ultimately a way
to understand horror, or does it obscure especially the gendered nature of the crime,

42
ultimately imposing the same constraints on the female form—making Lavinia an object
or a victim?

Pascale Aebischer suggests, and I concur, that Brook’s methods elide the “obscenity” of
the violence (rape) and instead lock Lavinia in the position of object: “by cutting
Marcus’s speech and stylizing Lavinia’s wounds, Brook purged the scene of its obscenity
and its indictment of the violence that underlies the fetishizing gaze.”
28
Aebischer goes
on to support her view of the Lavinia tableau as fetishizing (and undermining) by quoting
various contemporary critics who described Lavinia in the production—and in this scene,
especially—only in terms of her beauty.
29
The danger in stylization, then, is that by
creating distance and thus obscuring rather than revealing (or contesting) the violent act,
we either miss the implications of that violence or are even arguably arrested/redirected
ourselves in our scopophilia. The gaze thus becomes distorted in such a way as to limit
both the viewing and the viewed. By focusing on the “beauty,” what becomes of the
violence? And does locking Lavinia in as object of beauty rather than as site for
provocative discussion of the transformational effects of violence thus lock her into the
feminized status that set the scene for her rape in the first place?

43
The cuts to Lavinia’s text (and stage actions) throughout seem to reinforce the notion of
Lavinia as feminized object with her voice reduced and then violently taken away from
her. One particular instance is telling: Brook rearranges the text so that “Lavinia, you
are not displeased with this” is asked by Saturninus in relation to his offer to Titus that
“Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart…” rather
than as a query regarding Saturninus’s conciliatory gesture toward Tamora.
30
Lavinia
does not respond to Saturninus because at this moment Bassianus pulls his sword, as do
Lavinia’s brothers. Thus Bassianus “speaks” for her, with the” language” of male martial
might. Lavinia is the object that the men fight over, but she has no voice of her own.
Further, with limited (or no) participation in the revenge plot following the rape, she
carries the “tableau” imagery, or is confined by it, to the end. She does not put the staff
in her mouth to “write” the crime, nor does she chase after Young Lucius, nor does she
hold the basin to catch Chiron and Demetrius’s blood (there is no display of bodies or
cutting of throats—all acts of violence occur offstage). And in the final scene, she rises,
as if on command, and stands in place while Titus crosses to her, kisses her, and then
stabs her. Then, in a most peculiar stage direction, the promptbook states: “she falls on
her back onto the table and Titus gently makes her comfortable.” This is curious—and
troubling—in that it suggests either 1) Lavinia can only find comfort in death, or 2) Titus
sees her death (murder, mercy killing) as the only way to comfort her—or himself, or 3)
Lavinia’s body, displayed in life or death, is a tableau, where she is positioned by the
males for viewing. Each scenario evacuates Lavinia of any agency and offers a view of
female as object throughout. Further, the stylization of wounds complicates the viewing,

44
as discussed above, in that it evacuates the “ugliness” of the violence in favor of
“beautiful” representation.

DEBORAH WARNER: Shock value
“The whole creation of Titus came from that one image of a man sitting in a chef’s outfit
with a little girl on his knee, about to break her neck like a chicken.”
31

-- Brian Cox, on playing Titus

Deborah Warner’s 1987-88 production of Titus favored a realistic approach to the
violence as opposed to Brook’s earlier, stylized production. As seen from Brian Cox’s
stunning description of how he developed his characterization, via a specific action he
thought of in the first read-through
32
, a brutality underlies the relation between Titus and
Lavinia (Sonia Ritter). This Titus literally builds his identity on violent acts and on the
effects those acts have on Lavinia, and this eventually destroys them both. Where Brook
isolated and distanced his Lavinia via the stylized tableaus and thus ritualized the
violence, Warner made violence something inescapable, both for the actors and for the
audience, as the play was performed in the more intimate Swan Theatre in 1987 and at
The Pit in 1988. Further, Warner focused on both text and action (as opposed to silent
tableaus and cutting of the text) in order to convey the particular horrors: hers was the
first major production of the twentieth century to use Shakespeare’s full text. So, the
problematic Titus/Lavinia link and the Lavinia/Marcus sight versus language conflict
(2.3) are exposed in a way that reveals the violent gender conflicts to their fullest extent.

45

Brian Cox’s Titus defines himself through both forceful physical control of others and a
dangerous lack of self control. His desires take over all else as, to him, the only thing
that matters is Rome, and he is Rome’s finest representative. He arrives on stage
33
riding
atop a ladder, pulling and yanking on a rope that is secured around Tamora’s neck. So,
the male sphere is defined as conqueror and enforcer of relational status. Both Tamora
and Lavinia are dehumanized/objectified by Titus: he treats the prisoner Tamora as an
animal, poking and prodding her, and then displaying her as his war prize. And though
he first greets Lavinia with an expression of joy, when Saturninus suggests Lavinia for
his bride Titus happily goes over to Lavinia, grabs her, and brings her over to Saturninus,
and he raises his hands in victory as he stands in between Saturninus and Lavinia. This
moment solidifies the notion that Lavinia exists only insofar as she relates to Titus; thus
she has no autonomous space. Further, Lavinia’s status as object is revealed through her
dress: she wears a golden/orange-colored dress, while all of the other characters dress in
muted grays or browns. She is thus the focal point of the staging, yet this focus is one
that accentuates her status as “Rome’s richest ornament.” And when she is raped and
maimed by Chiron and Demetrius, and her dress becomes messed and muted with clay
and mud, she comes to harrowingly reflect the cost of the male figures’ imposition on
bodies as they secure their status through violent means.

46
The gender conflict is most fully realized in the violent ways Lavinia is handled—or
dismissed—in the scenes just prior to and after the rape, and in the ways she reacts, both
in terms of sight and sound. Lavinia’s transformation begins as she is forcefully taken
away to be ravaged by Chiron and Demetrius: as they drag her offstage, Demetrius sticks
his hand under her skirt and, shockingly, lifts her up by her crotch. This unleashes a
series of screams from Lavinia, which continue as Chiron and Demetrius carry her out of
sight: her voice is finally realized through terror, just as it is about to be extinguished (or
transformed into ghastly utterances—wails, screeches, and hisses). When Lavinia
reappears on stage, post-rape, she crawls in behind Chiron and Demetrius, who have
crawled on stage first, mimicking her in a gruesome manner. She gets up and then faints,
falling between them. They poke and prod her, and then spit on her, illustrating just how
little they view her as human. Her chastity is gone, and she is thus no longer an object of
desire. When Marcus later appears, he and Lavinia engage in a horrific clash of words
and image as Marcus delivers his full speech. Marcus is center stage and Lavinia stands
at the edge, and when Marcus first tries to advance toward Lavinia, she flinches. Marcus
then continues his speech, taking his time saying the words as Lavinia’s ravaged body
shakes and oozes, and even as she finally collapses onto him, the disparity between what
we hear and what we see is shocking. The words do not match the image, and both word
and image reveal the inadequacies—and the cost—of the faulty constructs of both male
and female. The male’s words and actions do violence, and if the female is only “seen”
as an object of desire or submission, she cannot be read once her body reveals something
different.

47
This pattern of misreading continues with Titus, as he alternately sees Lavinia as a
reflection of his ills or then seemingly forgets her as he shifts the focus to himself. When
Marcus brings the mutilated Lavinia to Titus, Lucius collapses, but after forcing Lucius
to “rise and look upon her,” Titus goes to center stage. Lucius, Marcus, and Lavinia all
stand at different spaces on the outer edges, all facing Titus. This devastation wrought
upon a female body is almost immediately being co-opted by Titus, as he still views
Lavinia as part of him, not as a separate, autonomous person. When he goes to Lavinia,
he holds her and then grabs her face and points it toward Marcus as she painfully tries to
“hiss” out words. In his “I am the sea” speech, Lavinia sits against Titus with her head in
his chest, and as his bellowing increases, her mouth remains open, hissing, but it’s as if
she is gasping for breath. His fury seems to consume her and she is on the verge of
collapse. Further, her dress, covered in mud and clay, now resembles the male costume
colors, and thus suggests that both male and female constructs, united by violence, are
now being destroyed by it. Yet as Titus’s fury and sorrow escalate, he also physically
moves away from Lavinia at key points. When Aaron comes on stage to ask for the hand
“sacrifice,” the men are each at different corners of the stage, while Lavinia lies in the
center. Absurdly, Aaron does not notice/acknowledge her. As the men fight over who
will cut off their hand, Lavinia lies center stage, and when Titus cuts his hand off, the
moment the knife strikes, Titus screams and Lavinia responds by getting up, on her
knees, and writhing across stage. It’s as if she is his detached hand, or she feels his hand
(or remembers hers) being violently chopped off. Either way, she is a part of Titus—that
remains her function.

48
By the time Titus kills Lavinia, she has become almost catatonic. The role that Titus has
prescribed for her has dramatically wrested all agency from her. While she oozes and
emits harrowing utterances in an attempt to “speak” pain, the male figures are unable to
read her because they are unwilling to view her as anything other than an object of desire
or shame. Yet whether Lavinia is being “consumed” by the male figures (Titus) or
attacked by them (Chiron, Demetrius, and in his ultimate murder of her, Titus), her body
on stage is undeniable. By representing the violence as uncontainable—the wounds
oozing via clay, dirt, and blood-liquid or pain emitted via hissing—the clash between the
male/female constructions illustrates just how untenable they have become. And by
bringing the audience in close to witness this violence in all of its unruliness (rather than
offering distance via silent tableau), an understanding of “obscenity” of not only the
physical crimes but of the effects of the imposition of destructive gender models is
realized.

49
Titus on screen: a history of violence

JANE HOWELL and BBC TV (1985): Gender and violence enclosed/exposed on the
small screen

According to Susan Willis, the goal of the BBC Shakespeare Series (1978-1985), as
produced by Cedric Messina and per his official mandate, was “…to make solid, basic
televised versions of Shakespeare’s plays to reach a wide television audience and to
enhance the teaching of Shakespeare.”
34
Further, the productions were to have
“maximum acceptability to the widest possible audience.”
35
Decisions were made based
on financial caution (historical setting, etc.) due to the corporate sponsorship and were
considered conservative by many.
36
Also, the running time for each play was originally
set at not over 2 and ½ hours, although some plays extended past that time as the series
progressed.
37
If we are to consider that the key words associated with this series’ mandate
are “acceptability,” “accessible,” and “entertainment”
38
and that the productions were to
be “straightforward” rather than “daring,”
39
how does one reconcile the BBC mandate
with the violent rape, dismemberment, evisceration, and other horrors of Titus
Andronicus? How does Jane Howell’s approach to the play in terms of script, stylization,
blocking, and camera work affect the representation of bodies in distress? Specifically,
how does Howell define the gender struggles, and on what scale does the violent gender

50
unrest fit in to her vision? And, how does the medium of television enhance/affect both
her vision and the audience response?

According to Willis, Howell’s production was stylized so as to be suggestive, rather than
realistic. She used a “unit set”—“one that suggests rather than one that duplicates.”
40
As
Willis states, Howell followed the general BBC mandate that “the focus must be on the
actors.”
41
As Howell commented to Willis, “[the actors] are the essential reality, not the
set, for [Howell believes] a production must give the audience a chance to contribute with
their minds, their imaginations.”
42
So, Howell’s perspective going in to this and her other
BBC productions was impressionistic, with space for individual audience interpretation.
With an impressionistic focus, she could use various tools to accentuate certain themes:
for instance, props such as sides of beef hanging from the rafters serve to “accentuate the
butchery in the play,” and color seen in burnt orange robes, red tufts on helmets, fire from
torches, and Tamora’s bright red/orange hair contrasted with muted greys of stone, skull
imagery, and flesh signify a society, state, and even personal form in the midst of change,
eruption, or dissolution.
43
Most noticeably, however, is the camera’s effect on the
presentation of bodies in distress. Howell used close-ups or extreme close-ups for most
shots in almost every scene. In fact, there are only a few establishing or wide shots in the
entire production. The result is two-fold: first, the Rome that is presented is anything but
grand or forceful. We, the audience, only get a glimpse of armor here, a flash of a
procession or a piece of architecture (such as a partial wall) there. The Rome that its

51
soldiers and senators are fighting to preserve thus seems hollowed from the start.
Second, and most importantly, bodies are frequently shown to us in parts: an arm, a torso,
a head, or an unidentifiable mass (usually a number of bodies struggling with each other),
which serves to accentuate the identity struggles in the play. The camera itself (via
director, camera-person, and editor) commits violence by “cutting” bodies.

Further, in terms of how Howell’s point of view serves to tie in Renaissance Drama with
contemporary (1985) concerns, Howell declared that in directing a play “you must do it
about today; we live today.”
44
And the thread that runs trans-historically for her through
this play is violence. As Willis notes, for Howell, “finding a route through the violence
was not easy.”
45
And Howell’s quest to understand this play and to be able to bring this
production to fruition found its focus, or point of entry, with the boy, Young Lucius (Paul
Davies Prowles).
46
She enhanced Young Lucius’ role and made him witness, and, by
extension, audience conduit, to the violence of the play.
47
And I assert that Young
Lucius’s enhanced role also serves to accentuate the gender struggle as we see both
Lavinia (Anna Calder-Marshall) and Young Lucius become stunted—unable to fulfill the
traditional, gendered roles that they’re supposed to grow into—as a result of their
interactions with Titus (Trevor Peacock), as I will illustrate below.

52
Titus and the tired model of male strength

Howell’s production begins with a shot of a skull in close-up, center frame. This soon
shifts to a shot of Young Lucius’s face—a wide-eyed, shy, somber-looking boy wearing
eyeglasses. It is a representation of generations: from past to future, with Young Lucius
set up as “not yet a man.” Yet immediately death sets in as Howell provides us with a
congregation of Romans gathered around what turns out to be the dead Emperor’s body.
Howell switches the order of scenes—she quickly shifts to Titus and his army of (living
and dead) men—and prisoners—arriving home from the war with the Goths, rather than
starting with the Saturninus and Bassianus debate over succession. Titus arrives,
somberly following the bodies of his dead sons, which are carried in by his remaining
sons and by other soldiers. The framing of the scene is kept tight: we do not see the
grandeur of a Roman plaza, nor do we get a full picture of a senate house. The screen is
filled with bodies: Romans, dead and alive, and Goths, in chains. As Titus launches into
his first speech, his demeanor is one of exhaustion. This is not a man reveling in his
conquests, coming home to be celebrated by the citizens of Rome; rather, he is defined by
what seems like a sense of personal defeat: he laments the loss of his sons, and he gives a
perfunctory, somber speech that shows that he is done with it all—the glory is long gone
and he seeks to rest. In fact, as he speaks and a soldier hands Titus a sword, Titus falters
as he tries to sheathe it, swooning, falling back, and Lucius must hold him up until he
regains his balance. Titus’ body is already succumbing to the physical and emotional

53
stress of battle and, arguably, of service to Rome. The figurative weight of the sword is
too much. He is defined by the actions his sword has wrought, yet we visibly see the toll
it has taken. Still, the sword is all Titus understands: when Lucius suggests “lopping
Alarbus’ limbs” and brings Alarbus up to where Titus stands, Titus physically “marks”
Alarbus on the chest with his sword, causing a linear gash of blood. Titus doesn’t simply
claim in words that “[Tamora’s] son is marked,” he uses violence to identify a body—and
to indicate Alarbus’ newly realized identity: he has gone from royal Goth to prisoner to
object of sacrifice. And then the camera shifts to show Young Lucius at the side of the
frame, a constant witness to how Titus confirms or changes identity with the stroke of a
sword.

Further, by shifting the scene to present Titus’s circumstance before that of Saturninus
and Bassianus, Howell provides a gravity to Titus’s state. This is his play, about his
ultimate sorrow and demise, and he is the model all others are meant to follow. By the
time Saturninus and Bassianus take the stage to argue their causes, they seem like boys,
not men struggling for position of political power. This impression is reinforced in
Marcus’ retort to them: it’s as if he is “schooling” them. So, for Howell, the future is
represented by a mute Young Lucius and two immature “wannabes.” Generational
progress is stunted, or at least shaky, from the start.

54
Lavinia, joining Titus and his sons in the cold stone tomb, echoes Titus’s state and
demeanor, and she seems shadowlike, clothed in a dark robed-dress, from the start.
When Titus proclaims his vote for Saturninus as emperor, he physically hands Saturninus
the crown. Words between men are punctuated by physical action/exchange in order to
effectuate meaning. Saturninus takes the crown, sits on the throne, and offers to take
Lavinia as a gesture of thanks to Titus. Here we see Lavinia, standing in the background
behind Titus, at Bassianus’s side, and she recoils in surprise, yet it is a momentary flinch.
Hers and Titus’s relationship is such that Titus agrees immediately with Saturninus and
without turning around, Titus just motions behind him with his arm for Lavinia to go to
the emperor. The fact that she obeys him automatically, without pause, conveys her lack
of personal rights or will; she simply does Titus’s bidding. And when the scene is set to
break after Saturninus pardons Tamora and her sons, Titus starts to walk off with Lavinia
by his side: she is still his property. We do not get a sense of dismay from her;
somberness has permeated her as it has Titus. She has so little personal space that it
would even come into question whether or not the “virtue” for which she is renowned is
actually “hers.” This is a scene governed by men, as they physically guide, or martially
enforce, their rule. When Titus kills Mutius in retaliation for him going against his
father, Howell shows Titus slash Mutius’s throat—in slow motion. This brief alteration
of speed, showing Titus in front-view semi-close-up and Mutius from behind so we only
see the stroke but not the cut or the blood, reinforces the notion that males are both
defined and undone by physical violence. Titus needs his sword to show Mutius who he
is—and who he is not.
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And the obscuring of Mutuis’s face enhances the argument that

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Titus’s children are not separate from Titus—they are a part of him, and any time they go
against him, he has the power to unmake them. And as Young Lucius is revealed once
again a witness to all (off to the side, silent, watching, absorbing), we see his shock and
confusion as to what he is supposed to learn about what makes a man. When Titus says
of Mutius, “Bury him, and bury me the next,” the screen splits to show Titus in ¾ view
and Young Lucius head-on, accentuating the generational influence. In fact, Howell
often ends scenes by shifting the camera or panning out to focus on Young Lucius taking
in all of the action. Yet he “learns” his role as the male figures around him are
collapsing, and the result is indignant near-paralysis (or resignation?) by the end of the
play.

Unreadable Lavinia: still under siege?

The almost total lack of agency that Lavinia exhibits early in the play is amplified in a
gruesome way from the time of her rape on to the end of the play as she is under
continual threat even by those who contend to love her and help her. When Marcus finds
Lavinia mutilated in the forest, he approaches her with a spear in his hand: a sign of
further male aggression. Marcus grasps his spear throughout his speech as the camera
holds Lavinia in close-up, then shows both Lavinia and Marcus, with Marcus pointing his
spear toward Lavinia and, by extension, to the audience through the camera view.
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When Marcus sits to lament, “O that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast,/That I might

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rail at him and ease my mind!”, the camera focuses primarily on Marcus, and it cuts
Lavinia’s head out of frame, essentially decapitating her—we only see the bloodied
stump of her arm and part of her robed clothing. This eerie representation accentuates
how Marcus sees Lavinia—as different from before (as he goes on to wax nostalgically
about her beauty), violated, somehow not whole. Further, the shift in focus to Marcus
disconnects him—and I would argue, the audience—from Lavinia. He focuses on his
speech and on his thoughts, facing away for much of the speech from Lavinia’s ravaged
body. And with the camera moving in on Marcus, he is the focus of pain rather than her.

The male figures in Lavinia’s sphere violate her both verbally and physically. Aside
from the most obvious act—the sexual assault and dismemberment, which, as in every
major production on record, occurs offstage—Howell uses the camera and staging to
reduce Lavinia’s physical freedom as much as possible. After Chiron and Demetrius
ravage Lavinia, they physically circle her as they verbally taunt her, limiting her access to
motion. Similarly, when Marcus brings the ravaged Lavinia to Titus, he, Marcus, and
Lucius close in on Lavinia, surrounding her body with theirs. This not only limits
Lavinia’s ability to move, it obscures her: and when Titus speaks, he doesn’t face
Lavinia—this has become about him, not her. Further, when Titus does approach Lavinia
at “Dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul,” and “Let me kiss thy lips,” he overcomes any
resistance in her when she turns or tries to walk away. The three men close in on her
completely, all four bodies now hugging, and the camera in close shot so that it appears

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as if the mass of bodies is becoming one heaving mess. Similarly, after Titus cuts off his
hand and looks to the heavens, Lavinia joins him, giving the impression of fused bodies;
one person. And, importantly, here Titus is still looking out, away from Lavinia, so that
the impression is that she is subsumed into him. In the “I am the sea” speech, as Titus
rails, in close-up from the torso up, Lavinia moans in answer. Do the battered “pieces”
here make up one entity, or are they simply a collection of parts? As Titus continues to
rail, and the disconcerting sounds emanate from Lavinia, she sinks her head into Titus’s
chest, obscuring her face. The camera is on Titus, yet we hear her groans. It is as if he is
extinguishing her with his words, yet I would argue that Lavinia’s groans—her new
“authentic” language—also betrays the inadequacy of male language to represent female
experience. This crystallizes the divide at the moment the male/female models move
most fully toward collapse.

The effect of the “male menace” continues throughout. In the fly scene, Titus positions a
knife within inches of Lavinia’s chest as he suggests, “just against thy heart make thou a
hole.” In 4.1, where Lavinia reveals Chiron and Demetrius as the perpetrators of the
assault, Titus grabs Lavinia’s robe at the chest, pulling it as if strangling her, until she
screams. Like Marcus in 2.3, though Titus is railing about who might have committed
the crime (“slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, that left the camp to sin in Lucrece’s
bed?”), he physically enacts his rage upon Lavinia, which frighteningly reminds us who
Titus is thinking about (the other male figures and himself, their shame, his reduced

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status, perhaps)—and who he is not considering: Lavinia. And when Lavinia uses
Marcus’s staff to write the names in the sand, the camera shows the labor of the act, not
the product. We see Lavinia struggle, face framed in semi-close up (from torso up),
pushing the staff with her mouth and her arm stumps. The closed-in camera enhances the
struggle: the audience sees how difficult it is to “wrest an alphabet” from her, or for her
to do it herself. And when she is finished, she removes the staff from her mouth and it is
bloodied, a gruesome reminder that the pain and loss of self is ongoing. She is still
“bleeding out.” As Titus and Marcus prepare their revenge (with Young Lucius in
attendance and now becoming participant), they kneel in the foreground of the scene,
hands held together. Lavinia is in the back, alone, a remote figure compared to the
others; a further sign that this is becoming about the desire to regain male status. When
the males exit the scene, Lavinia is left behind, onstage, and she kneels down and wipes
away the names of the offenders with her arm. She is an afterthought, at best, at this
point, left to her own mutilated devices.

The Once and Future Male?

The male model that Titus tries to enforce and that Marcus, Lucius, and others follow
proves startlingly corrupted or confusing in Young Lucius’s eyes, as his continually
shocked expressions reflect. In fact, he is surprised by all aggressive male behavior in
this production. Howell has him witness Titus “mark” Alarbus, participate in the burying

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of his uncles, overhear Chiron and Demetrius plot to “pluck a dainty doe to ground,”
wonder over the knife-play of Titus and Marcus (from Titus “threatening” Lavinia with a
knife, to Marcus and then Titus both using knives on the fly), and struggle with the
effects of Titus’s revenge plot—and his participation in it, from delivering the arrows to
Chiron and Demetrius to even handing Lavinia the knife with which Titus will eventually
kill her. Though Young Lucius “tries out” the veneer of manhood by “handling” the
weapons—the instruments of male power—when in the final scene Lucius reveals the
dead body of Aaron’s baby in a small black coffin (a decision by Howell that goes
against both the text and most productions), here Young Lucius is aghast, and finally
turns to tears. He rejects the empty rhetoric of the male model, running away from
Titus’s body as well, and here the recitation of “I cannot speak to him for weeping,/ My
tears will choke me if I ope my mouth” has a particular poignancy. As the boy runs off
and is next seen cradling the black coffin, we feel his rejection of everything he has been
taught. Yet we also know that he has not been presented with any alternative. He
dissolves into weeping—“women’s weapons”—for the lack of a future. And Lavinia has
similarly learned that there is no space in which she can exist, other than the horror that is
Titus’s revenge plot. The only active space left for her is to give Titus the knife so that
he can end her life.

Howell’s production shows a world in which bodies are bursting from the seams—or
screen frame—as if screaming against the injustices inflicted upon them. From the use of

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extreme close-ups of body parts to the screen-splicing of figures together, the characters
in this production are presented as not whole—and this “lacking” extends to gender and
to humanity. The male order uses martial might to “speak,” which undoes others and
eventually themselves. The female space is one that is constantly violated—so much so
that we never really get a sense of any authentic female agency. And for both Lavinia
and the enhanced character of Young Lucius, it becomes apparent that with no models to
follow and no legitimate space to occupy, there is no future, only death, so it is fitting that
the production ends with a camera shot of both Lucius and a skull, like it started, only
this time Young Lucius’s face is replaced by a second skull, so only death remains
onscreen. Man, or mankind, is completely wiped out.

JULIE TAYMOR’S 1999 FILM TITUS: The intersection of gender and violence as a
“nightmare”
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Much like Jane Howell’s BBC production, Julie Taymor sees violence as
transhistorical—as the link through which we can explore cultural concerns.
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Taymor
calls the play Titus Andronicus “Shakespeare’s dissertation on violence,”
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and while
Taymor links this violence to concepts of justice or revenge, the way in which Taymor’s
film makes violence a game (through Chiron and Demitrius’s videogame habit and

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swordplay and Young Lucius’s opening-scene play), a circus (the Grand-Guignol-style
delivery of the heads/hand to Titus), a tableau (Lavinia post-rape), and a nightmare (the
“penny arcade nightmare” or “PAN” extra-textual sequences), also exposes the perverted
gender constructs in the play in an almost parodic way. Further, as these parodies of
gender play out—most notably in the Titus/Tamora collisions in the PANs and in Chiron
and Demetrius’s impersonations, Taymor, like Howell before her, builds up the character
of Young Lucius in this film and uses him as witness, participant, and even judge of what
defines a man or a woman. While Howell stuffs the small screen with bodies—and body
parts—to create a feeling of suffocation accompanying the breakdown of models,
Taymor uses the film medium to provide vast open landscapes—a world of mixed
histories and time frames under open skies—in order to expose bodies in distress and
make them symptomatic of a larger cultural concern: the way in which our social
constructions—including those aligned with gender—fail us.

Taymor introduces us to the world of violence by making it a scene of play: a young boy
(who comes to be Young Lucius when the scene shifts to Shakespeare’s text/scene) sits in
a kitchen reminiscent of the 1960’s, with food on the table, the small television perched
on the counter playing cartoons, and toy soldiers strewn about. Young Lucius (Osheen
Jones) places a brown paper bag over his head as a type of armor/mask with holes cut out
for his eyes and commences to smash the soldiers together as if in combat. He takes a
knife and a fork and starts stabbing his food and making a mess throughout the room, and

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the “violence” of his game escalates further as we soon hear bombing sounds from
outside. Suddenly the scene opens up: a real explosion sends shards and flames through
the window into the kitchen, and a man clad in black leather bursts into the room,
grabbing the boy and taking him down the stairs into the center of a Coliseum—part of
another field of play. Thus, fiction and reality, play and war, collide in a way that reveals
the danger in how ideas of violence get transmitted and absorbed.

Once the scene shifts to the Coliseum, the male-centered structure of power is outlined in
terms of mobility and space. As the Titus story begins in earnest, throngs of men stream
in to the Coliseum—wearing armor, carrying dead bodies on stretchers, driving cars and
motorcycles, and riding horses. Titus (Anthony Hopkins) himself strides in via chariot.
The mechanical means of motion span different ages of history, setting up an overall
association with male power and mobility, and the motion of the male serves in contrast
with the females, who are viewed or acted upon (to be discussed below). Saturninus
(Alan Cumming) and Bassianus (James Frain) offer another version of male mobility as
they ride down the streets of Rome to the senate: Saturninus parades down the street in
vaguely fascist military dress while ensconced in a glass-shielded automobile
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that
evokes the 1930’s or 1940’s, while Bassianus drives up in a simpler car, reminiscent of
the 1950’s. With their factions behind them, filling the streets (signaling their ability to
incite a crowd), the next generation of potential leadership comes off as flashy and unruly
rather than linked to tradition (as Titus emphasizes in contrast when he arrives in a

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chariot: the old against the new). Further, each generation imposes an idea of martial
might on the succeeding generation that splinters off or becomes perverted—and,
arguably, so do their notions of what makes a man. When Titus delivers his opening
speech in front of his “audience”
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in the Coliseum, he punctuates his words with his
sword, as Young Lucius stands by his side, absorbing the behavior; Young Lucius is also
witness to the lopping of Alarbus’s limbs (with Titus first marking Alarbus across the
chest with his knife), and Titus has the young boy help him clean the blade. In turn,
Young Lucius, who bears witness throughout, eventually becomes a participant through
the fly scene (Taymor has Young Lucius kill the fly and then spout the racist “black fly”
intimations
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), in his delivery of weapons to Chiron (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) and
Demetrius (Matthew Rhys), and as he helps serve the meat pies to Tamora (Jessica
Lange) and Saturninus. Similarly, when Bassianus and Saturninus take to the streets,
they both advocate a form of mob rule—take what you want, by force. And this pattern
of taking by force eventually marks the bodies of all.

Though martial might is first aligned with honor in terms of Titus’s war victories, the
progression of violent acts throughout betray the fallacy of that notion. The alleged ritual
of killing Alarbus is an example of “cruel, irreligious piety,” as Tamora terms it, and
Titus’s killing of Mutius shakes up both the public and the familial view of him. Yet in
this film, Titus’s changing status—his redefinition—is most compellingly conveyed
through what Taymor calls “penny arcade nightmares” (PANs), a series of visual tableaus

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that serve as “memories of violence.”
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The first PAN occurs after Tamora has
persuaded Saturninus and the Andronici to make amends and join the wedding
celebration. As the others walk inside, Titus and Tamora are left standing on the steps.
The two figures become shadow cut-outs, and we see their figures, from torso up, face
each other in profile at either side of the screen. In between them in the background a
fire starts to blaze, and the screen is soon filled with the fire juxtaposed against the black
cut-out figures (we cannot see their features—only black silhouettes). This seems to me
a post-modern version of the famous Henry Peacham drawing (circa 1595
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). And in this
activated version of a tableau, body parts—an arm, a leg—soon start flying out of the fire
toward front screen: these represent Alarbus’s limbs. Then the torso appears: it is
breathing, and it gets marked, in a representation of Titus’s earlier act. This “nightmare”
of violence is what links Titus and Tamora, and it arguably changes them. She is
consumed by the idea of vengeance, and, while Titus’s acts have rendered him peripheral
in terms of the current power structure, he is now Tamora’s target. Further, Titus’s
second PAN is his alone, and it also redefines him in terms of violence: when he is
passed on the road by the senators after his pleas for Quintus and Martius are ignored,
Titus looks in the distance and another vision comes to him: an angel of mercy—a female
figure with a trumpet and wings—floats toward him. This apocalyptic imagery is
compounded by fire, and then a lamb appears on an altar. As the angel flies toward the
altar, Mutius’s head replaces the lamb’s head, and the dagger that Titus used to kill
Mutius floats in the air above Mutius, stabbing him again. Thus the perversion of the
“honor killing” is revealed. The sacrifices Titus has made and the honor under which he

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invoked violence have redefined him. And this redefinition is revealed as the vision
ends: Titus lay on the stone ground, head in extreme close-up facing the camera, a tear
(aligned with feminine force) running out of his eye.

Whereas Titus’s declension and transformation separate him from the notion of honor,
Chiron and Demetrius illustrate a vicious parody of the expectations of the male. As
Taymor presents them (she gives them a much larger visual focus than other
productions), they are not simply prisoners, villains, or rapists; they are the products of
broken models of male behavior. Bratty, hyper, and reckless from the time their mother
rises to power, their brotherly “play time” is infused with a violence that is detached from
any referent other than base, immediate desire. In their fight over who will have Lavinia
(II.i), Chiron punches Demetrius in the face, giving him a bloody nose, they draw
weapons, and Demetrius hangs Chiron over the balcony, a prank that could easily end in
death: a parody of the strength of battle. But when Aaron suggests the two boys share
Lavinia, Chiron and Demetrius roll around on their bed, hugging and stroking each other,
and simulating sex (at one point, Chiron’s crotch is in Demetrius’s face). Further, the
two are perverted by both simulations of violence and undefined or dubious sexual
boundaries. They spend their time playing violent video games in an underground,
windowless den that houses weapons and a prison-like cage (what Taymor calls “a
defunct torture chamber/entertainment center”
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). So, games and violence mix, and the
distinction is lost. Also, Taymor shows Chiron and Demetrius in a variety of sexually

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suggestive scenarios, including a scene in which Chiron, Demetrius, Saturninus, and
Tamora all lay naked in bed. And as violence and sex carry no attached meaning or limit,
their rape of Lavinia (a hideous act of violence that redefines her) is almost a “natural”
expression: it is the ultimate “game.” Finally, when they arrive at Titus’s house dressed
as rape and murder, Chiron (rape) is dressed with an owl headdress, and Demetrius
(murder) wears a tiger head. They are not only symbols or animalistic: Chiron, the
representation of rape, is also dressed in a white “training bra” (as Taymor calls it—and
this is significant in that it implies adolescence: in training to become a woman), panties,
and tights. He no longer enacts his expected gender; instead, he embodies a mockery of
both male and female, and violence has perverted his growth.

While many of the male figures in this film transform as a result of their acts of violence,
Lavinia, in occupying female space, is acted upon and, in this telling, becomes a symbol
of what is wrong with both male and female constructions
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. While Lavinia is held up as
“Rome’s richest ornament,” she functions as a symbol for male power: She reflects the
status of whoever “owns” her. And when she steps outside of her prescribed boundaries,
she pays the price. Lavinia is established as Titus’s honorable daughter as she kneels to
him and echoes him (“in peace and honor rest”) when they first see each other in the
tomb. Yet, when Bassianus and Saturninus debate in front of the senate building
regarding succession, Titus sees Lavinia kissing Bassianus openly (in public), and this
informs his decision to choose Saturninus over Bassianus for emperor. Further, when

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Titus gives Lavinia to Saturninus upon his request (Titus gestures to Lavinia, who is
standing in the gallery of the senate room with Bassianus, and, though shocked, she
obeys), Saturninus holds out his hand for Lavinia to kiss, and, as she does so, Saturninus
smugly smiles at an enraged Bassianus in the gallery: this is about the men, not about
Lavinia, yet she is the object of exchange. In fact, the prescribed role for Lavinia is one
that is difficult for her to maintain. When she does use her own voice (a rarity, and then,
of course, it is violently wrested from her), she mocks Saturninus (in her tone) when he
asks her about his behavior toward Tamora, or she unleashes racist epithets to Tamora
about her “raven colored love,” a signal that the tag of “purity” that has been placed upon
her is questionable. However, after her rape (which Tamora sees as violence against
Titus), her unreadability by Marcus and others is compounded by the iconic references
Taymor attaches to her. When we first see Lavinia post-rape, she stands on a stump in
the midst of vast, dried out swampland, in a white slip/dress, with branches tied to her
wrists, in place of her hands. After Chiron and Demetrius taunt her and leave, Marcus
walks across the field, and the camera switches from a close-up of Marcus as he speaks in
the horror of recognition that this is/was Lavinia (much of the speech is cut in favor of
close-ups on his astonished face) to Lavinia and back, and Lavinia looks like a broken-
down ballerina. In fact, Taymor dressed her to recall a Degas ballerina, thus
commingling horror and art. Lavinia can no longer fulfill any role she has been
prescribed, and the imposition of the cultural iconography further aestheticizes her and
siphons any agency. And later, when Lavinia writes her perpetrators names in the dirt for
Titus and Marcus
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, she has a PAN that is a remembrance of the crime, yet she is shown

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as not only a doe, with Chiron and Demetrius as tigers, but as a Marilyn Monroe figure
with her white dress blowing up in the wind. This arguably cements her status as
fetishized object and also illuminates the catalogue of female representations as fantasies.

The final scenes, from the banquet and then back out to the Coliseum, show the
culmination of the intersection of violence and gender: the constructions have collapsed
and the reparations are unlikely, or questionable at best. When Lavinia walks into the
banquet room, she wears a white gown and a black veil (a macabre bride-like statement)
in an ironic repetition of her first appearance in the tombs. Here, though, she echoes (or
exposes) Titus’s shame rather than his honor. And because she has no voice, or,
arguably, subjectivity, she willingly goes to him, takes off her veil, turns in his arms so
that they both face their guests, and calmly positions herself for Titus to first stroke her
face and then break her neck. Titus then makes a big show (as chef) of revealing the
contents of the meat pies, and mayhem ensues as people crawl across the table, stabbing
each other and throwing the table’s contents everywhere, thus recalling the opening scene
of Young Lucius wreaking havoc in the kitchen.
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With Lucius as witness (even
participant) in this final banquet, the effects of the violence mark him as well, and the
scene shifts back to the Coliseum. The “show” of the banquet is over, and the dead
bodies that now lay in the arena (still at the table, but fallen in various poses of death) are
covered up in plastic as first Marcus and then Lucius take their turns at reparation. This
production ends on a slight note of hope—Young Lucius takes Aaron’s baby out of a

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cage (still alive, unlike the baby in Howell’s production) and walks out of the Coliseum
with him toward dawn looming on the horizon. Yet the models that have broken down
before him leave him with no identifiable path.

Titus on stage in the twenty-first century

London and Stratford, 2006: Violence then, violence now

Lucy Bailey’s 2006 production of Titus at the Globe Theatre shows violence as speaking
across generations and eras: much like Jane Howell’s BBC production and Julie
Taymor’s film, it aims to connect the “then” with the “now.” The set covers the detailed
architecture of the Globe stage with black cloth tarps, effectively turning it into “a
timeless, claustrophobic arena” (de Jongh, Evening Standard, 5.31.06). By obscuring
specific location details and by combining costume eras as well by mixing togas/robes
with black biker shorts, the production aims to “suggest a universality about all the
violence, so that we could be in today’s international headlines rather than in ancient
Rome” (Sheridan Morley, Daily Express, 5.31.06). By asserting the timelessness of
violence, claiming it as a language with which we are familiar (various critics cite the
horrors of Sierra Leone, Rwanda, and Iraq as modern markers), the production, through

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the realistically represented breakdown of bodies, then pushes the limits of our
understanding of what that violence means, and what it does to us as spectators.

Harkening back to Warner via realistic representations of blood and gore, Bailey’s
production shocks the audience into rethinking gender construction in the play not only
through the presentation of realistic “wounds,” but also by having bodies break down
within their midst. In this production, not all members of the audience sit at a safe
distance: the cast invades the groundling section, disrupting the audience’s sense of
security and bringing individual groundlings into intimate contact with bodies in
distress.
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In their reviews of the show, Susannah Clapp claims, “[s]een from the more
expensive seats, Lucy Bailey’s production is impressive; seen from the yard where you
can stand as a groundling, it’s explosive” (Observer, 6.4.06), and Paul Taylor suggests
that “the control this show exerts over the normally volatile mob of youthful groundlings
is…extraordinary” (Independent, 5.31.06). Both Clapp and Taylor’s reactions to the
melding of cast with audience point to the need for disruption of complacency or
expectation (in attending a show, in the presentation of bodies on stage) in order to “Look
upon her,” as Titus declares, and discover the new reality where the boundaries—of
stage, of body—are no longer secure. By luring the audience in with both a sense of play
and then shock, the bodily “distress” is extended to the audience, thus forcing a
reconsideration of just what is being seen and felt, and the implications therein.

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In a production that plays up both the black humor and the excessive violence and
suffering, of particular notice are the ways in which Lavinia (Laura Rees)—and her
body—are dealt with. From the start, Lavinia’s presence on stage seems to provoke
intimate physical contact. Lavinia, dressed in white to project her purity, kneels to her
father in respect when she first sees him. In response, Titus (Douglas Hodge) kisses her
hands and then draws her to him. She then goes around to her brothers, kissing each one,
lingering on each of their faces.
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This introduction of familial closeness gives the
impression of a palpable connection. In all of the Andronici’s contact with Lavinia pre-
rape, a physical component exists: her brothers circle around her to physically protect her
when Saturninus (Patrick Moy) first claims Lavinia for himself, and Titus, interestingly,
must “break” the circle as he grabs Lavinia’s hand, yanking her away to center stage to
give her to Saturninus. Further, her physical expression extends to her relationship with
Bassianus (Simon Wilson). From the first time we see them together, they are
affectionate, hugging, and when Bassianus “reclaims” Lavinia from Titus, who is holding
her hand in wait for Saturninus, Lavinia and Bassianus hug and hold hands before
running off. And when Saturninus and Bassianus confront each other, the latter and
Lavinia hug, kiss, and hold each other, publicly displaying their affection, which, shortly
thereafter, leads to other physical contact in answer: when Tamora (Geraldine Alexander)
tries to bring the brothers together, she takes Lavinia by the hand and brings her forward
on “you shall ask pardon,” thus leading Lavinia to the task and mimicking Titus’s earlier
gesture, and when Saturninus grudgingly accepts her acquiescence (“though you left me
like a churl”), he sanctions his approval—or abuses his power—by planting a big kiss on

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Lavinia’s lips. So in this production, Lavinia is not simply “Rome’s rich ornament” or
“greatest prize” to be put on a pedestal—she is a physical body who is marked by others’
affection or desire, or she is used to affirm others’ power. Even when Bassianus and
Lavinia are in danger in the forest, being circled by Chiron (Richard Riddell) and
Demetrius (Sam Alexander) before they kill Bassianus and rape Lavinia, Bassianus plants
an awkward kiss on Lavinia prior to drawing his sword to try to fend off the perpetrators.
So Lavinia’s hands and mouth define her access up to this point,
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and after she is
ravaged and her hands and mouth “corrupted” along with her chastity, her unreadability
as “is/was” is exacerbated as these means of communication are taken away.

Lavinia’s post-rape body recalls Sonia Ritter’s harrowing interpretation in the Warner
production in that their oozing, traumatized bodies are an inescapable, yet indefinable,
presence from the moment they scamper to the stage, screeching, convulsing, in shock, in
transition. Both sight and sound trouble the image with which we are presented. Like
Ritter, Rees’s Lavinia is physically bloodied, covered in mud spots, and resembles an
animal in mid-slaughter. This Lavinia recalls a speared fish, having actually been caught
in a net (Chiron and Demetrius first “catch” Bassianus and Lavinia in a net), and now
lying on the floor, flailing. And when Marcus approaches Lavinia and her mouth opens
and oozes blood chunks in response to his “why does’t not speak to me?” it is uncanny
not only in the literal gruesomeness of the representation, but in showing how the way
that we all (actors and audience) have recognized Lavinia is coming apart. Further,

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Marcus’s (Richard O’Callaghan) speech as he looks from her to the audience and back
serves to disconnect both him and the audience from the violated body on stage. And
rather than solidify our gaze as we try to process this new ravaged figure, Marcus then
takes her to Titus by carrying her through the crowd of groundlings and handing her up to
Titus, who now stands on stage. This violated body is not simply for viewing, and it is
also not to be turned away from. It must be dealt with.
65
And the previous methods of
handling Lavinia are now shown to be particularly hazardous as the degree to which they
physically control her directly contributes to her loss of self, illustrating both the deflation
of male makeup (arms as building and protecting status) and the fallacy of female
autonomy.

When Titus collects the ailing Lavinia and places her on stage, she lies there, front/center,
convulsing and emitting sound. Again, she recalls a fish flopping out of water. While
she lies there in a clear, horrifying state of distress, Marcus, Lucius, and Titus stomp
around, shouting “who hath done this?” The words pale in comparison to the undeniable
body: the male voice seems hollowed out.
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When they finally go to Lavinia to try to
help her, Lucius grabs one of her arm stumps, Titus grabs her head, and Marcus circles
in. This familiar touch now feels as if they are suffocating her. This grotesque picture
invokes the idea of puppeteers, and thus Lavinia’s body is further depleted of its human
status. Further, during the entire scene in which Titus has his hand cut off, Lavinia is left
lying on the stage, front and center. As the audience remains uncomfortably aware of the

74
body in distress, Titus’s antics further reveal how ruined his model of male might has
become—he is a parody of himself.

The gruesome cataloguing of the demise of male power and female space culminates in
the seemingly systematic reduction of Lavinia to “not human.” From a wounded,
traumatized Lavinia lying on the stage floor like road-kill to Titus, Marcus, and Lucius
alternately picking her up and throwing her around like a rag doll, to a mummified
Lavinia clothed in a bandage-like dress and head-piece from the fly scene onward, male
power seems like a cruel joke, while the female body is not only the wound that male
force has created, it reflects the inability to sustain life—it signals the gendered body at
the point of total collapse. And, I would suggest, for the male figures, the sight of the
“new” Lavinia initiates an impulse not to protect her, but to destroy her. In the fly scene,
Titus comes over to Lavinia as he speaks about his and her sorrow and he wraps his arm
around her torso and shoulder from behind. This attempt at comfort actually begins to
slightly strangle Lavinia. And when Titus tries to feed Lavinia from hand to mouth later
in that scene, she starts to choke. Further, in the Chiron/Demetrius capture and
bloodletting and in the final banquet scene, Lavinia not only looks mummified, she acts
on command, moving in a slow, eerie march upon Titus’s commands as if she is, in fact,
the undead (as in a horror-film-like mummy or zombie: death come alive). As she sits on
Titus’s lap, swaying to the music with Titus as he watches Saturninus and Tamora eat
their special meal, Lavinia recalls a puppet-like doll. However, the cruelty of the

75
imposition on the female body is shockingly resurrected as Titus covers Lavinia’s nose
and mouth and smothers her. She does not appear to have been aware of what Titus
planned; nor was she ready for it. In one final striking burst of life (or protest?), she
convulses and then dies. In a production that does not show an overwhelming collapse
into tears, this stage is governed by other sights and sounds: Titus’s mad laughter, the
hollow wailing against injustice, and at the end Lucius seemingly dry-eyed attempt
67
at
reparations. Lavinia’s squeals and groans are the sounds that haunt: it is her voice that
penetrates. And it is her mutilated body—uncontainable, so marked for extinction, that
leaves the lasting impression of the total collapse of order.

Yukio Ninagawa and Titus’s “terrible beauty”

During a Pre-Theatre Talk (so titled) and Q & A session on June 17, 2006 at the Royal
Theater in Stratford, an audience member asked Yukio Ninagawa if Titus represents a
challenge because the play is so gory and bloody, to which he replied, “Isn’t that the
world?” Ninagawa stated that he was specifically attracted to this play because of its
relevance today. So, like Brook, Howell, Taymor, and Bailey, Ninagawa defines
violence as a way to speak across cultures and time periods, a type of universal language,
or its “prevailing orator,” if you will. In most popular-press reviews of the production,

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critics focus on Ninagawa’s Brook-like tactic of stylizing the gore by using red silk
strings hanging from wound sites to represent blood and, in a modern touch, he presents
clear plastic “heads” and “limbs” also stuffed with the red silk “gore” in the aftermath of
the various beheadings and dismemberment. Using Brook’s production as a marker (as
Billington claims in his Guardian review of 6.22.06, “over 50 years ago Peter Brook
reclaimed this play for the modern stage with a famously stylized Stratford production.
Now Yukio Ninagawa goes back to Brook…”), critics assess the effect of ritualizing the
violence for a modern audience, and responses include describing this production as
“cruelly beautiful” (Taylor; Independent), a “terrible beauty” (de Jongh citing Yeats’s
term; Evening Standard), or as “concentrat[ing] and heighten[ing] the horror” (Taylor).
Finding the “beauty” in representations of violence and suffering is curious—does the
aestheticization of violence make it more palatable or easier to understand? Or does it
provide sufficient distance so that it’s more “acceptable”? And how does aestheticizing
or ritualizing the (in this case) gender-specific act (and effects) of the rape of Lavinia
punctuate—or obscure—her struggle for definition?

From the start, Titus (Kotaro Yoshida) “enacts” his manhood through rough physical
menace. He is always accompanied by a sword, which he never hesitates in using and is
never far from his grasp. As Paul Taylor claims, “[his] instinctive response to any
situation is to draw his sword” (Independent, 6.22.06). He also uses his bare hands to
physically force recognition of identity—both his and others. Titus roughly flings

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Alarbus (Ryuzabuio Otomo) downstage, off the front steps, to be taken away for
sacrifice, illustrating both Titus’s physical strength and Alarbus’s inconsequential status
in this environment. Further, when Alarbus’s “head” and “limbs” (here represented by
clear plastic head/limb-shaped casings stuffed with red silk strings to symbolize
blood/gore) are brought back to Titus, he roughly hurls them down, and they hit the
ground hard, making a startlingly loud sound that serves to punctuate both the explosive
end of Alarbus’s life and the extreme trauma that Tamora (Rei Asami), Chiron (Yutaka
Suzuki), and Demetrius (Hiroki Okawa) suffer at seeing their dead family member.
68

Titus even harshly handles Lavinia (Hitomi Manaka), grabbing her and forcibly guiding
her to Saturninus (Shingo Tsurumi) when he requests her as his bride, a sign that 1) Titus
doesn’t even consider that she has any individual agency and 2) Titus views his strong-
arming tactics to be in the service of the hierarchy of Rome. Further, Titus chokes
Tamora as she pleads for pity/mercy regarding Alarbus, and his choking motion
continues for a large portion of his speech. It is not simply a momentary action; he
effectively snuffs out Tamora’s voice while asserting his own voice through violent
action.
69
He similarly tries to strangle Bassianus (Eiji Yokota) when the latter attempts to
intervene with Saturninus on Titus’s behalf. In addition, he not only stabs and kills
Mutius (Masato Shinkawa) adeptly with one swipe of his sword,
70
he punctuates his ill
will toward his dead son by later kicking the body. Importantly, Titus’s “physical
language”
71
is also exhibited in shows of affection: when Lavinia first walks onstage to
greet her father, he yells, happy, and then opens his arms to her, gives her a big hug, lifts
her, and then spins her around. Yet even expressions of affection become menacing as

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the original hug that introduces us to the intimate relationship between Titus and Lavinia
transforms to a more gruesome somewhat suffocating hug and kiss once Marcus brings
the ravaged Lavinia to Titus (he covers her inside his robes and then later kisses her,
effectively stopping up her mouth momentarily), and eventually to his killing her via
strangulation in the final scene—a very intimate snuffing out of her life, which takes a
few very long, rough moments to accomplish and ultimately shows just how damaging to
others and to himself this language of violence can be.

As Titus’s status in the Roman hierarchy diminishes, it is reflected in the mechanics or
effects of Titus’s violence. When Saturninus declares from a second-floor balcony that
Titus and his clan have been rejected, Titus, down-stage center, falls to his knees. The
stage subsequently clears and he is left alone with only his sword and his son Mutius’s
corpse, with Mutius’s sword near the body, surrendered, along with his identity, in
“battle.” When Titus’s remaining sons return to the stage with Marcus to fight for
Mutius’s burial, Titus slowly gets up, using his sword to help him stand, which not only
suggests his reliance on the sword to “keep him in position,” but also shows just how
much the sword (and its effects) is taking from him. As the remnants of violence fill the
stage—Mutius’s body and sword both strewn on the floor—Titus desperately tries to
“speak” with his mechanical weaponry. He picks up Mutius’s sword and now, with both
swords functioning as his arms, he punctuates his speech with thrusts of metal as he tries
to keep his sons and Marcus (Haruhiko Jo) from burying Mutius in the family tomb.

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After threatening all parties with his sword-arms, he finally gives up by throwing the
swords down at their feet. As Paul Taylor notes, “[Titus] has been programmed to think
with his swords and it’s a devastating moment when these weapons fall from his hands
and his legs give way beneath him” (Independent, 6.22.06). In the relinquishing of
weaponry, Titus seems to be surrendering to his newly-lowered status, both in society
and within his family. And when Marcus picks up Mutius’s sword and hands it to the
brothers so that Mutius can be buried with it, the weapon signifies not manhood or honor
(Mutius isn’t complete without his sword? Titus has unknowingly exposed the breach
between martial might and nobility?), but threat and loss. Further, when Titus takes back
his sword, picking it up and holstering it while Saturninus and Tamora enter on one side
and Bassianus and Lavinia enter on the other, he quickly sees that his weapons no longer
define him. He draws his sword on Tamora as she speaks but rather than stopping her in
her tracks as he was wont to do with her and others when he still retained power, she
passes by him and continues with her speech—and he lets her do so. Titus subsequently
limps across the stage, dragging his sword, and then collapses on the steps. When he gets
up to join the others in the temporary reconciliation with Saturninus and Bassianus, he
sheaths his sword: it no longer speaks for him.

Lavinia and the “mark” of violence
Lavinia makes her largest impression as not only a body imposed upon, but as a
reflection or extension of Titus’s ills. Before her rape, she is “manhandled” or controlled

80
in various forms by Titus (he hugs and grabs her), Bassianus (he grabs and pulls her), and
Saturninus (he holds her hand and kisses her). When the rape is immanent, we only get
an inkling of her individual personality as she and Bassianus both laugh and taunt
Tamora. Yet when Bassianus is killed (drawing his dagger to protect her, he—and his
weapon—fails), Lavinia pleads with Tamora in a way that is strikingly visually similar to
the entreaty Tamora played out with Titus for Alarbus.
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Lavinia kneels and pleads to
Tamora who at first ignores her and turns away, unresponsive, and then when Lavinia
clings to her, hugging her, Tamora roughly pushes Lavinia down and then touches her
face (in an ironic repetition of Titus’s previous action) before releasing her to Chiron and
Demetrius. This parallel of action/movement between Tamora at the beginning of the
play and Lavinia here reinforces the notion that this is a matter between Tamora and
Titus; Lavinia has no autonomous position. And in reflecting Titus, whose position has
fallen considerably, Tamora sanctions the loss of the only thing considered of value in
Lavinia’s gendered body: her chastity. Thus, with the violent loss of her virtue, Lavinia
is a frightening sign of not only Titus’s harrowing fall from grace but also of the cost of
that fall.

When Lavinia appears on stage post-rape, the stylized representation of the sexual assault
and its effects are contrasted with frightening extra-textual responses, and this (in contrast
to Brook’s “silent tableau” of Lavinia) serves to heighten the horror by, interestingly,
making it seem “more real.” The stage is set with shaded lighting and white, cut-out

81
flower figures, a suggestive landscape rather than a realistic representation. Through the
hazy shadows, Lavinia staggers in from the back and falls, crawling as she moans and
groans. As she gets up and staggers more, we see long strings hanging from her arms,
highlighting the amputations. When Chiron and Demetrius appear, they are both naked
except for long, red strings hanging from their genitals. This evokes a startling audience
understanding: by “marking” the perpetrators as well as the victim, and “showing” the
crime in such a grotesquely obvious way, it brings a glaring focus to Lavinia not just as
“ruined,” but as ruined by rape, or by the violent destruction of her chastity.
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It also
reinforces the connection between swords and phallic weapons. With a “voice” barely
intimated at before, now Lavinia screeches loudly and cries in tandem with or in response
to Chiron and Demetrius’s ghoulish laughter: and with the addition of musical
accompaniment (Handel), this is an opera of horrors. And when Marcus finds Lavinia,
he cannot control himself at the sight of her (even as she tries to hide herself): he
unleashes a long, loud, guttural scream that fills the theater. Again, this seems like the
only possible authentic response to something whose horror is indescribable. And though
Marcus does launch into the reverie of his speech, the scream carries the lasting effect
that what we—and he—are looking at is someone transformed by trauma.
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Further,
when Marcus questions Lavinia as to why she won’t speak up, she collapses, crying, her
head lying on the stumps of her arms. In an eerie recollection of Titus’s earlier collapse,
it’s as if we are witnessing her realization of what she has become. Marcus goes to her
and tries to help her stand, but she is like a rag doll. She has been emptied of “who
Lavinia was,” and the current reality seems too much for her to take.

82

The making, unmaking, and merging of selves continues as Marcus brings Lavinia to
Titus. Upon seeing her, Lucius collapses, an apt iteration of “This object kills me.” For a
male raised on a culture of violence, this is the definition of “too much.” Marcus instead
turns away, suggesting he doesn’t want to be who he is, or who she makes him be, when
viewing her. Titus then approaches her, kneeling, and tries to make a tourniquet around
her stump. And in an effort to reclaim any power, Titus reverts to his sword. He wields
it around wildly as if he is fighting a phantom “everyone and everything” as his world,
painfully reflected in the extreme violation of Lavinia, collapses. But this is a Titus who
has already been reduced to a low beyond his understanding, so Lucius wrests the sword
from him. And then Titus takes Lavinia to him, while she screeches—and again,
Lavinia’s screeching brings Lucius to his knees. Both the sight and the sound of her are
too much for him. As Titus wraps Lavinia in his robe, with their two heads popping out,
it’s as if they are one. And when she again screeches, he takes her head in his hand (an
echo to the past handling of heads) and gruesomely kisses her to quiet her down. She
does, in fact, seem calmer, which eerily makes it seem as if he, too, is sucking the life out
of her. In a show of just how great his “burden” is, Titus sits Lavinia on his lap, only to
teeter under the weight of her. And Lavinia similarly reflects Titus; when Aaron comes
in with his request for a hand, Titus has Aaron cut his (Titus’s) hand off in full view of
Lavinia, who, appropriately screams and collapses, writhing on the floor. Here Titus has
cruelly, unthinkingly reenacted/reactivated Lavinia’s trauma, and Lavinia’s collapse also
serves to connect her to Titus—he loses a limb, she reacts. One feels the other’s pain.

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And when they come together again, Titus picks Lavinia up, staggering, almost buckling
under the burden. The two of them, now on the floor, get tangled in the strings as Titus
holds Lavinia in gruesome embrace.

As Titus and Lavinia meld into each other, it is important to notice that Titus effectively
loses (or loses use of) his sword in the post-rape scenes. This juxtaposes his loss of
power with the phallic reality of the rape. He has been undone in part by the
repercussions of his own violence, so his sword, and the identity that accompanied it, is
of no use to him. But the phallic alliance of rape “weapon” and sword confirm the
devastating effects of male behavior in this production and call the paradigm itself into
question—it no longer works. After Quintus and Martius’s heads and Titus’s hand are
brought back to what’s left of the Andronici, Titus, Lucius, Marcus, and Lavinia start to
walk off the stage, leaving the sword behind. Titus as “man” has been redefined. Yet
Titus’s transformation enhances Lavinia’s trauma rather than comforting her: the more
Titus moves in sympathy with Lavinia, the more obscured her “gendered” crime
becomes. She is subsumed into Titus’s greater overall tragedy, which “de-genders” her.
For a crime that’s so harrowingly represented (as described above) and specifically
identified with phallic menace (Chiron and Demetrius’s “bloody” genitalia), Titus
removes the gendered component of Lavinia’s loss by seeing only himself and his
tragedy in her reflection. In a production where female space is represented only by the
flash of a sexualized Tamora (sexual play with Aaron in the forest), a “pit” that is

84
obscured from audience view by hiding it behind a large tree trunk (again, the phallic
menace overshadows female space throughout), or the violent “taking” of Lavinia’s
chastity, the overwhelming picture is one of a declining male world, losing its power,
unable to “read” or to even allot much space, to the female. The gender confusion
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or
dismissal is further projected in the fly scene, as Titus hits himself to punctuate his
speech, points a knife at Lavinia and puts it in her mouth, smashes food and spits drink
on his face, and alternately hits and kisses Marcus. Titus’s rages, hugs, and plate
throwing confuse and frighten both Lavinia and Young Lucius, who cling to each other to
shield themselves from Titus’s erratic behavior. They cannot read him, just as he cannot,
or will not, read them, other than to see Lavinia as “him” or Young Lucius as “the
future.”
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When Titus, Lavinia, and Young Lucius walk off stage together toward a lit
door space, the effect is one of loss rather than hope: what type of future do these ruined
models project?

By the time Titus enacts his revenge plot, he has resumed “speaking” with blades, yet the
power in his revenge seems somewhat hollowed as it is apparent that a futility
accompanies martial might—the only place to which it leads is extinction. Lavinia also
reflects the paradigm collapse when she enacts, and then gives up on, the male method of
forcing power. When Titus presents Chiron and Demetrius to Lavinia, tied up as his
prisoners, Lavinia needs to co-opt male expression in order to make an impression: she
hits Chiron, then Demetrius, repeatedly with her stumps and screams as she does this.

85
This unusual choice of action
77
aligns her with Titus yet it also siphons her of all her
remaining energy. She collapses soon after, and her remaining time on-stage is mummy-
like. She automatically follows Titus’s directions to catch Chiron and Demetrius’s blood
in a basin, and during the feast scene, she enters dressed all in white, bride-like, goes
willingly to her father in what looks like a morbid mock wedding ceremony, and does not
put up a fight when Titus strangles her. In the ensuing mayhem between Titus,
Saturninus, Tamora, and Lucius, Lavinia’s body eventually becomes obscured,
reinforcing the notion that the only space she is allowed to own in this production is in
relation to Titus. She not only has no future without Bassianus or her chastity; she has no
autonomy even in death. The final moments of the production show how the models of
the past no longer work: Young Lucius takes hold of Aaron’s baby, slowly walks center
stage with it in his arms, kneels, holds the baby to him, and then lets out a long scream
until his voice fades, then another, and another. This extra-textual utterance/addition
again shocks audibly: on-stage, Young Lucius’s screams can reflect the horror of past ills
and deeds, the lack of an adequate language to express it, or the recognition that a
different model is needed going ahead. Similarly, the audience sees—and hears—the
need for something different in a language that is yet to be explored or understood.

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Chapter One Endnotes

1
I was in attendance at both the Bailey and Ninagawa productions that I discuss in these opening
paragraphs. For the detailed analysis of later in this chapter, I use both my in-person experience as an
attendee to these performances and my experience viewing videotapes (in June 2011) of these productions
as well. Dates/performances will be notes under separate footnotes for clarity.

2
Though the actor spoke in Japanese, his tone, although strained, was soft, and the words flowed somewhat
melodically as the speech progressed. Further, English subtitles appeared in superscript above the stage on
the sides, so written text also provided a stark contrast to Lavinia’s maimed body in pain.

3
Leggatt, Alexander, Shakespeare’s Tragedies, Violation and Identity, UK: Cambridge UP, 2005, p. 8.
See also Aebischer, Pascale, Shakespeare’s Violated Bodies, UK: Cambridge UP, 2004.

4
For the general textual analysis in this first section, I refer to the 1995 Arden edition of Titus Andronicus,
edited by Jonathan Bate. For production analysis, other editions will be noted separately.

5
I insert this debate of does not leave vs. will not leave because it calls into question terms of agency: if
Lavinia “will not leave,” is this because she is still struggling to have her “voice” heard? And in her
undeniable physical presence, what is reflected? The female crisis of being acted upon or the male crisis of
not seeing what she reflects? Various productions’ decisions to keep Lavinia center stage versus pushing
her off to the side accentuates this debate in compelling ways, to be discussed later in this chapter.

6
In proto-Lear-like spirit, Titus sees Lavinia’s duty as making him happy.

7
This is taken from Ravenscroft’s preface to the reader in his 1687 MS.

8
While audiences in the Early Modern era were accustomed to spectacle such as on-stage violence,
successive generations—arguably, up until the mid twentieth century—have tried to curb on-stage violence
and have wrestled with ideas of decorum and propriety.

9
Quoted in Dessen, Alan, Shakespeare in Performance: Titus Andronicus, New York: Manchester UP,
1989, 7.

10
Ibid, 7-8. For a comprehensive summary of changes, see Dessen, Hughes (1994), Bate (1995).

11
Hughes, Alan, pp. 24-25.

12
Ibid, p. 24.

13
Ibid.

14
In Staging Pain, 1580-1800: Violence and Trauma in British Theater, Allard and Martin, eds.
Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Co., 139. Reilly claims that by seeing biologically female bodies
onstage whose “chastity” was under assault, “[t]he violation of chastity was eroticized, providing spectators
with the titillating experience of seeing a virtuous woman exposed” (139).

15
All citations herein of Ravenscroft’s text are taken from the British Library Historical Print Edition of
Ravenscroft’s 1687 published MS.

87

16
Hughes, p. 25

17
Ibid.

18
Dessen, Shakespeare in Performance, pp. 7-8.

19
As Marcus asks Junius, “Wilt thou revenge ‘em too? Junius replies, “I, when I am a man. But even now
I’le do what I can. And Marcus confirms, “That’s a good boy” (37). Titus later rehearses the plan with
Junius, cementing the younger’s position in the masculine line. So revenge is the road to manhood.

20
As Jonathan Bate states in his introduction to the Arden edition, Brook’s production “shaped the
predominant theatrical approach to the play for thirty years” (59).

21
“A ritual of bloodshed” is taken from Brook’s The Empty Space, p. 47, as quoted in Dessen.

22
p. 21.

23
Brook, Peter. The Empty Space, New York, NY: Atheneum, 1968, p. 42.

24
As Dessen notes, “audiences only ten years removed from the horrors of the Second World War
apparently were ready for Brook’s Titus Andronicus.

25
Bate, p. 59.

26
Ibid.

27
Ibid., pp. 60-61.

28
P. 39. Aebischer here references Laura Mulvey and the ways in which the fetishing tableau can be used
to arrest the plot and to give the viewer a pleasure in viewing.

29
Ibid., pp. 39-40. See also Dessen for a summary of critical response to Brook’s production and,
especially, to Vivien Leigh’s Lavinia.

30
From Brook’s promptbook, viewed at Shakespeare’s Birthplace Trust Library, Stratford-upon-Avon.

31
Brian Cox, Players of Shakespeare 3, p. 177.

32
Ibid.

33
I use the present tense for this production because I viewed it on videotape; thus, it exists in a different
type of time frame than a theatrical production. I have done the same in respect to using present tense for
the other videotaped stage productions I assess throughout the project.

34
Willis, Susan. The BBC Shakespeare Plays: Making the Televised Canon, Chapel Hill & London: The
University of North Carolina Press, 1991, 10-11.

35
Ibid.

36
Ibid.

88

37
Ibid. Obviously, cutting text to adhere to a specified running time can alter the presentation—and
meaning—in a variety of ways. In relation to the textual cuts/changes to Titus, Howell’s manipulation of
certain scenes such as 1.1 (she begins her production with Titus’ return rather than with Saturninus’ and
Bassianus’ quarrel) and her insertion/amplification of the Young Lucius character changes the impression
of the play noticeably. I deal with this above in the body of my argument.

38
Ibid., p. 12.

39
Ibid., p. 17.

40
Ibid., p. 165.

41
Ibid.

42
Ibid.

43
Ibid., p. 174.

44
Ibid., p. 171.

45
Ibid., 172.

46
Ibid.

47
Ibid.

48
I mean this especially in terms of Foucault.

49
This is quite effective in that the spear pointed at the viewer brings us into the scene. We are no longer
watching from the outside; there’s a threat that extends to us—and, by implication, to our own notions of
self.

50
By “nightmare,” I’m referring to the “penny arcade nightmares” (as Julie Taymor names them) that occur
at different points in the film that present “the memory of violence,” as Taymor states in the DVD
commentary. These PANs provide a collision of myth, memory, violence, and gender.

51
Julie Taymor’s 1999 film is based in part on her 1994 stage production, in which Taymor first developed
the “penny arcade nightmare” sequences, among other motifs that she uses in the film.

52
DVD commentary.

53
Taymor refers to this car as a “Mussolini-type vehicle.”

54
In the coliseum scenes that bookend the film, the “play action” takes place in the arena, with the internal
cast in attendance as appropriate (if the scene calls for them to be there), yet this is also played out with
spectators in modern-day dress, sitting in the stands. So the effects of violence—the dead bodies in both
scenes (return from war and the aftermath of the banquet scene) and the attempt at reinscribing violence
into the culture are witnessed by a larger faction.

55
Taymor uses Young Lucius’s description of the fly and its alignment with the Moor as an example of
“learned racism,” as she claims on the DVD commentary.

89

56
Ibid.

57
See Bate’s introduction to the Arden edition of Titus Andronicus for discussion regarding date(s) of
composition (39-40).

58
DVD commentary.

59
Obviously Jessica Lange’s Tamora holds much weight and influence in this film. Yet Taymor also uses
her as a body to be displayed. For much of her screen time, she is eroticized. The camera lingers on her
body, whether clothed, naked, or shown in partial view. And even with Tamora and all of the display,
Taymor claims that she tried to costume her to reflect a masculine power—one aligned with violence.

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Interestingly, Taymor does not have Lavinia put the staff in her mouth, as Marcus motions her to or as
the text suggests. Instead, Lavinia goes to put the staff in her mouth, but she hesitates and then rests it
between her neck and shoulder, guiding the staff with her arms. In her commentary, Taymor says that she
made this decision because she felt that putting the staff in her mouth would be like having a rape victim
testify at trial—it would make her reenact the trauma. This is compelling in that her decision instead to
recreate the rape in a PAN marks her as a sexual, feminized icon (Marilyn Monroe) rather than an assault
victim, thus eroticizing the crime and, I would argue, doing violence to it.

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Taymor notes this intention in the DVD commentary.

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I specifically mention the groundlings because a number of audience members in this section, throughout
the run of the production, fainted and had to be wheeled out of the area in a wheelchair. However, I also
contend that even those at a “safe” distance have their ideas of gender construction disrupted. Witnessing
the carnage unfold amidst the audience below (or in front of them, as it so happened in my case when I
attended a performance), and possibly seeing an audience member faint, shockingly illustrates limits of
understanding and acceptance being crossed.

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This somewhat awkward action indicates an intimacy but also suggests, perhaps, an uncomfortable lack
of boundaries between her and her family.

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It is important to note that hands and mouth define Titus as well from the start: his armed limbs (as
warrior) define his position in Rome and his voice is one that Romans wait upon. Thus, this connects Titus
and Lavinia while also illustrating the gender divide in terms of power. Titus’s arms and voice have been
used to secure his status; Lavinia’s hands and mouth, however, are also used to secure male status.

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However, the audience member who I saw faint at the moment Lavinia opened her mouth and oozed out
the bloody chunks seems to point to an inability to deal with “who/what she is” versus “who she was.”
And in that denial or confusion, the question of gender roles—who Lavinia (chaste Roman woman) is
supposed to be and how she is supposed to be handled—is raised.

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This also suggests another type of cruelty that is exacerbated in this production: one of not
looking/seeing. The wretched, writhing body of Lavinia, the undeniable presence, is veritably denied.
67
The goodbye to Titus and young Lucius’s tearful speech are cut.

68
These plastic “body parts,” though suggestive rather than realistic, create an eerie stage picture. They
add an element of gruesomeness in that, rather than “trying” to show the dismemberment with rubber, more
realistic-looking body parts, they suggest that the violence turns bodies into something else. And the
jarring sound of the plastic body parts hitting the stage, and Tamora, Chiron, and Demetrius’s screams that
follow in response, enhance the view of the “horror” of the transition.

90

69
He also later grabs Tamora and pushes her toward Saturninus as an offering. He grabs Tamora’s head
(she is seated on the floor) and roughly turns it toward Saturninus as if she is cattle being examined. As his
prisoner, he uses physical force to “take away” her humanity.

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When Mutius points his sword at Titus to try to prevent him from taking Lavinia back to Saturninus,
Titus knocks the sword from Mutius’s hand in one swipe as well, and then kills him with another single
swipe. These definitive actions communicate Titus’s power to determine identity as he sees fit: with one
swipe of his sword, Mutius is “exposed” as traitor to Rome’s wishes and thus “unmanned” and deprived of
his identity as Titus’s son, and with the second swipe, Titus extinguishes Mutius’s identity altogether.

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I put “physical language” in quotes because I believe that while not literally a language, his violent
physical actions are his primary, and strongest, form of communication.

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Because this production is in Japanese with English subtitles, for an English-only speaking audience
member, the visual and extra-textual utterance (laughs, screams, wails, etc.) come into clearer focus. The
immediate pre- and post-rape scenes seem like a cacophonous, obscene opera of horrors. Both the noises
and the choreographed sights become enhanced in the viewer’s eye. And on an extra-textual level,
“seeing” and “hearing” the horror (rather than Shakespeare’s text) exacerbates it.

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Most productions that I’ve seen or read about do not mark Chiron and Demetrius via bloody genitalia. In
my opinion, this elevates the specific crime and also gives it a distinctly gendered focus.

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I would also argue that the scream shocks the audience in such a way as to exacerbate the trauma of
seeing Lavinia’s maimed form. Our gaze, fixated on the horribly ravaged sight/site, is disrupted, shocked
once more, by the auditory interference. This makes us reconsider what we see—rereading the body in
pain and its implications.

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By gender confusion I mean the disorientation and devastation that Titus experiences when his normal,
i.e. traditional, methods of communication do not produce the expected results.

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As in Jane Howell’s BBC production and Julie Taymor’s film, the focus on Young Lucius’s shock and
confusion and the link between Young Lucius, Lavinia, and Titus accentuates how doubtful a future is that
relies on the eviscerated models that have been presented here.

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All of the other productions I discuss in this chapter have Lavinia simply hold the basin to collect Chiron
and Demetrius’s blood, or do nothing at all. They do not have their Lavinias physically engage her
perpetrators.

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Chapter Two: “Unmanly grief” and woman’s “frailty”: gender, violence, and the
battle of “becoming” in Hamlet

“There are so many beautiful mysteries locked in [Hamlet] about boyhood becoming
manhood.”
―Ben Kingsley (Independent, March 17, 1989)

“Frailty, thy name is woman!”
“God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.”
―Hamlet, 1.2.150; 3.1.155-6

“Meg Fraser is a skillful Ophelia. For most of the play, she’s still, almost marmoreal;
when she goes mad, she becomes what seems would be most shocking in this court—
muscular, assertive, almost male. [emphasis mine]
―Susannah Clapp (Review in Observer, July 25, 2004)

As the quotations above illustrate, Hamlet proffers protean ideas (“mysteries” in Ben
Kingsley’s phrase) of male gender, while the female is subject to a rigid, fixed bias. As
Hamlet so archly betrays, prejudices abound within (and outside) the text regarding just
what “makes” a man…or a woman. And in production, as Susannah Clapp’s comment
indicates, certain gender expectations can be revealed in ways that illuminate the gender
concerns inherent in the play. Her assessment of Meg Fraser’s characterization of the
“mad” Ophelia as “almost male” highlights not only the identifiable gender construction
within the production (and in the viewer’s eye), but the idea of gender specifics as

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threatening (a female acting like a male), a concept which opens up space for further
exploration. In the text(s),
1
Hamlet and Ophelia both struggle to understand what it
means to be, or become, a “man” or “woman,” and both must contend with faulty, or I
would argue artificial, models of gender distinction from their forebears. Hamlet
struggles with overbearing—and competing—images of both his father and his uncle, and
his battle to define himself as “man,” “son,” “hero,” “revenger,” or simply “adult
individual” is complicated—even hindered—by the male behavior he enacts or mimics.
Similarly, Ophelia suffers in her transition from girl to woman because of a paucity of
female models and from a severe limit to her physical and mental space by males who
wish to contain her, and to contain “woman” in general. Both Hamlet and Ophelia seem
put upon—Hamlet struggles mightily in the shadow of an idealized “ghost” father and his
supposed revenge plot and Ophelia cannot seem to establish an identity separate from her
father or from Hamlet (in terms of being “his,” then “not his”). And both turn to some
form of “madness” as expression of their “out of joint” states of being. I see this madness
and the successive drives toward death as reflections of not just “something wrong”
politically but as something specifically wrong with the gender construction forced upon
the characters in the play. Both Hamlet and Ophelia repeatedly find themselves in
situations in which the ways that they enact gender result in a loss of self and betray the
inauthentic nature of the gender roles into which they are forced. The male purview in
the text is defined by words and by physical violence, both of which are used on/against
women
2
to build themselves up. The female arena is thus relegated to object: the female
body as the recipient of those words and violence in manners that strive to contain (or to

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“own”), but which also “reshape” the body, using it to reflect the faulty power structure.
Yet though the female body can be used to expose male misdoings, it is also “trapped,”
left without space for individual expression, except, as is evident in a variety of
productions, through extra-textual utterances such as tears, cries, or screams.

The long, vast production history and analysis of Hamlet largely concentrates on defining
Hamlet the man—Hamlet’s struggles of “becoming” or “being” in the play are reflected
in the widespread concentration on either just what makes each actor a “success” as
Hamlet, or how the man (or woman, as the case may be, since many women have played
Hamlet as well) defines the man. The “successes” of Hamlet, and of the actors who have
played him, can be traced from David Garrick’s “naturalness” through Henry Irving’s
“focus on individual psychology”
3
to Laurence Olivier’s Oedipal struggling hero to the
recent “angry undergrad” boy/man embodiments of Ben Whishaw and Rory Kinnear.
The critical focus tends toward discussions of “what kind of man” each Hamlet purports
to be, and the production choices that enact those characterizations. The production
analysis of Ophelia is largely limited to “how does Hamlet treat her?”; “Is she sweet or
fragile?”; or “How ‘mad’ is she in the ‘mad’ scenes?”.
4
Especially in the shorter,
general-public reviews, there seems to be a checklist—one line devoted to how Ophelia
looks, and then an assessment of the way she plays “mad”; the rest, of course, is devoted
to the central performance of Hamlet.
5
Yet for all of the celebration of Hamlet’s struggle
to “become,” Ophelia can be viewed as more than the female extension of Hamlet in

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terms of her function as political tool (as many critics claim her): the violence enacted
upon her (especially in production) and the effects therein crystallize the “problems” of
both genders.

In this chapter I explore the ways in which gender crises, as enacted through Hamlet and
Ophelia, are played out through their link to violence in various twentieth and twenty first
century stage and film(ed) productions of Hamlet. On stage and screen, blocking, textual
edits or embellishments, and camera angles can be used to illustrate just how much a part
of the struggle of “becoming” is related to gender conflict or confusion. I focus on
Ophelia, and on Hamlet in relation to her, because these two are on the cusp: they are not
yet “man” and “woman” in the sense that they are not married and they seemingly have
not assumed their full “adult” duties (Hamlet has been at school; Ophelia is still at home,
under her father’s tutelage). Thus, these two engage with gender concerns on a variety of
levels: Hamlet needs to inhabit his ideas of “man” in light of many struggles—he must
figure out how to define himself while executing justice for his father and countering the
toxic atmosphere his uncle and, arguably, mother have allowed into the state. Further,
these models (idealized “ghost father” and villain-uncle) appear to contaminate him,
hindering his progress as he tries to juggle martial might, secrecy, and sexual assertion.
His efforts are thus contaminated, and his version of “man” betrays the inefficiency of the
models. Similarly, Ophelia is made up of the limitations set on her, and, arguably, her
madness derives from an inability to acquire personal space—to be viewed as anything

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other than object of male affection or derision. Ophelia, accustomed to “following”
either her father or Hamlet, comes undone when the political conflicts make it impossible
for her to follow her personal desires (if she can even identify them), and a clear path is
thus confused. I place particular focus on such scenes as the nunnery scene because 1) it
is a space where interpretations vary greatly, and the differences seem to point to degrees
(and types) of violence against Ophelia, and 2) the degree and type of violence used here
sets off both Ophelia and Hamlet on their “unraveling of selves.” I also pay special
attention to Ophelia’s mad scenes because it is here where we see the effects of the
violence on Ophelia’s character (i.e. who she has “become”) and how these effects show
the implications of gender control. From Jean Simmons’ sobbing Ophelia in Olivier’s
film to Kozintsev’s “puppet-Ophelia” to Linda Marsh’s suicide-jumper-Ophelia in the
1964 Gielgud/Burton production to the male-mimicking Ophelias in the Daniels/Rylance
and Noble/Branagh productions, I ask: how and why does violence expose the
artificiality of gender constructions in the play? And what are the effects—on Hamlet,
Ophelia, and the viewer—of revealing the “illegitimate” nature of these constructions? I
then explore a different type of insidious violence: that of surveillance via technology, to
see how that now-pervasive tool confuses personal growth even more by almost wholly
depleting interior space in favor of recording and manipulating surface images. Thus the
construction of gender is rendered even more artificial or external.

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Hamlet on film: the battle of “becoming” versus the battle of containment

LAURENCE OLIVIER’S FILMED HAMLET (1948):“This too, too solid flesh”

Laurence Olivier’s 1948 film of Hamlet is generally thought of as the seminal twentieth-
century interpretation against which succeeding generations of filmmakers have engaged
in an ongoing dialogue. Whether through Zefferelli’s acceleration and expansion of the
Oedipal content with a pelvis-thrusting Mel Gibson and a giddily passionate Glenn Close
or Branagh’s nod to Olivier through everything from his blond hair to his swashbuckling,
airborne leap to kill Claudius in the final scene, Olivier’s film is an important marker in
film interpretations of the play. The scholarly discussion surrounding the famously
Oedipal component Olivier illustrates between Hamlet and Gertrude is longstanding.
6

Olivier’s Hamlet’s confused boundaries with his mother problematize his growth and fuel
his anguish in a variety of ways, from his alternating anger and devotion to Gertrude to
his physically and emotionally callous treatment of Ophelia. Olivier’s textual and filmic
choices, from cuts to camera angles, serve to reinforce not only who Hamlet thinks he is
or wants to be, but also his notion of women and how that notion affects his growth as a
man. Olivier describes Hamlet as, “…a sporadic collection of self-dramatizations in
which he tries always to play the hero and, in truth, feels ill cast in the part.”
7
Thus
Olivier defines Hamlet from the start as “performing the self.”
8
He “plays” at a variety of
ideas of who he thinks he should be: if it’s “hero,” as Olivier suggests, I would argue that

97
that label is tested—and often falls flat—in his interactions not only with Claudius (Basil
Sydney) and Gertrude (Eileen Herlie), but in “forgetting himself” with Ophelia (to be
explained below). Further, Olivier’s decisions regarding cuts to Ophelia’s text and
particularly aggressive physical action toward her also illustrate Hamlet’s failure as hero
and enhance the view of woman as body, leaving the province of “soul” or intellect as
exclusively male, which is problematic since the males are shown as increasingly
volatile, destructive, or eventually deflated. So, the complicated link between gender
construction/assertion and violence toward women is what ultimately defines, or undoes,
Olivier’s Hamlet.

Hamlet’s first soliloquy is spoken in voiceover as we watch him pace around a room, first
tracking Hamlet from behind and then in a semi-close-up tracking shot. His desire for
his “too too solid flesh [to] melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew” is poignant in that it
is not spoken simply with vitriol, but also with longing. The way Olivier audibly
expresses Hamlet’s wish to reshape himself, literally, is compelling because it suggests a
core dissatisfaction with the kind of man he is and it reflects a desire to become
something/someone else, presumably in service of a greater goal, i.e. to “make things
right.”
9
The “man” he is now has already come under question, of course, by Claudius’
epithet of “unmanly grief,”
10
and here we see him internally at odds with himself and his
environment, which opens up the space for investigation of gender concerns, or, more
specifically, what makes a man or a woman. Hamlet continues his speech in voiceover

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until he hits the phrase “and yet within a month,” following shortly in close-up with an
aggressive exclamation of, “frailty, thy name is woman.” His ponderings regarding
himself are internal, via voiceover, yet his publicly voiced disgust is directed outward,
toward “woman,” and, in particular, his mother. This is significant because it assigns the
male voice audible (yet obviously questionable) “authority” to both define and castigate
the female. It is the first instance of “speaking daggers,” which provides a further link
between male violence and the female as target.

Ophelia (Jean Simmons) is positioned throughout in “angelic” or “mythic/poetic” shots
and/or garments: she has long, blond hair, she is clothed in floor-length white dresses,
and Olivier either shoots her framed by windows or arches, giving her the look of being a
piece of artwork, or she is shown as an “actor” in a scene reconstruction (her voiceover
explication of Hamlet’s strange behavior as she was “sewing in [her] closet” as shown in
an awkwardly mimed flashback or the Millais-inspired “photographic poem” scene of
Ophelia floating down the brook before she drowns). These images reinforce the
presentation of Ophelia as an abstract idea—presumably one that’s “contained” (by
Olivier’s camera or other framing devices mentioned above). Further, they link Ophelia
and Hamlet as ideals: “angel” and “hero,” although these constructions, by the very
nature of their being ideals, are doomed to implode. Olivier’s construction of Ophelia-as-
angel is also effective in that it counters Hamlet’s other idea of woman: Gertrude’s
unseemly (yet longed for?) sexual character. And it is against these two figures that he

99
cannot play “hero,” as those projections reveal more about Hamlet, or about the
patriarchal structure under which he has learned, than about them.

The nunnery scene illustrates the faulty nature of the constructed ideals and exposes the
weaknesses in the male/female provinces. Hamlet knows from the start that Claudius and
Polonius are behind the curtain—Olivier reveals Hamlet as eavesdropper in the previous
scene during which they set up the plan. So the textual meaning of the scene has been
definitively slanted—this is a dialogue between the men. Ophelia kneels, with book in
hand, to distract Hamlet as he walks dangerously close to the curtain. Then, as she
speaks, her voice is awkwardly loud for a private dialogue, which reflects the artifice
underlying their conversation. This is significant in that it is not Ophelia’s voice being
reflected here, but Polonius’ intentions: the words do not sit well in her mouth. And
Ophelia-as-mouthpiece confirms the authority of men rather than her love or concern for
Hamlet. Ophelia softens as she and Hamlet first talk of remembrances—something that
was previously exclusively between them—yet Hamlet keeps turning toward the curtains.
Hamlet shows the first signs of physical force when he holds her hand down on top of the
book (presumably, a bible) at “are you honest,” and he follows that physical control with
a speech (“we are all errant knaves”) delivered close to her ear: is he closing in on her or
on his male foes? When Hamlet asks, “where is your father?”, this is definitely a test,
which she fails. And as soon as she answers, she begins to cry. Her tears and sobs are a
crucial effect because they are her only authentic expression and outlet. Words and, as

100
we will see, physical force, are the purview of males. And the males barely even respond
to what becomes an agonizing, and increasingly loud, chorus of sobs emanating from
Ophelia.

Ophelia’s cries are at first answered by Hamlet’s shouts, connoting the staggering
difference between female versus male utterances. As Hamlet’s anger explodes, he
moves swiftly around the room, the camera showing him now in long shot. Ophelia,
crying, runs after him, to the stairs, and tries to hug him, at which point he throws her
down near the bottom of the stairs, where she lay, sobbing. He briefly goes to her and
kisses her hair, but then he leaves, repeating “To a nunnery go” as her sobs rise in
volume. And when Claudius and Polonius come out from behind the curtain (no speech
for Ophelia—no “Oh what a noble mind…”; sobs and tears are her only sanctioned
expressions), they barely acknowledge her-- body crumpled, sobbing. Further, the
camera moves with the men as they walk across the room, framing them, and cutting
Ophelia completely out of frame. The words are between the men, and the woman
doesn’t warrant consideration. This attempt at erasure of the female (or of female space)
is significant because it doesn’t quite work: we still, uncomfortably, hear Ophelia’s sobs,
which escalate to an alarming volume. These eerie sounds confirm the violence that
men’s words and actions have visited upon her and expose the cruelty associated with
male “play” (Hamlet’s failure to be “heroic” in any way; Claudius and Polonius’
craftiness; all three men’s power visited upon Ophelia’s body and mind). Ophelia’s

101
wrenching cries echo through the room, and as Polonius and Claudius walk away, leaving
Ophelia crying in a heap at the foot of the stairs, the camera pulls up…and up…and up
the many stories of stairs, through the castle, to the rooftop promontory, outside to
Hamlet gazing over the water for his “To be or not to be” soliloquy. By showing Ophelia
at the very depths, her cries haunting the castle, the nature of Hamlet’s “being” is called
into question in unexpected ways: uncontrolled female utterances call male authority into
question, and even as Hamlet ponders the idea of “not to be,” his words are slightly
deflated by the lingering memory of Ophelia’s wrenching cries.

Olivier sees Ophelia as only existing for the men. Aside from the various cuts to
Ophelia’s speeches, he argues for cutting Hamlet’s “How all occasions” speech so that,
among other reasons, “…the story go[es] forward swiftly towards the death of Ophelia
from sorrows which did not come singly: first, her father slain; next, Hamlet gone away;
next, Laertes returning, speaking revenge, and seeing her final madness.”
11
It would
appear that, without any of the men in her life present, or available to her in the ways she
was taught to understand and accept them, she no longer has a purpose. Even in
madness, though, we hear her “authentic” voice: she screams loudly while running by the
trees at the brook before entering the castle for her first “mad” scene, and her voice
echoes through the castle via her “mad” songs and her intermittent cries in both mad
scenes. She does not become “loose,” or sexually suggestive, in these scenes, as is often
represented in stage/screen productions. She is “made up” of limits imposed upon her by

102
men, while also exposing, through her utterances, how impossible those limitations are to
live under. Her “authentic speech”-- cries, sobs, screams—form a violence of their own,
warning the male figures that something is terribly wrong with the accepted spheres of
power and control. It is quite compelling that, though the audience feels the effect of her
utterances, her sounds ultimately fall on deaf male ears.

Though Olivier’s interpretation of Hamlet and the scholarly discussion that has followed
that film largely focus on Hamlet’s Oedipal relationship with Gertrude as the driving
force in his identity crisis
12
, I view that as only one significant component in his make-
up. True, Olivier shows Hamlet as both enraged by his mother’s actions (as evidenced in
the “solid flesh” soliloquy and in the scene in which he “speaks daggers” to her) and
tamed by their too-intimate kisses (in their first scene when Gertrude pleads with him to
“go not to Wittenberg,” she controls him with a kiss on the mouth, and in the encounter
in Gertrude’s closet, after he commands her to be virtuous, he pollutes the command with
an intimate mouth-to-mouth kiss, which she returns). And his exchanges with Claudius
are colored by his rage/guilt over Gertrude: when Hamlet delivers the wry
“father/mother” speech before being sent off to England, Olivier mimes a choking motion
as he says the word “mother,” which indicates, perhaps even subconsciously, a desire to
snuff out not only Claudius, but to make his mother (or his guilt over her) cease, in a very
personal, voice-ending way. Yet his interactions with Ophelia further underscore and
illuminate the need, and failure, to snuff out the female voice in order to build or maintain

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control or power in a male-dominated world. Hamlet “builds” male intellectual play over
Ophelia’s sobs—and he comes up fairly deflated as a result. Further, in Ophelia’s funeral
scene, Hamlet does not jump in to Ophelia’s grave after Laertes, as has become
customary in many productions—his words ring marginally hollow as he debates Laertes:
this is, again, between the men, as Laertes drops Ophelia’s doll-like corpse back into the
grave and leaps up to his fight with Hamlet. Still, Ophelia’s haunting cries and tears
serve to suggest an eerie judgment on the inefficiency—and damaging components—of
gender construction in this production. The verbal and physical violence between Hamlet
and Ophelia do indeed, to some extent, melt the “too too solid” flesh as the ill-suited
paradigms ring hollow and eventually collapse.

GRIGORI KOZINTSEV’S HAMLET: Ophelia as puppet

Kozintsev’s 1964 film adaptation of Hamlet
13
presents a visual characterization of
Ophelia as fully evacuated of personal space—she is imprisoned in both mind and body.
Through severe cuts to her speeches, Kozintsev (through Pasternak’s translation)
minimizes Ophelia’s voice to an astonishing degree, and he instead offers an Ophelia
who appears almost entirely physically and mentally controlled through such mechanisms
as a puppet-like dance and severely physically inhibiting dress, complete with iron girdle.
As such, it is Ophelia who tellingly reflects the political and social imposition and
implications of Kozintsev’s (and Shakespeare’s) landscape of Denmark as “prison-state.”

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Further, her visual characterization reinforces the degree of the “need” for male control,
and how the various forms of constraint inhibit and/or deny both male and female
growth. The mechanisms of constraint, from speech to dress to movement to setting,
seem closed in on Ophelia from the start, which presents a chilling picture of “woman,”
with absolutely no space for development. So, as we “read" her, is she ultimately all
“reflection” and no core? And, if so, what does that say about the way that gender is
constructed and maintained, or destroyed?

When we are first introduced to Ophelia (Anastasiya Vertinskaya), she is engaged in a
stiff type of dance that evokes an uncomfortably puppet-like aura. Ophelia’s
nursemaid/female attendant plays music on her mandolin, and the music seems to guide
Ophelia: there is something mechanical about Ophelia’s movements. She moves
according to others’ direction. The music plays, and she assumes position/character. She
gives no indication of being emotionally moved or freed by dance or music: she appears
to be “pulled” by the attendant’s “strings.” It is as if she is there for entertainment, or on
display. Further, her exchanges with both Laertes and Polonius regarding Hamlet reflect
this tighter “leash.” She engages in a truncated discussion with Laertes upon his leave,
and she does not question his advice by chiding him regarding the “steep and thorny
path” he has paved for her—this part of the textual exchange is cut. Further, when
Polonius counsels her, she sits at his feet, kisses his hand upon visual command when he
finishes his speech, and then she gets up, walks over to the attendant, and, on cue,

105
resumes her mechanical dance to the music. There is an eeriness to the scene as Ophelia
does not verbally or visually question Laertes or her father—she just accepts her
constricted position within the family structure. The dance reinforces the notion of her as
puppet of the males in her life-- arms swaying, holding a pose, curtseying, obeying.

The “dance” is also reflected or extended in an enactment of Hamlet (Innokenti
Smoktunovsky ) coming to Ophelia in “madness” (in her “closet”). Their back-and-forth
creates a picture of Hamlet guiding a dance—he is in control, she moves with him, but is
confused by his “antic behavior.” This serves to link Ophelia and Hamlet in their
struggles, and their link resurfaces at various points in the text: Hamlet’s mad laughs
echoing through the castle are repeated (with a difference) in Ophelia’s songs, which also
echo; further, when Hamlet leaves for England, the film cuts to a shot of Ophelia’s
shadow in the window. Thus, the two figures who struggle with “becoming” are linked,
but here it is through markers of “madness.”
14
However, even the “dance” is truncated
for Ophelia because it is the only “movement” she’s allowed. She is “secured,” both
within the castle walls (she is only seen outside of the castle when she’s dead: at the
bottom of the brook and her body at the funeral) and within the confines of her various
male relationships. And when she runs to Polonius after we have seen the first “mad”
exchange above, all Ophelia can say is, “As I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet
comes.” The rest of the scene is cut: Ophelia simply cries into her father’s arms.
15

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The nunnery scene evokes prison-like imagery, and illuminates both the constraints on
Ophelia and the ways in which the men impose them. Ophelia begins the scene
pretending to read, as the light from the window backlights her. She sees Hamlet through
the bannister of the stairs. They look at each other through the bars, which punctuates
their constraints. When Ophelia tries to give him the “remembrance,” he walks over to
her and smacks the remembrance (a token) out of her hand, a violent gesture that visibly
shocks her. He circles her on “are you honest; are you fair,” then grabs her and thrusts
her against the banister—she is at the limits of her space, pushed there by the different
male figures. There’s no indication at all that Hamlet is aware of Polonius or Claudius’
hidden presence, which refocuses the violence toward Ophelia. This differs from
Olivier’s film in which Hamlet was essentially sparring with Polonius and Claudius, with
Ophelia functioning simply as conduit. Here, in Kozintsev’s representation, the shift in
focus allows Ophelia her own position, but only as the object of oppression. At the end
of their exchange, Ophelia tries to stop Hamlet as he walks upstairs, away from her. She
grabs his hand, yet he walks away—he has the benefit of motion while she is left in the
room. Once Claudius and Polonius come out of hiding, they walk away, talking to each
other, not even acknowledging Ophelia. She slinks off in back of the screen shot,
unnoticed; unimportant to the men. This is compelling in that it reinforces the notion, as
in the Olivier production, that she does not matter—this scheme was to find out about
Hamlet—it doesn’t consider Ophelia as a person with feelings at all. She is just a puppet
in the male-orchestrated power-plays.

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After Polonius’ death and inquiry therein, we begin to see the full extent and effect of the
constraints that have so severely limited Ophelia’s growth. As Hamlet rides off (on
horseback) for the ship to England, there is a shot of Ophelia’s silhouette, in shadow,
through a lit window—the link between the two still exists, yet Ophelia is locked inside,
a shadow-double of the tormented male figure
16
. The scene then cuts to Ophelia, in her
chamber. We see two court attendants dressing her—first they put an iron girdle on her,
clamping it shut on her over her white dressing robes. More assistants join, bringing an
iron ringed skirt apparatus, and then black mourning robes to cover the iron skirt. The
shackle-like mechanism serves to reinforce the notion that Ophelia is trapped by what
goes on around her, leaving her with little freedom of her own to think or act outside of
her prescribed role. She is dazed, almost catatonic, and as the black veil is lowered over
her face, she closes her eyes briefly and uses her arms/hands to hold the veil. This seems
to mimic or extend the earlier dance she did, but with an ironic twist—she is still a
puppet, but this is a death-dance. We hear people singing a song of mourning throughout
the scene, punctuating not only the grief over Polonius’ death, but arguably of Ophelia’s
now-questionable existence/purpose.

Ophelia’s mad scenes accentuate just how much the male oppression (as demonstrated by
the “stranglehold” evident in lack of female language and the physical apparatuses of
containment) squelch any notion of authentic female expression. As Ophelia walks down
the hallway, wearing a big cross around around her neck, struggling/pushing the veil, as

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if being suffocated by it, a crowd follows her. Again, her outstretched/upheld arms seem
an ironic reversal of the moves she did in the original dance. She wanders around the
main room and looks through the bannister. Then we have a reverse shot showing her
through these “prison bars.” Her figure looks slight behind the “bars.” Is she trapped by
grief, or is there another component? Perhaps this is a reflection, reinforced with iron
and bars, that she may not even have the space or possess the tools for her own grief
management. With such a tight rein on her from the start, what is she made up of other
than the words, ideas, and controls of the men in her life? And where is she without
them? When Gertrude enters and walks up to the bars to try to talk to Ophelia, Ophelia
begins her “mad song,” and we see a compelling image of women talking to each other
through bars. With Gertrude dressed in white and Ophelia in black, this serves as a
moment of recognition of their places in this world: there are bars holding them both.
But Ophelia soon moves away, Gertude following her, and Ophelia is no longer looking
at her: the possibility for Ophelia to transition into womanhood, without any interiority, is
nil, so the momentary connection is cut. She sheds her veil, her hair comes down, and
she walks across the room while singing. The female attendants put the veil back on as
Claudius talks to Ophelia, a sign that the female still must be contained or controlled
around the male power structure. Then, the head attendant, who played mandolin in
earlier scenes, comes up to Ophelia and begins to play the music—as Ophelia’s eerie
refrain starts, Ophelia starts doing the arm movements from the original dance. Her veil
comes off and she takes off the robes as she says goodnight and starts to walk up stairs.
Her song eerily echoes through the castle, as Hamlet’s laughter had before. This is a

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compelling contrast to the Olivier film, where the castle was “filled” with Ophelia’s
wrenching sobs. In this representation, only madness (Hamlet’s laughter, Ophelia’s
songs) gains space. Whereas in the Olivier version, the sobs functioned as truth-telling
markers, here Ophelia was so stunted from the start that there is no space for authentic
expression.

Kozintsev’s Hamlet presents the struggle of “becoming” both through Hamlet and
Ophelia, yet his representation of the female is one of complete containment. Ophelia is
a puppet or shadow—an object that is wholly imposed upon and imprisoned. Her words
and space are taken from her—by textual editing, costume, and staging—and the loss of
even the little space the text would traditionally offer enhances the notion of the
emptiness of the gender construction. With no defense, no interiority, no questioning,
what makes up the female? And in relation to Hamlet, a man struggling to “become” yet
being allowed motion, Ophelia serves as a “shadow-double,” a view from the “outside”
that reveals the cost—the ability for self-expression and growth—of the violent
impositions on the self.

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JOHN GIELGUD AND RICHARD BURTON: Ophelia, male mimicry, and the act of
suicide (1964)

In their films, both Olivier and Kozintsev show how the attempted containment of the
female exposes the inauthentic nature of the construction of “female.” Male
impositions—in the form of both physical and emotional “violence”—play upon the
female body in order to build up the male, and the result is eventual collapse, or a view of
gender construction as inherently artificial. In Olivier’s film, Ophelia’s sobs function as
the truth-marker that betrays the effect of male violence, while Kozintsev leaves no space
for female authenticity—he locks it up in a literal and figurative iron “cage.” While both
Olivier’s and Kozintsev’s Ophelias show a severely limited range of motion, John
Gielgud’s 1964 stage production
17
uses one extra-textual moment to harrowingly
illustrate just how much the male containment drives Ophelia in the direction of complete
annihilation.

In his rehearsal journals, Richard L. Sterne recalls Gielgud’s feeling regarding the
atmosphere of the castle in Denmark as “a miasma of corruption and sensuality.”
18

Gielgud’s claim that “all the people in the play are shut up in this castle” reflects the
stifling nature or circumstance against which Hamlet and Ophelia struggle.
19
And the
“miasma of corruption and sensuality” provides ill-fitting models for Hamlet and Ophelia
to follow. In fact, the toxic atmosphere exacerbates a wish to cease rather than “to be.”

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Richard Burton’s Hamlet is angry from the start, using raised voice to express his boiling
inner turmoil. He is categorized both physically and vocally by dissatisfaction or
disobedience: when Gertrude goes to Hamlet to touch his face on “go not to Wittenberg,”
he moves his cheek to miss her touch. Further, “mad” Hamlet’s voice can be heard in the
laughter that punctuates his words. So, Hamlet uses voice and movement to fill out his
“space.” In contrast, Linda Marsh’s Ophelia seems not so much controlled at first by
male words and actions, as she is not “marked” or counted: her voice and movements,
slight as they are, go virtually unnoticed. Thus, the impositions visited upon her (by
physical violence or neglect) turn her somewhat into an echo of male Hamlet in that she
gains, alarmingly, in both voice and movement, mimicking the male in attempt to be seen
and heard, in a harrowing representation of a death drive.

Sterne illustrates Gielgud’s attitude toward Ophelia as individual in Gielgud’s directive to
Linda Marsh in rehearsal:
STERNE: After Polonius’ question [to Ophelia regarding Hamlet], “Have you
Given him any hard words of late?” Linda Marsh gave an angry reading of her
reply, “No, my good lord.”
GIELGUD: No, no, dear. You mustn’t be spiteful. She’s sadly reproachful. Of
course, she didn’t like what he made her do, but she’s too good a daughter to
disobey…I want to have Polonius lead the exit. In each scene we’ll have Ophelia
left alone at the end. They don’t need her, and here she is walking about and no-
body cares.
20

Ophelia is thus interpreted as 1) shadow/echo, in that she exists to obey the males who
rule her and 2) she is not viewed as her own entity—she’s not a “necessary” component

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of the male power structure, i.e. she has no agency.
21
This attitude of “nobody cares”
does not mean Ophelia isn’t monitored somewhat: she is “checked in on” or looked to by
Polonius, both at the end of the nunnery scene and at the play-within-the-play, as
Polonius stands in triangular position between/behind Ophelia and Hamlet, creating the
impression of being a part of that relationship, and enhancing the view of Ophelia as
manipulated by the male figures and thus less of her “own” person.

The feeling that Gielgud forwards that “nobody cares” about Ophelia, in terms of her
ability to control or move things, results in her adopting male measures of expression: she
gains volume and movement in her “mad” scenes. Yet though she apes the male figures
in order to “be seen,” her movement exacerbates the fact that there is no “place” for her
as a woman deprived of both father and boyfriend, and who has no other model upon
which to build. In her first mad scene, Ophelia’s voice is arresting not only in its volume,
which makes the others in the scene visibly uncomfortable (power in voice, a heretofore
“male” space), but in tone: whereas most productions have Ophelia singing on-key,
wistfully or prettily, even if sad or mad, here Ophelia utters discordant sounds, which
proves quite an effective echo of (and comment on?) the “disjointed” nature of the
political and personal struggles. Further, and most tellingly, she pairs her new vocal
strength with an aggravated action: she walks along the edge of the upper platform, and
on “I’ll make an end on’t,” Ophelia makes a running leap off the platform, as if to jump
to her death.
22
Ophelia’s adoption of male vocal/violent form turns to self-abuse. And

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though Horatio catches her, breaking her fall, it is clear from this action that Ophelia
most likely eventually kills herself, an indication that the male behavior she either
internalizes or models (she even takes on more physical violence as she slaps Laertes
before leaving for the last time in her second mad scene) “undoes” her: it only leaves her
personal space in death. Thus the model of “male behavior”—from vocal volume to
physical strength (controlling, sometimes violent gestures) to motion is ultimately
revealed as destructive for both genders. Males ultimately shrink rather than grow under
the harsh, hollow gestures, and female figures, with no space of their own, succumb when
they try to emulate the faulty male behavioral model.

RSC stage productions from the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s: Hamlet’s aggression
versus Ophelia’s “learned” behavior

In the Olivier and Kozintsev films of Hamlet, Ophelia is controlled by either physical or
emotional restraint. Both Simmons’ and Vertinskaya’s Ophelias are offered little space
in which to move or to develop from girl to woman. And, in reaction, they either “bleed
tears” in response, as in Simmons’ case through her haunting sobs, or are “locked in,” as
in Vertinskaya’s example, through a puppet-like existence, framed by literal and
figurative “bars” imposed upon her by the patriarchal structure. Alternately, in the

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Gielgud/Burton production, Gielgud makes Linda Marsh’s Ophelia’s desire to escape her
confinement (and her grief) quite overt and public by having her take a running jump to
try to “end it all,” a feat she, perhaps, does finally accomplish through her drowning
death in the brook, even if that indicates the only “female space” as post-mortem. As
these aforementioned productions show, the physical and emotional impositions upon the
figure of Ophelia directly relate to who she “becomes.” In two stage productions of the
RSC, the 1989 Ron Daniels production starring Mark Rylance and the 1993 production
starring Kenneth Branagh, this illustration of cause and effect is used quite strongly to
show, on different levels, how “playing at” man and woman ultimately distorts Ophelia’s
growth in such a way that she becomes an uncomfortable mimic of either “male
behavior” or the reflection—and amplification—of the patriarchal structure’s empty
female fears.

RON DANIELS AND MARK RYLANCE, 1989: The bed, the “act,” and perverted
generation

Mark Rylance’s acclaimed interpretation of Hamlet in Ron Daniels’ 1989 RSC
production is identified largely by dizzying motion: both emotionally and physically, this
Hamlet is frequently on the move, always in the process of “becoming,” even though this
“becoming” is characterized by a distinctly manic downward spiral. At first, Rylance’s
Hamlet obscures who he “is,” by spending portions of the first two scenes with his back

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toward the audience—making it difficult to “pin him down”: he sits or stands with coat
and suitcase, waiting to leave the dour, “disjointed” atmosphere of Denmark,
23
and he
utters the beginning of his “too solid flesh” soliloquy turned away from the audience.
Yet with his burst of volume at “frailty thy name is woman,” he is off and running, so to
speak, first as embodiment of “woe is me” sentiment, and then, increasingly, with
passionate anger and, as many critics argue, the sarcasm or manic behavior of an
overwhelming madness.
24
As this Hamlet bounds through his various emotions, he leaps
around the off-kilter set, illustrating the physical extremes from fetal position to sexual
assault of Ophelia to committing murder in his mother’s bed—all fiercely twisted
enactments of troubled—or failed—transitions from boy to man. In contrast to Hamlet,
Ophelia (Rebecca Saire) seems shadow-like: she follows Polonius’ orders without
question: Polonius (Patrick Godfrey) points for Ophelia to stand near him as he doles out
advice regarding Hamlet, and she complies. He controls her by a point of the finger, a
touch of her chin, which he raises to garner more direct attention from her, or the sound
of his voice. She dutifully listens to all he has to say, and just as dutifully follows him
when he leaves the room to tell Claudius and Gertrude of his thoughts regarding Hamlet’s
“madness.” This Ophelia gives the impression of being completely at her father’s
mercy—not fighting his authority, and perhaps not even questioning it. She seems a
cipher upon which others impose their wishes, or enact their rage or confusion.

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When whirlwind Hamlet and static Ophelia meet in the nunnery scene, the ensuing
collision sets Ophelia on a course of self-destruction: she has not been given the tools
(sense of self) with which to “fight back,” so her only recourse is to eventually embody
or mimic the violence enacted upon her by various males. Hamlet begins the scene in a
static place: he sits center stage after completing the “to be or not to be” soliloquy.
25
As
Hamlet becomes increasingly upset, he stands up, starts shouting (“…errant knaves”),
throws books against the wall, and then finally turns to person-to-person (male-to-female)
physical violence at “get thee to a nunnery.” Here he grabs Ophelia and pushes her to the
floor, with him on top of her. He spreads her legs and puts them around him in a gesture
of sexual assault. She shouts as his body towers over her—then her shouts turn to
screams. This intense physical violence perpetrated by Hamlet and the burst of
harrowing sound emanating from Ophelia are shocking: his woe has turned, and violence
has shocked her out of silent obedience. This begs the question: what does this act of
intense violence engender? Or, more specifically, who do they become after the
violence? Hamlet gets up, leaving Ophelia in a fetal position on the floor. This suggests
a regression or unmaking—this trauma has rattled her to the core. And her subsequent
reactions or expressions of verbal and physical aggression reveal Ophelia as a broken
figure whose learned behavior is eventually self-harming. In her “oh what a noble mind”
reflection after Hamlet leaves her crying on the floor, her voice gains volume: she shouts
the speech, and then the shouts dissolve into cries at the end. These amplified sounds
from the once seemingly mute and obedient Ophelia illuminate her harassed state in that
the voice or volume she gains is one of distress, and this distress finally reveals itself in

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self-inflicted wounds, as she functions as the reflection of the various violent acts
imposed upon her by male figures. When she returns for her “mad” scenes, Ophelia
sings and then beats against her chest: she has learned to inflict the pain on herself. She
beats her chest again at “come to my bed,” linking the sexual act with harm, an imitation
of what she has seen, or has been imposed upon her. And when she returns for her
exchange with Laertes, her entrance is preceded by her scream from offstage. She is now
the image of uncontrolled sounds and violence.
26

Further, Hamlet’s expression of rage via sexual assault/near-rape is the first in a series of
perverted (as in “not right”) images of generation, or degeneration, all which illustrate the
inability of Hamlet to thrive as “man” based on the poisoned, “disjointed” atmosphere he
has internalized. At the play, Hamlet-as-director sits and alternately lies upon a bed (a
central stage prop for the play-within-a-play) as he commands the actors. He then leads
Ophelia to the bed for their “here’s mettle more attractive” exchange, which confirms
Hamlet’s view of Ophelia as solely a sexual object, but the “sex” has been irrevocably
linked to danger—and to violence. And when Rosencrantz and Guildenstern try to corral
Hamlet after the play, he stands on the bed and stuffs a pillow up his shirt, simulating
pregnancy. These prolific pictures of implied procreation are daunting in that Hamlet is
“playing” at both inseminator and inseminated: he is alternatively male and female in
these scenarios, but a hollow image, or vicious mockery, of both. And the thought of
what “is engendered here,” even in Hamlet’s folly, is dangerous when viewed in terms of

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both Hamlet’s and Ophelia’s inability to provide any positive growth. When Hamlet
confronts his mother (in soiled pajama pants, like a naughty boy), the Oedipal
interpretation is not only emphasized in this production, it is exacerbated by Hamlet’s
linking of sex and violence: Daniels has Polonius hide not behind the arras but under
Gertrude’s sheets/covers, and Hamlet kills Polonius on the bed, soaking Gertrude’s
“enseamed bed” not only with “rank sweat,” but with blood. Now the perverted marriage
bed engenders death.

Daniels’ production sharpens the focus on (implied and actual) sexual corruption and
violence, and in doing so he brings to light suggestions of gendered identity crisis,
especially in Hamlet and Ophelia. The “prison” of Denmark is not just one of political,
or even familial, crisis; the overt linking of corruption and distress to sexual activity and
violence exposes the ways in which the perversion of the older generation sews the seeds
of their undoing. The younger generation makes ghastly plays at “acting” whatever part
they’re assigned, but the perversion converts anguish to violence and this violence locks
both Ophelia and Hamlet in patterns that eventually prove their undoing.

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ADRIAN NOBLE AND KENNETH BRANAGH, 1993: Dressing the part

Like Daniels’ production, Adrian Noble’s interpretation of Hamlet uses a proliferation of
beds and instances of sexual violation in order to illuminate what I would argue are
inherent gendered identity crises in the text. The amplified connection of sexual violence
to gender collapse exposes the dangers of “gender as performance,” as violence easily
betrays the folly of the genders both Hamlet and Ophelia have come to construct. From
the start, in this production Ophelia is linked to a bed, showing both her childlike and
sexual characteristics. Both Laertes and Polonius deliver their “advice” to Ophelia while
she sits on her bed (and they join her, in turn), which imposes a variety of possibilities:
closeness of family, Ophelia as “girl” (as in child, who the men in her life counsel), and
an implication of invasion of personal space, even with a slightly menacing, incestuous
tone.

The bed imagery sets the scene for a more overtly violent turn in the nunnery scene:
Hamlet comes to Ophelia in her room—she sits on the floor at the edge of her bed. When
Hamlet first goes over to her, he hugs her. His first reaction (even in upset, after she tries
to return his remembrances) is to embrace, and then kiss her, passionately. Yet when he
breaks away from her to ask, “Where is your father?” his passion turns to startling
violence. He takes the suitcase of remembrances from the bed, throws it on the ground,
and then takes the sheets and blankets and pulls them off the bed, taking the mattress off

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with them. The bed is now not only disheveled but dismantled, and from here Hamlet
focuses his violence on Ophelia directly: he grabs her, pushes her to the floor, with him
on top of her, and pushes his hand between her legs as she struggles under him. After
they disengage and Hamlet stands, holding the sheet, he attacks her again on “you jig,
you amble,” wrestling her to the floor, alternately kissing her passionately, then
disengaging. Like the Daniels/Rylance production, Ophlelia’s body is used as the outlet
for Hamlet’s rage (at his mother? His uncle? His father’s death? Ophelia’s betrayal?
His inability to control the situation around him?). And from this point, Ophelia’s loose
grip on reality is reflected through gender confusion. In her mad scenes, Ophelia wears a
black pants suit, reminiscent of Hamlet’s attire. Is she playing at being a man? Is she
“not” a woman? On “…let in the maid,” Ophelia sticks her hand down her pants to her
crotch. Then, after crying profusely, she crawls along the floor, thrusting her hips in
sexual suggestion at “men will do it” in a desperate mimicry of what she has seen. To
further confuse the situation, she takes a sheet and makes a veil of it at “they promised
me to wed,” yet both her attempts at “acting” male and female fail—the roles are empty.

Branagh’s Hamlet is a combination of false bravado and feigned madness, both of which
take a turn toward violence. Hamlet’s “madness” is first manifested by the use of a
straightjacket in his discussion (“fishmonger” scene) with Polonius. Later, the
straightjacket is used to contain Hamlet in order to find out the whereabouts of Polonius’
body.
27
Claudius punches Hamlet in the gut when he is in the constraints in order to

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extract the information from him, so physical force (the male “language” of violence”)
gets results, but of what kind, and to what effect? Hamlet’s literal and figurative
constraints don’t leave him much room for control in male-to-male conflict, and violence
(to Polonius, and, later, in the fight with Laertes and the final scuffle with Claudius) leads
to death. And Hamlet’s sexual violence, initiated in his attack on Ophelia, is continued in
his exchange with Gertrude: he forcefully makes humping motions on Gertrude when he
has her on the floor, showing her the pictures of Claudius and his father. This shocking
action betrays not only an attitude of forced “permission” to enact violence upon women,
but it reflects a misguided, pathetic “attempt” at male control—at defining what a man
“is”: a picture that falls horribly flat, especially with Hamlet “miming” or mimicking the
actions of his father and his uncle (bedding Gertrude) in a hollow act that only serves to
traumatize Gertrude and solidify the link between violence toward women and the
diminishing or destruction of both genders.

So eventually both Hamlet’s and Ophelia’s turns at “playing the male” falter. Further,
Ophelia-as-woman is violently played upon in order for the men to try to secure their
own positions—a gesture that does not work for her or for them. And though in her
attempt to “escape” her confines, Ophelia leaves gender behind and tries to play the male,
violence, the “male language,” ultimately doesn’t contain or build; it undoes. And the
linking of violence to gender concerns exposes the precarious nature of gender
construction within the play.

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KENNETH BRANAGH’S 1996 FILM: Ophelia unleashed, or most fully contained?

Kenneth Branagh as Hamlet in 1993 showcases gender conflict by using violence to
expose the false nature of “manly” and “womanly” behavior. In 1996, as both director
and star, Branagh forwards a vision, through extra-textual images, of gender construction
that affords the female space only to fill out men’s sexual desires or, as a result of violent
male contamination/containment, for madness. In various scenes of sexual action and
physical violence involving Ophelia, her body is used as the site upon which males enact
and register their power. The “female,” a wholly sexual being in this production, does
not gain “space” from her ability to act; in fact, her sexuality (the fact that Branagh
imagines/presents her as actually having sex) reflects the degree to which she “belongs”
to others—either to Hamlet, willingly, or as representation of the male fear of female
power, as both Polonius and Claudius harshly try to contain her potentially “wild”
behavior.

Branagh’s Hamlet, his model for the male in the state of “becoming,” is heavily weighed
down by words,
28
so much so that it unintentionally confuses or interrupts the flow of
thought regarding lack of action. This fault aside, the male construction is driven not
only by revenge or by the shadows of Hamlet’s father, his father’s agenda, and as counter
to his uncle (although I would argue that he more resembles his uncle by the time he
shirks responsibility for Polonius’ death when facing both Ophelia and Laertes), but in

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the meta-theatrical task of trying to recall a century of famous British Hamlets (Gielgud,
Olivier, Jacobi, etc.) while trying to cement his own place in the grand lineage. As thus,
the “shadows” compete against the ornate set and action throughout. In this extravagant
production where setting (Bleinheim Palace as the castle at Elsinore), costume, and scope
are all grand, Hamlet’s “task” of becoming a better man is indeed daunting. As director,
Branagh gives Ophelia space, or license, in flashback, yet it seems like her sexual
freedom allows for greater violence against her by all of the male figures: they enact their
fears of control upon her body.

This link between sex and violence is seen early on: as soon as Laertes departs for
France, Polonius’ genial tone shifts as he is left alone with Ophelia. Ophelia seems
“locked-up” in a room with Polonius as the camera shows a closed gate with iron bars.
When questioning Ophelia regarding Hamlet, Polonius gruffly takes her hand and then
pushes her into a wall. Against this background of physical violence and a sense of
brutal imprisonment, Branagh shifts the scene to flashbacks: images of Ophelia and
Hamlet in bed, having sex. We hear the voiceover of Ophelia saying, “I shall obey, my
lord,” as the images of Ophelia and Hamlet flash on screen. This complicates the
meaning of her words: who is her “lord”? Whom must she obey? And how does this
confusion fuel the rage enacted by both Hamlet and Polonius against her? This dual
“duty” ultimately undoes not only the men, but Ophelia, as Branagh shows (in an
embellished scene) Ophelia seeing the body of her dead father and confronting Hamlet

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face to face, with a hysterical, questioning, demanding, “My Lord!” when Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern try to contain Hamlet and find Polonius’ whereabouts. Hamlet’s
response? To flee from her. Ophelia’s reaction? Uncontainable madness.

The madness Ophelia embodies is not only enhanced by Branagh’s extra-textual
embellishments, which showcase Ophelia’s grief, rage, disbelief, and sense of betrayal;
her madness is deemed dangerous, and it is directly still connected to her sexuality, or to
her place as “woman.” In her mad scenes, she enters the great mirrored hall with her face
scrubbed clean—eyes are teary/glassy, face is red and blotchy, and she has dark circles
under her eyes. No make-up; no “God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves
another”; this “face” reflects the extent to which she has been put upon or violated—the
face those in control have given her. And in the efforts of those in control to contain this
madness (or, I would argue, the “truth” of the effects of the impositions on her), she is
tied up in a straightjacket, with her hair in a cap as well: all of her womanly features and
movements are “locked up.” Yet even tied up, she desperately aspires to movement: she
flings her body against the walls in an effort to use the language of the men (violence) to
try to unleash what’s inside, rather than contain it (unless she is, in fact, trying to make
the pain stop or end her life). Ophelia then lies on the floor as Gertrude unties the arm
straps to “free” her—a rare moment of female understanding. Claudius helps her to a
standing position, but in their exchange (the song of “St. Valentine’s Day”), Ophelia’s
response is to thrust her hips at Claudius and then she lies on the floor (“get to my bed”)

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and engages in repeated thrusting gestures. This mixing of madness, Ophelia as
reflection of violence, and grief forwards a frightening picture of a being at the end of her
limits. Claudius, still spooked by the “threat” of her (as revealed in the “mad” sexual
gestures), chases Ophelia around, trying to retie her arms, yet she evades him and flees
the room. Upon her return, in her exchange with Laertes, her hair is down and she is
dressed in a nightshirt. First she laughs, but then, as she delivers the flowers (a mime; no
actual objects here), she kneels against the mirrored walls, singing wistfully, focusing on
nobody in particular. Finally, she gets up and walks into the next room, which is padded,
and windowless. She seems to realize that in this environment, where she has no space of
her own, this is her only option. Later, Horatio looks in on Ophelia (spying through a
peephole) as she is being hosed down. In a single moment alone, after he closes the
peephole and the man spraying her down leaves, she opens her mouth and reveals a key,
which she presumably uses to escape and kill herself. The embellished ways in which
Branagh conveys or deals with Ophelia’s madness (straightjacket, physical “punishment”
of padded cell and hosing her down) exposes just how threatening she is to the powers in
control. Sex and violence are the only ways men “speak” to Ophelia, and her “mad”
figure betrays the effects of their behavior.

Both Ophelia and Hamlet embody “troubled” gender, and their gender troubles are
punctuated by violence. Hamlet’s struggle to define himself as a man is not only
complicated by his father’s and uncle’s competing agendas (one undermines his manhood

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by making him serve his revenge plot; the other literally tries to “unmake” him); Branagh
also puts his troubled image of “man” in contrast to Fortinbras (Rufus Sewell as
determined man of action), giving Fortinbras expanded space on screen—Sewell’s
dashing image in interspersed a number of times throughout the film, showing him
plotting, planning, and coming for his land. Branagh’s Hamlet is (intentionally) dwarfed
against this image, stuck in his indecision and almost crippled by his anguish. And in the
nunnery scene, as Hamlet talks not only to Ophelia, but to “himself” via the mirrored
doors and to Claudius and Polonius who sit behind those doors, watching, Hamlet seems
splintered—he delivers his “To Be” speech to himself in the mirror, but the image
reflected at him isn’t real. And when in a rage he drags Ophelia across the room, pushing
her face into the glass as we (and Claudius and Polonius) see her and Hamlet literally
coming undone, this reinforces the notion that the corruption imposed upon them has
perverted their growth. We get the idea that, from this point, there is no clear path to man
or woman; both genders have been exposed as artificial. Hamlet’s attempt at “man” has
been contaminated by others’ agendas, as has Ophelia’s attempt at “woman.” And the
violence that has surfaced as the main mode of communication/containment only serves
to undo them both.

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“To thine own self be true”: Surveillance as contamination in three millennial/
post-millenial productions of Hamlet

The episodes exposing the surveillance in the playtext(s) of Hamlet contribute to the
impression of 1) the relentless need of those in power to maintain control of socio-
political status and 2) the suffocating effects that desire has on the subjects (objects?) of
that surveillance, and mechanical tools have of late been used effectively in stage and
screen productions to convey the influence of the “contamination of surveillance.” Three
millennial and post-millennial film(ed) productions use the proliferation of multi- and
new-media technologies to reinforce and expand upon these notions—the wider the berth
of the technology, the more the construction (or destruction?) of self is affected. Michael
Almereyda’s feature film version of Hamlet announces the harsh, cold, millennial
technological gaze as inhibiting emotional maturity and reducing this generation’s ability
to interact in a fully authentic manner. As we see with both Ethan Hawke’s Hamlet and
Julia Stiles’ Ophelia, technology in the form of photography to microphones to
telephones to videotape mediate one’s understanding of and connection to oneself or
others. Similarly, Gregory Doran’s 2009 film of his 2008 celebrated RSC stage
production uses a variety of lenses and mirrors to expose the “shattering of the self,”
29

often illuminating the lack of personal space an omnipotent “eye” engenders. And
Nicholas Hytner’s recent (2010) production at the National Theatre [streamed via DVD
as part of “National Theatre Live”] takes the menace of surveillance one step further,

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altering the textual meaning to show how social control through surveillance ultimately
results in extinction.

MICHAEL ALMEREYDA’S FILM: the “technology of the self”

In Michael Almereyda’s 1999 film adaptation of Hamlet, the fight for authentic selfhood
is mediated, and I would argue hindered, by a variety of technological mechanisms.
30

Hamlet (Ethan Hawke) negotiates the world with technology as his constant interpreter:
we never see him without some sort of technological “aid”—handheld camera, videotape
monitor, television or film screen, and even a pay phone. While Hamlet operates via
dynamic mechanical cooperation, Ophelia (Julia Stiles) “marks” events through
photography, and this “still” form of technology reflects her lack of family-sanctioned
motion in relation to Hamlet, and to others. Further, surveying both Hamlet and Ophelia
are 1) the watchful eyes of their parents (and the “spies” therein) and 2) mechanical
“eyes” in the form of surveillance cameras that seemingly fill, and record the action in,
the hallways of all of the “Denmark Corporation”-owned property. Technology not only
records “what happens,” it helps provide an alternative, particularly for Hamlet and
Ophelia, who prefer (or are forced) to structure their own “remembrances” when the
present reality becomes too difficult to bear. Yet this reliance on technology, and their
learned “experience” as “made” in the editing bay or dark room, chips away at their
ability to engage meaningfully person to person (or live body to live body). For Hamlet,

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his “remembrances” of his mother, father, and even of Ophelia—in videotaped sequences
that he is constantly not only watching but editing (to make them more to his liking?)—
take his focus away from the real, living figures and create an idea of people that bears
more resemblance to who Hamlet wants them-- or the memory of them-- to be rather than
who they are, or were. And for Ophelia, when her gestures at authentic communication
are constantly thwarted by her overbearing, and physically limiting, father and brother
and even by Hamlet, and their technology is used against her (she is wired at one point so
that Polonius and Claudius can “overhear” Hamlet in the nunnery scene and Hamlet
stands her up at a proposed in-person meeting, instead staying in his suite, looking at film
of her), she only has pictures of things (photographs of Hamlet, Polaroids of flowers in
the mad scene) instead of “the thing itself.” And technology not only inhibits
relationships, forcing levels of distance between parties, it begins to alter the make-up of
the internal self. If everything can be recorded, edited, replayed, or even erased, this lack
of concreteness offers no solid model for how to be “thine own self.”

Hawke’s Hamlet is not solely burdened by his father’s death and his mother’s “o’erhasty
marriage,” he is haunted by ever-present video images of his father and mother that he
not only refuses to let go of, but that he is constantly reviewing, pausing on, and thus
distorting. This is not simply a record of the past: by selecting certain moments to peruse
or to freeze on, he creates an alternative past that is more to his liking, or that better
serves his present purpose of playing into nostalgia and fueling his grief. This is an

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amped up version of nostalgia—the selective, embellished, imperfect memory, usually
colored in or over to one’s liking, is physically created on tape or film for current and
future viewing. It is like a counterfeit past, and it inhibits the present in that it falsifies or
supersedes experience. Hamlet focuses time and time again on videotaped scenes of
happiness between his father and mother and with Ophelia, but we also view moments of
resistance from the subjects: Hamlet’s father (Sam Shepard) turns away from the camera
and puts his hand up to block what he views as an intrusion and Stiles’ Ophelia covers
her face with her book in order to obscure the camera’s view. The camera records but
also intrudes, and it seems like the subjects react as though the camera has the power to
take something away from them as well: thus, being “watched” is somehow unpleasant or
even damaging. Further, Hamlet frequently turns the camera on himself: when we first
hear Hamlet’s voice, “I have of late, wherefore I know not…lost all my mirth…” we see
Hamlet’s face full screen. He claims, “what a piece of work is man,” and the screen
shifts, pulling back to reveal that the speech is being given on video; Hamlet’s face is on
a video screen that is being edited by Hamlet in the flesh (shown to us, the audience,
through the added level of film screen). Hamlet edits his various soliloquies on his
computer throughout the film, and this reflects not only the desire to get something
“right,” but it illustrates a seemingly never-ending core self-dissatisfaction. His “to be or
not to be” speech begins as a filmed performance of Hamlet “rehearsing” killing himself
with a gun,
31
which reveals a “playing at” serious issues, a desire to “show”
dissatisfaction or grief, and still a desire—perhaps delayed or even diminished?—to end
things, or, at least, to “not be” who he is, though that representation is as fluid as the

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images he keeps shifting around. Further, the word is always tied to the image, which
gives the impression of exterior focus. It is indeed performing the self. So, in this “text,”
man is “maker” in terms of being both director and editor of his past(s) and his present, to
a certain extent, but his “creations” also serve to undermine personal growth.

While Hamlet gets “lost” in his video representations of himself or others, Ophelia’s
“reduction of self” seems to emanate from the strict physical and emotional boundaries
imposed upon her. From the start, Polonius (Bill Murray) and Laertes (Liev Schreiber)
offer Ophelia almost no personal space: when they attend Claudius’ (Kyle Maclachlan)
“press conference” (the representation of 1.2), Ophelia sits between the two men. When
she tries to sneak a glance at Hamlet, who is off to the side, recording the event on his
video camera, Hamlet looks back at her but then Laertes glances toward her as well, and
she quickly withdraws her eyes. Laertes’ sharp glance—his surveillance—functions as a
control mechanism. When Ophelia tries to pass a note to Hamlet asking him to meet her
at the fountain at 3:30
32
, Laertes brushes Ophelia off with a wave of his hand, foiling her
efforts at communication—he won’t participate in the passing of notes.
33
Further,
Polonius glances over at this point to see what’s going on—another instance of
containment. This control extends to the hallway after the press conference: Laertes
physically guides Ophelia with his arm, and when Ophelia finally succeeds in stealing a
moment with Hamlet and giving him the note, Laertes witnesses the exchange and

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quickly goes over to her, grabs her, and brings her back to Polonius and away from
Hamlet.

Ophelia’s world is limited by more than her lack of physical freedom and her living
under a constant watchful “eye” or “arm”; by Almereyda’s severe cuts to her text, he
literally takes language away from her, replacing it with images or with pale
representations—photographs—which prove inadequate stand-ins for experience or
growth. While Almereyda allows Ophelia’s taunting retort to Laertes regarding the
“steep and thorny path” he has laid out for her, her lack of verbal space is illustrated in
the “closet reenactment,” “letter-reading,” “nunnery,” and “mad” scenes. Almereyda
shows Hamlet surprising Ophelia at her downtown loft—where she is developing
photographs in a makeshift dark room—and this is the version of the “sewing in [her]
closet” scene: the image of what happened unfolds without Ophelia’s narration—the
camera is the authority or storyteller here.
34
Further, rather than Ophelia telling Polonius
afterward about what occurred, Almereyda has Polonius invade Ophelia’s physical space:
He shows up at her apartment, interrupting Ophelia and Hamlet’s exchange (Hamlet has
given Ophelia a letter, which she is reading), prompting Hamlet to flee.
35
In the scuffle
the letter drops, and Polonius picks it up. So Ophelia does not give Polonius the letter “in
her duty and obedience,” as he later claims—he assumes authority and takes possession,
further reducing her mastery over her own space: another violation. And because
Ophelia does not approach Polonius with what happened as she was “sewing in [her]

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closet,” the tenor, focus, and understanding of the scene are shifted: Ophelia and Hamlet
are “caught” in the act of having a personal exchange, and Polonius’ appearance cuts that
short. There is little room for Ophelia and/or Hamlet to develop in this atmosphere of
constant surveillance and interruption. It is almost easier for them to retreat to their
photographic or videotaped representations of each other.

When Polonius brings Hamlet’s letter to Claudius and Gertrude (swimming in and
lounging by a luxurious indoor pool), Ophelia is reluctantly dragged with him, but not
allowed to speak. She sulks: face tilted down, arms crossed, and then desperately reaches
for the letter before Polonius can read it, but to no avail. Since she cannot stop the
situation and is not afforded words, she shifts focus—toward the water. Here we witness
her fantasy of space in lieu of her compressed reality: the camera focuses on Ophelia’s
face, and then on her point of view as she sees her reflection in the water—a ghostly
surface image. The camera then shifts to an extreme close-up of Ophelia’s eyes as she
quickly glances toward the adults. As Polonius claims, “Lord Hamlet is a prince out of
thy star/ This must not be,” the camera cuts to a back view of Ophelia jumping into the
pool and then a quick cut to a front view of her body sinking, her eyes closed and her
hands covering her face at the bottom of the pool. Her jump at the impetus of “this must
not be” is prescient in that it plays upon the notion of being or not being, and thus
foreshadows her eventual drowning in the fountain. Further, her jumping at “not be”
seems as much an obedient reflex-reaction to Polonius’ command as it does an active

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fantasy, thus reducing the agency even of the desire to be free. And when in the next shot
we see Ophelia still standing poolside and realize that this has been a fantasy, Ophelia’s
total lack of physical and emotional space is reinforced.

Moreover, as Ophelia is “prepared for” the nunnery scene, technology serves as both
mediator and instrument of torment: Ophelia is being “wired” with a hidden microphone
so that Polonius and Claudius can hear the exchange between her and Hamlet. She stands
on a stool as Polonius puts the wire in place, his hands up her shirt in order to tape the
wire to her body—another violation of personal space. Tellingly, when Gertrude (an
overtly lusty Diane Venora) goes to Ophelia and claims that she hopes Ophelia’s “virtues
bring [Hamlet] to his wonted way again,” Ophelia’s reply is cut.
36
She has no more
words—tears streaking down her face indicate the measure of pain inflicted by her father
and his various methods of control. When she goes to Hamlet’s suite, we first see her in
the fishbowl eye of a peephole—a distorted image to indicate the degree to which she has
been distorted by everyone around her—even by Hamlet. When she and Hamlet have
their exchange regarding “remembrances,” the conversation is quiet. When Hamlet
declares, “I loved you not,” the words have a physical impact on her as she recoils, takes
a moment, and can barely eek out “I was the more deceived” in response. She seems hit
in all directions, as few avenues of expression are left to her. Hamlet then kisses and
begins to touch Ophelia, and by doing this his fingers stumble on the wire. He is shocked
and angered—the full force of realization hits him: that this scene is not about them—

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who they are to each other—it is about those in control. He expresses his sense of
betrayal both through a shocked and withering look to Ophelia and then in a fiery litany
of words (some spoken directly to the microphone as he grabs it) as the camera shifts
focus to Ophelia, crying, trying to pick up the letters (remembrances), and frantically
trying to rip off the microphone before fleeing the scene on her bicycle. Back at her loft,
Ophelia burns a Polaroid of Hamlet as Hamlet delivers the rest of his speech in
absentia—as a disembodied voice leaving messages on Ophelia’s answering machine.
We hear him, and we see her, in front of a mirror, burning the Polaroid. She tries to
destroy her remembrance—the photographic idea of who she thought Hamlet was, but his
“voice” won’t allow it. Traces are thus floating throughout. And she obviously has no
“voice” to ruminate on “oh what a noble mind is here o’erthrown”—that text is cut.
When she finds her voice in madness, it is released as a piercing scream, echoing through
the Guggenheim museum, site of a cocktail/business party where Claudius and Gertrude
are in attendance. Ophelia screams at the top of her lungs, a release that is so alarming
that Claudius has his guards come and drag her away. Her text is heavily cut, but her
screams echo until she is carried out of sight. And when she comes to offer “flowers” to
Gertrude, Claudius, and a distraught Laertes, the flowers are Polaroids, and her words are
so interspersed with tears that she keeps collapsing. All that she “owns” are Polaroids,
she cannot hold onto the things themselves. Even some of the final words about Ophelia
are excised—Gertrude, in reporting Ophelia’s death, only says, “your sister is drowned.”
Then the scene cuts to an overhead shot of the large fountain, with Ophelia lying face up,
arms spread, in the shallow gathering pool.

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Both Ophelia and Hamlet are harmed by surveillance and technology in that the
recording of people and events does not offer a better understanding of the self or of
relationships. Hamlet tries to make his mark as creator or director of his own fate (or
revenger of his father’s), yet by doing so through mediating devices, he further dissipates
his control and his notion of himself. He never does appear to be doing his father’s
bidding, and his father serves as yet another fraught “image” that is both painfully “in the
flesh,” actually touching Hamlet, and intermittently vaporous, disappearing in a flash or
even fading, at one point, into a Pepsi machine, or preserved and manipulated on
videotape. There is nothing “solid” here. Hamlet’s “idea” of his father, and of others,
reviewed again and again on screen, thus complicates his path to self-knowledge. He
retreats to video or other “screens,” preferring them to tactile contact. In fact, physical
contact startles, stuns, and eventually kills him: the ghost “touches” him, he finds the
wire on Ophelia by touching her, and he is shocked when Laertes’ bullet pierces him.
But even right before death, the screen flashes Hamlet’s “mind’s eye,” and we see
Hamlet’s life as a series of images, both real events and those oft-cherished stop-motion
video portraits, like the one of Ophelia. Thus Hamlet leaves this world focused on a
remembrance of a video projection. And Ophelia is essentially suffocated by the
surveillance of others. She too has learned that the only thing that’s “hers” is a recorded
image—in her case, photographs that she has taken to “mark” people or events. She
doesn’t have as much freedom to “craft” as does Hamlet. And her almost total lack of
personal space limits her personal growth. She is shown in stark counter to Gertrude’s

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overtly sexual, even lewd, character, and we never see even a momentary connection
between the women. There is no road for Ophelia to follow. So Ophelia-as-woman is
simply spied upon, put upon, controlled, and she cannot make “technologies” work for
her in the end.

GREGORY DORAN AND DAVID TENNANT: “In my mind’s eye”: from the RSC
stage to film

In Gregory Doran’s 2009 filmed adaptation of his acclaimed 2008 RSC production of
Hamlet, starring David Tennant as Hamlet and featuring Mariah Gale as Ophelia, the
younger generation of both males and females are dwarfed by their elders, who use
largely non-physical means to stunt their growth. For both genders, it seems as though
the struggle to assert oneself, or to become fully “man” or “woman,” is hindered both
verbally and technologically (remotely, via camera surveillance) by the impositions of the
older generation. The verbal influence can be seen early on in the ways that both
Ophelia’s and Laertes’ words—or even thoughts—develop and/or emanate from what
Polonius has told them. For instance, when Laertes (Edward Bennett) formally asks
permission from Claudius (Patrick Stewart) to return to France, we see Polonius in the
near background mouthing the words as Laertes speaks them—Polonius has “schooled”
Laertes in what to say. This introduces us to Laertes as more of a mouthpiece than an
independent man and asks us to consider how Laertes will “come into his own” (is

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physical distance needed? And is it in fact possible, with all of the surveillance?).
Further, when Polonius dispenses his advice to Laertes, in the presence of Ophelia
(Mariah Gale) as Laertes prepares to leave for France, near the end of the “husbandry”
line both Laertes and Ophelia join in and complete the sentence with him. This is advice
they’ve had drilled into their heads. The forming of their political and social views (how
to talk to a king and how to behave) has clearly been in Polonius’ control, and though
Laertes and Ophelia do exchange knowing smiles, they listen to their father. This method
of expression—repetition as ventriloquism-- effectively emphasizes these tendencies that
are already present in the text, such as Ophelia reluctantly baiting Hamlet in the nunnery
scene, or even Laertes ultimately doing Claudius’ bidding (arguably more than his own).

The tendency to discount the power, strength, or knowledge of the younger generation is
further evidenced in the first exchange between Hamlet and Claudius. Tennant’s Hamlet,
angrily sulky, yet emanating a livewire energy, is verbally slapped by Claudius’
“unmanly grief” quip, which is delivered with flippant-yet-pointed derision by Patrick
Stewart’s Claudius. Further, Hamlet is so far “off the radar” in terms of his significance
to Claudius at this point, that Claudius needs to be prompted by Gertrude (Penny
Downie) as to where he attends university: Claudius says, “as for you going back to
school in…?” Here there’s a pause, during which it becomes clear that Claudius doesn’t
know the name of the school. He then looks to Gertrude for prompting, she whispers
“Wittenberg,” and he repeats it. Hamlet, Gertrude’s son, is not yet of primary importance

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to him. Still, though Claudius doesn’t care about the details regarding Hamlet, he
obviously understands Hamlet’s position in the power structure and still keeps him under
watch via mechanical means.

Hamlet, Laertes, and Ophelia—as well as everyone else in Elsinore—are under constant
surveillance. Doran uses closed circuit television (CCTV) cameras to show the audience
that nobody is ever entirely alone. Frequently during the production, the scene view will
switch from the traditional audience-view camera to that of the CCTV (where we see a
black and white picture, framed by a thin, white line, with an x in the middle of the
frame), which reinforces the notion that an event doesn’t just “happen,” it is recorded,
and watched for other purposes than what is presented on the surface—presumably, to
identify dangerous behavior and impose punishment accordingly. It also puts a more
remote, “blank” face on the “violence” of the controlling hand. This regime doesn’t have
to necessarily pull out a physical weapon for control (though it does that too, as seen
through the binding, chemical injection, and threat of physical torture in the
Claudius/Hamlet exchange regarding Polonius’ body’s whereabouts); it frequently
adheres to a more distant, yet menacingly omnipresent form of behavior control. Like
Foucault’s depiction of Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon, the CCTV is the primary weapon
of choice in terms of socio-political climate control. Yet, of course, in this case, the result
of constant surveillance is not the Foucauldian “docile bodies,” but more of a short-
circuiting of those who are negotiating the path to fully authoritative adult.

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For the younger generation, the presence of CCTV colors their behavior in that, for
Laertes and Ophelia, others are aware of their movements, so that, presumably, they can
better try to control them, and increasingly for Hamlet, to alert those in control of any
dangerous behavior—dangerous in terms of challenges to the newly installed power
structure. Hamlet seems most aware of the cameras that follow his every move, and his
recognition of the CCTV often fuels his rants, thus helping to “make” him who he
becomes—for better or, arguably, worse. For instance, after his first exchange with the
actors, Hamlet takes down the surveillance camera from its perch on the wall and he
forcefully throws it to the floor, breaking it. He then exclaims, “Now I am alone” and
launches into the “rogue and peasant slave” soliloquy. He is intently aware of, and
dismayed/angered by, the constant tracking of his moves. Yet Tennant’s Hamlet learns
to use the technologies as well: in most of Hamlet’s soliloquies, Tennant speaks directly
to the audience-view camera, often in close-up. And this audience-view camera
functions as the window into Hamlet’s true thoughts—the audience is thus the confidant,
offered unusual intimacy, and the camera is the mechanism of release, not control. Does
this mean that Hamlet is co-opting and then transforming his uncle’s tools? And what
kind of “man” does Hamlet make? The lessons he learns from the technological police-
state lead him to become “director” of his revenge plot, complete with hand-held camera
of his own. As the “man” set on revenging his father’s murder, Hamlet orchestrates the
players and “The Mousetrap,” but his underlying motivations are revealed in what—or
whom—he actually films: not the play, but Claudius and Gertrude, and especially

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Claudius’ reactions.
37
The transition to manhood is thus marked by the camera, in more
ways than one, and the result is problematic: when one is playing to others or to the
camera, how is the construction of self altered or inhibited?

Mirror Image, but in fragments?

Hamlet’s co-opting of Claudius’ use of cameras—solely a male purview in this
production—is just one part of a multi-tiered mirroring structure. As Doran forwards his
scene of a rigidly enforced police-state, controlled by an all-seeing eye, he uses mirrors
(mirrored doors, mirrored floors, shards of mirrored glass) to convey images of men
reduced, not enhanced, by their methods of control and violence
38
. Both Claudius and
Hamlet look at—or through—mirrors at various points in the play, and after Hamlet
shoots Polonius (with a gun taken from his mother’s bedside table—yet another reduction
rather than assertion) through a mirrored door, the mirror images are all broken. Thus,
physical violence or threat of violence-- Hamlet shooting Polonius; Claudius looking at
himself in a broken mirror in the basement as he vocalizes the plan to have Hamlet killed
via Rosencrantz and Guildenstern-- is directly linked to a reduction of self. Further,
having Hamlet and Claudius resemble each other in dress and flesh as the play
progresses—both in tuxedos with undone ties, and both with highly visible hand wounds
(Hamlet’s wound as a result of his oath to his father and Claudius’ as a result of grabbing
and then being sliced by Laertes’s sword, held by Hamlet)—links Hamlet and his violent,

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manic choices more to Claudius than to his father. So Hamlet never does achieve the
“manhood” that he expects (or wishes? Or agonizes over?) his revenge of his father will
accomplish. Manhood—defined or imposed by physical force and technological control-
- is exposed as fractured or empty, the shows of strength, via surveillance strong-arming
are exposed as the threads of their undoing. Further, the physical violence the men enact
show how the older male generation has infected the young: Hamlet physically wounds
his hand at the command of his father (“swear”), the gun he uses to kill Polonius is not
even his, and the sword his slices Claudius with is the weapon Laertes’ used, which
Claudius had poisoned and positioned. So these weapons, in the hands of the younger
males, remain tools of the older generation, finally turned against them. The younger
men cannot thus successfully make the “rite of passage” to full manhood, and the older
generation collapses.

Surveillance and female space: watching womanhood

As much as this production aims to show the fragmenting, destructive effect of violence
to manhood, the violence visited upon (or perpetrated by?) Ophelia shows that, in
contrast with male construction (or destruction), female expression is either discounted or
dismissed. Technology is not available to Ophelia as it is to Hamlet—she is just the
object; watched…or ignored. Further, she has no “weapons” to use: only her body, and
her tears. Like Claudius’s seeming disinterest in Hamlet’s activities during their first

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exchange (regarding Wittenberg), when Gertrude and Ophelia have the exchange
regarding Ophelia’s “beauties be[ing] the happy cause of Hamlet’s wildness,” Gertrude
calls Ophelia’s name as a question—as if she doesn’t know her. While this is a confusing
reading of the text (Why would she not know Ophelia? Has Polonius kept her locked
away? This seems unlikely.), it is compelling in that it reinforces the notion by the older
generation that the younger generation is barely noticeable—unless, like Hamlet as his
antics increase, or Ophelia after she is mad with grief and both physically and
emotionally naked, they demand notice. They are not fully counted yet.

In the nunnery scene, both physical violence and technological control affect the
“handling” of Ophelia and really show what an almost throwaway position she maintains
in the power structure. When Ophelia enters the scene, we see that Polonius and
Claudius are set behind a one-way mirrored door. They function as another form or
component of the “eye of the camera.” Hamlet is physical with Ophelia: he takes the
letters from Ophelia (“I loved you once”), drops them on the floor (“I loved you not”),
and then grabs her (“get thee to a nunnery”). She’s physically struggling with him as he
repeats “get thee to a nunnery.” However, at this point, the surveillance camera (CCTV)
suddenly shifts, and Hamlet hears it. It is this sound, and Hamlet’s recognition of what it
signifies, that prompts him to ask, “Where is your father?” He does not believe her
response, and he starts speaking directly to the closed circuit camera from here on out.
He actually pulls/drags Ophelia while looking at the camera. This is now about the men;

144
not about her. As Ophelia crumples to the floor, Hamlet is visibly upset at her, but it is
now painfully clear with whom he is primarily having the heated exchange. Hamlet rips
up the letters and throws them as he exits on “To a nunnery go,” and all Ophelia is left
with is her tears. Because of the camera close-ups, we see her tears, the physical
expression of upset, worry, or grief. As in King Lear and Titus Andronicus, tears, or
“women’s weapons,” seem to be primarily the province of women, and something that
men fight against. In this production, with the camera focusing in on Ophelia’s tangible
tears, rolling down her face (not only in the nunnery scene, but in her “as I was sewing in
my closet” exchange with Polonius and then in her “mad” scenes with Gertrude,
Claudius, and Laertes), tears seem to be the only expressions that are exclusively hers.
And due to the up-close access the various cameras give the viewers, we see her marks of
sorrow and distress in an unusually intimate fashion, provoking our sympathy in ways not
frequently accomplished on stage. Further, whereas the technological control
mechanisms actually spur Hamlet to action—rages, rants, different motivation—the only
thing that the technology records, or reveals, with Ophelia here is that she has done her
father’s bidding. Even if her feelings for Hamlet are virtuous or authentic, she is simply
executing her father’s plan. He is still ventriloquizing her, placing her in the position of
“dummy,” or not fully human, though her tears reveal the cost.

And where Hamlet uses the audience-view or hand-held camera as an outlet for
intimacy—to reveal his true emotions—Ophelia’s most original “expression,” her mad

145
scenes, is painfully, uncomfortably public. In an interesting male/female contrast, in the
beginning of the first mad scene, Gertrude speaks her first lines regarding not wanting to
see Ophelia to a broken mirror. We see Gertrude’s face split in the different shards. Then
Ophelia comes into frame and we see her also reflected in different mirror shards, yet
Ophelia’s head appears in the shards below her torso: it’s as if the impositions of
everyone around her have made it impossible for her to grow up into a solid, unified
person. Later, when Hamlet prepares for the swordfight with Laertes, he gets ready in
front of the fragmented mirror, and as he looks at himself in the mirror, his head is
reflected back in three parts—he too is the representation of a fragmented self, yet the
fragmentation still reflects a focus on the intellectual and psychological stress and
violence—the male’s head/mind is the site of the struggle. For Ophelia, the grotesque
“out of order” figure in the mirror shows a complete shattering of self—and one that is
focused on the grotesqueries of the body rather than reflecting an intellectual or moral
struggle.

Ophelia’s “performance” in the mad scenes is punctuated by fragmentation: her
movements shift quickly and jarringly from skipping to stomping to dancing to throwing
off her clothes, leaving her exposed in just a bra and underwear. Further, her “jumps”
from song to speech to scream to cry uncannily reflect the extent to which she has been
broken. Her physical near-nakedness throws a startling light on her emotional strain: she
now demands all eyes (including ours) draw toward her to witness (and acknowledge

146
their complicity in?) her breakdown. When Gertrude tries to cover Ophelia with a shawl,
she adamantly rejects the cover—her focus is now on exposure. And she wears her grief
not only through the fragmented speech and songs, but through visible tears (and make-
up streaked face), a challenging near-nakedness, and, interestingly, a gash on her neck. Is
this gash, finally, a mark in the “language” of the men? Is it a cut from the flowers and
twigs (or from the picking of them) that she disperses? Or, perhaps it links Hamlet’s and
Ophelia’s struggles. The views of Ophelia in close-up allow for unprecedented viewer
“access”: this is one of the most “convincing” mad scenes I’ve ever seen in that Gale’s
Ophelia wears her grief not in a poetic/artificial way, but in a “real” (as in 20
th
- and 21
st
-
century film realism) way, and that is frightening because it implicates the viewer. We
feel uneasy just…watching.
39

So, the multi-layered technological components of Doran’s filmed production expose—
and, in some cases, contribute to—the struggles of Hamlet and Ophelia to define
themselves. For Hamlet, the CCTV surveillance spurs him to “act out,” yet much of that
action molds him into more of a copy of Claudius than a defender of his father, or his
own “man.” And when Hamlet co-opts Claudius’ methods, using a hand-held camera to
try to construct his own reality, this accelerates not only Claudius’ undoing, but his own.
However, the hand-held camera and the audience-view camera do allow for unusual
access in Hamlet’s soliloquies: it is here where the intimacy in the production, and with
Hamlet, is unveiled—to us, in confidence, apparently, yet with the audience’s

147
acknowledgment of the public component of viewing, and of viewing it through a lens or
a recording. For Ophelia, the camera not only exposes and records her struggle and
demise, it also implicates the audience in her exploitation.

NICHOLAS HYTNER’S HAMLET AT THE NATIONAL THEATRE, 2010: a “spied
on, surveyed, utterly unprivate world”
40

In the director’s commentary for the National Theatre Live broadcast of his production of
Hamlet, Nicholas Hytner asks, “is it possible anymore, surveyed, picked upon, pulled this
way and that as we are, to act truthfully?” His production reflects this struggle for
authenticity, and the sinister means by which the powers that be try, and succeed, in their
efforts to snuff out the voices of individual truth. Through the use of technology (bugs,
earpieces, cameras) and a menacing manpower (Claudius’ “henchmen” who execute his
orders), Hamlet and Ophelia are, indeed, “surveyed, picked upon, pulled this way and
that.” And the technological and physical violence is implemented in such a way as to
imply a direct influence on events, from the threat of physical torture leading to Hamlet’s
revealing the whereabouts of Polonius’ body (a rendering similar to Doran’s production)
to Claudius’ henchmen actually snuffing out Ophelia (in a bold reinterpretation of the
implications of the text). Thus, the constant “watching” leads to aggressive physical
threat or action, and the “truth” of the violence is extinction. In this world, a veritable
police-state as Hytner describes it, surveillance is thus a weapon that reduces the self, or

148
reduces the ability to embrace personal growth to the extent that it virtually eliminates the
space for an authentic self.

In his review in The Guardian (October 8, 2010), Michael Billington praises Hytner’s
production, and Rory Kinnear’s central performance, in large part due to the
representation of the all-consuming “police-state” and the way that steely atmosphere
affects the characters: he claims that this “Elsinore itself [has] such a hugely living
presence” fueled by continuous surveillance where “no one is ever fully alone,” and that,
thus, “This Hamlet, the reasonable man in a violent, irrational world, seems contaminated
and coarsened by Claudius’ Elsinore.” Like Doran’s production, Hytner uses both
technological surveillance and manpower to impose this rule, and Hytner goes even
further than Doran by giving his guards particularly active roles in policing or altering the
motions of Hamlet and Ophelia—the guards try to corral the two, especially Ophelia, to
keep them in control, and they do so at any cost—even Ophelia’s life. Surveillance alters
intention and action, and thus “contaminates” the authentic self as Hamlet adjusts his
behavior to either confront or dodge the watchful “eyes” and Ophelia is physically
controlled and eventually annihilated.

From the start, the “self” is either deflated or a false construction. The ghost that appears
in the first scene looks more like a tired old man than an imposing spirit: he resembles a
weathered fisherman with a trench coat, and does not reflect a regal appearance. This

149
deflated figure is an apt primary image/representation of a contaminated soul: poisoned,
murdered with his “sins on his head,” “doomed for a certain time to walk the night…”.
When the scene shifts to Claudius and Gertrude, Claudius gives his “speech” (1.2.1-25),
and then the scene “cuts” to reveal that the speech has been delivered to the attendant
media—like Almereyda’s film, in which that scene is constructed as a press conference,
the appearance of strength and mirth is the governing motive. The cameras shut off and
then Claudius gets to “business”: the reports regarding Fortinbras. So, the “happy
picture” of Claudius’ political and domestic bliss is displayed for public consumption,
thus giving it an air of performance or artificiality. Further, a large portrait of the former
King Hamlet looms over the scene, haunting (in effect) the atmosphere as if naming
Claudius’ guilt and Gertrude’s (unacknowledged) shame. Young Hamlet serves as stark
contrast to the others (especially to Claudius’ cold, steely demeanor) in that he brims with
rage. Upon being ignored by Claudius (who refuses to read a note Hamlet places on his
desk, instead turning his attention to Laertes), Hamlet fumes—he has been made to wait
his turn, and, as a result, put in his “place.” Further, when Claudius “hits” Hamlet with
his comment of “’tis unmanly grief,” Hamlet gets up from his chair, in a huff. This
Hamlet’s rage runs in distinct counter to the controlled “performances” of those in
charge. Still, Hamlet realizes he has no choice in most matters: he very reluctantly agrees
when Claudius and Gertrude ask him to stay in Elsinore, and we get the distinct
impression that their request, though delivered that way, was more of a command that he
cannot refuse.

150
Claudius’ control is pervasive, and it is maintained through knowledge of all action that
occurs in his purview. In a departure from the text (or an addition that is certainly not
assumed or even alluded to), Claudius’ guards watch/eavesdrop on Horatio when he and
his men tell Hamlet of the ghost sighting.
41
This control extends to Polonius and his
family as well: in another embellishment, when Polonius confronts Ophelia regarding
Hamlet, he reveals a file with pictures taken of Ophelia and Hamlet together. She is
visibly upset by this revelation, which begs the question of how this violation of privacy
affects her: does the publication/exposure of Ophelia and Hamlet’s relationship make it
“something else”? Moreover, throughout this scene, another man (Reynaldo,
presumably) is present, and he is actually the person who hands Polonius the file on
Ophelia. Nobody in this world is ever alone: there is no “private” space. Hytner puts the
“watchers” in an active role that alters the motivations and effects of some scenes: when
Ophelia runs in to Polonius’ room to tell him about her recent exchange with Hamlet (“as
I was sewing in my closet”…), a guard comes running right after her. She is not allowed
to “run free” even for a second, which emphasizes the fact that her life is not her own.
And as the scene ends and Polonius heads to the king to tell him what he suspects
regarding Hamlet’s behavior, Ophelia shakes her head “no” and stays behind, only to be
joined by the guard, which prompts her to walk offstage.

The nunnery scene exposes the personal damage the surveillance brings about and
illuminates the distinct effects it has on both male and female. Ophelia has been given a

151
book with a microphone hidden inside, and she nervously awaits Hamlet’s entrance. He
delivers his “to be or not to be” soliloquy (Q1/F placement) and then notices Ophelia. He
seems skeptical of their exchange from the start—has he already grouped her with the
others or is this simply an effect of his general rage and disdain? When he sees the
microphone embedded in Ophelia’s bible, he explodes—after trying to grab the book, he
rages “to a nunnery go,” but it doesn’t seem like he is addressing her. The “private”
conversation is exposed as public. His response is startling: he grabs Ophelia by neck
and pushes her on “…make monsters of us all.” So surveillance has pushed Hamlet into
the aggressor position, and his only allowable outlet on which to enact violence is
Ophelia. He takes the book and continues his speech directly to it, and then he opens the
book, drops the microphone out of it, throws the book to the floor, looks at Ophelia in
seething confrontation, and walks out. Ophelia is left to pick up the pieces (letters of
remembrance) while she ponders “oh what a noble mind is here o’erthrown,” yet the
focus is on her and how she is “receiving” the limits and violence put upon her. And in
the “Mousetrap” scene, Hamlet continues his pattern of abuse against her-- unleashing his
anger or his untoward behavior-- as he drops his pants right in front of her face on “here’s
mettle more attractive.”
42

The freedom to “act upon” Ophelia is fully realized after her mad scenes. The mad
scenes show Ophelia as exposed, literally stripped to her bra and jeans, unable to be
physically or vocally contained. Further, the shirt Ophelia strips off is a T-shirt, with a

152
smiley face and the word “villain” written on it—the same T-shirt Hamlet had worn in
the play scene. If Hamlet has made “villain” somewhat of a caricature, or if he has co-
opted the title of “villain” in this toxic atmosphere, what kind of a reflection does Ophelia
serve by “wearing,” and subsequently discarding, the title? Is she, finally, an exposed
body, uncomfortably reflecting the cost (madness) of the impositions upon her? When
Ophelia finishes her mad songs and exits, we see her wired with a mic-pack on her lower
back. While this is simply a theatrical convention (a moment of meta-theater) so that her
voice can be heard/recorded, within the context of this production it is telling: no matter
what, she cannot “lose” the wire; it has become a part of who she is. The scene cuts to
Ophelia sitting on the floor alone, now wearing a shirt again. A guard appears, and she
tries to run, but she is stopped by another guard. She screams, and she is cornered by the
two guards, who make it apparent that they are going to end her life. This change may be
controversial in that it alters the meaning of the text, but in doing so it “takes away” from
Ophelia her final space for choice. The text leaves space for uncertainty—did she fall or
did she jump into the brook?—but by seemingly having her snuffed out (making
Claudius, via his surrogates, the ultimate villain), female unruly behavior is completely
erased or controlled with a finality. Having those same guards function as pallbearers in
the funeral scene reinforces the magnitude of sinister control—they do not stop until they
literally put her in the ground. It is not enough to snuff out her voice and her life; they
must also dispose of the body.

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Chapter Two Endnotes

1
By text(s), I include texts in the major editing and production histories of the play. The textual issues
regarding Q1, Q2, and the Folio—the major texts from which others arose—have been exhaustively
documented. I have consulted the Folger, Cambridge, and Norton editions for my information. And for the
main inspiration regarding the production history, I consulted Anthony Dawson’s Shakespeare in
Performance: Hamlet.

2
Although physical violence isn’t directly indicated in the original (early) texts, in performance, especially
in the nunnery and closet scenes, physical violence is used as a tool to either contain, dismiss, or “wake
up”/shock Ophelia and Gertrude.

3
These descriptions of Garrick and Irving are taken from Dawson, pp. 8-9.

4
Witness the way actress Frances Barber, who played Ophelia in the 1984 production with Roger Rees,
describes her preconceived notion of Ophelia before undertaking the part: “The obedient young girl whose
sense of self is defined by the court in which she lives, and hence the men around her, is used as an
instrument of political machinations, and ends up hysterical” (Players of Shakespeare, 147). The way in
which she came to understand the part is vastly different: “…rather than being an extension of Hamlet’s
character, she actually presents the female counterpart and counterpoint to him. She provides the feminine
qualities lacking in his sensibilities…I was intent upon discovering a way of playing her that revealed the
masculine as well as the feminine qualities Hamlet lacked” (149). This commentary is compelling in that it
recognizes an imbalance of masculine and feminine “qualities.” I argue that these “qualities” themselves
are ultimately called into question through very specific production choices linked to violence.

5
Obviously, Hamlet is the central character of the play, and I do not intend to suggest a “rebuilding” or
even “refocusing” of the play on Ophelia’s character. However, by looking at productions which link
violence against (or, in some cases, from) Ophelia to moments of gender crises, I believe this offers an
expanded understanding of the way in which we (audiences, playwrights, actors, cultures) view gender (and
gender as performance).

6
In his autobiographical book On Acting, Olivier describes how he originally developed his interpretation
of Hamlet when preparing for the Tyrone Guthrie directed production on stage at the Old Vic via in-person
discussions with Professor Ernest Jones, regarding the book What Happens in Hamlet. Olivier recalls,
[Jones] believed that Hamlet was a prime sufferer from the Oedipus complex. There are many
signals along the line to show his inner involvement with his mother. One of them is his
excessive devotion to his father. Nobody’s that fond of his father unless he feels guilty about his
mother, however subconscious that guilt may be. (78)

7
Ibid., p. 77. Olivier continues: “His imagination is working as though he were a hero, but his soul is
working in the brave light of the author, who decided to write a play with a hero who wasn’t a hero” (77).
So Olivier’s Hamlet has his image of what a man should be—a hero—yet within are the seeds of
destruction: I am yet I am not.

8
Here I give a nod to Judith Butler and her concept of gender as performance.

9
Obviously, Hamlet’s notion of “right” is complicated by the fact that, according to Olivier’s
interpretation, Hamlet not only mourns the loss of his father, but longs for his mother.

154

10
When Claudius issues this insult, the camera is in a slow tracking shot on Claudius. Hamlet is out of
frame, so the face that does fill the frame, Claudius’, means to evoke the visual image of “man.”

11
On Acting, 295. It is important to note that, according to Olivier, Ophelia not only suffers from grief due
to the death of her father and Hamlet’s absence, but from Laertes seeing her in this state. Apparently, this
exposure between them is cause for shame.

12
Olivier claims not only that Hamlet wants to “follow his mother into the bedroom” (77), but that he is
finally “free” only in death: Hamlet is free after Laertes stabs him—“now he is himself, free of guilt for his
mother” (80).

13
Kosintzev’s film was based on a translation of Shakespeare’s play by Boris Pasternak.

14
This linking of Hamlet and Ophelia is similar in some ways to Olivier’s film, as discussed in the previous
section.

15
The scene is shown in the mime/dance, as described above, rather than giving Ophelia the power to
narrate the scene.

16
The shadowing is also significant in that it punctuates the notion of Ophelia, the young female, as either
unidentifiable on her own or of no substance.

17
This production, viewed on DVD, was from a filmed performance at the Lunt-Fontaine theater in New
York (1964).

18
Sterne, Richard L. John Gielgud Directs Richard Burton in Hamlet: A Journal of Rehearsals. New York,
Random House, 1967, p. 20.

19
Ibid.

20
Ibid., p. 31.

21
Yet Ophelia’s body onstage is undeniable—Gielgud’s staging even brings it more into focus. While this
placement of Ophelia’s body on stage does emphasize how her place can be viewed as superfluous, for the
audience her physical body serves to represent just what’s wrong with the male position regarding the
female. The body thus “speaks” its own “language.”

22
The promptbook describes the action as follows: “ OPHELIA: (Walking precariously along the right
edge of the platform) Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t. (She falls off the front edge of the
platform. Horatio catches her). In the DVD, she definitely takes a running leap—it is her intention to jump
off the platform; she doesn’t simply “fall,” as the stage directions seem to indicate. And it is in this
determination that the full effects—and disparity—between male and female are felt. Ophelia’s action
tends toward self annihilation whereas though Hamlet talks about “not being,” his actions tend outward.

23
The set, designed by Antony McDonald, is all asymmetrical angles: as Michael Billington notes:
“…McDonald’s designs suggest the whole world is, literally, out of joint. Elsinore is seen as an
imprisoning institution where the side-walls incline inwards, where the cornices run at odd angles to the
floor, and where a huge, Magritte-like rear window gives on to swirling spindrift” (Guardian, April 28,
1989).

24
The majority of critics who reviewed this production identify madness as the overriding characterization
of this Hamlet. Billington calls Rylance’s Hamlet “the maddest Statford has seen since Ian Bannen hid

155

inside a trunk in mid-soliloquy,” while Peter Kemp derisively refers to this Hamlet as a “mental case” in his
largely negative review for The Independent (April 29, 1989).

25
This production follows the sequencing of Q1.

26
Interestingly, after his first exchange with the “mad” Ophelia, when she leaves on “my brother shall
know of this” (which is directed toward Gertrude), Claudius collapses on the floor at “Oh my dear
Gertrude.” He is on the floor for quite a while during the scene when Laertes enters, and though he
staggers and gets up, Laertes soon dives for Claudius and pins him on the floor again. This collapse
reinforces the images of people undone by violence (whether one is the perpetrator or victim).

27
Interestingly, Branagh co-opts the straightjacket motif for his 1996 film, yet Ophelia (Kate Winslet) is
the one placed in tethers. And Winslet’s Ophelia’s madness seems uncontainable, thus the straightjacket
functions as an instrument of male-sanctioned torture (Gertrude unties Ophelia to free her arms, while
Claudius, in trying to “catch” or control Ophelia, later chases her while attempting to retie the restraints).

28
Branagh uses what he calls “the eternity version,” based on Q2 (with additions) yet, as some scholars
note, using more text than probably has ever been used before.

29
I borrow this phrase from Cynthia Marshall’s well-known book.

30
In her article, “Celluloid Revelations: Millenial Culture and Dialogic “Pastiche” in Michael Almereyda’s
Hamlet (2000)” printed in Apocalyptic Shakespeare, Melissa Croteau argues the opposite: she uses the
Bakhtinian notion of dialogism to counter what she considers to be a generally pessimistic Jameson type of
view that has been taken toward Almereyda’s film. She argues that “GenX” is able to use the technology
in a way that allows for a multitude of voices. In contrast, I believe that, while those fragments or
“pastiches” exist and are used in the film to build “interpretations of self,” the reliance on technology as
mediator results in a focus on artificial surfaces, and a “core self” thus has nothing concrete upon which to
solidify itself or grow. For another compelling view of the way technology functions in Almereyda’s film,
look to Katherine Rowe’s book New Wave Shakespeare on Screen.

31
In her article, Melissa Croteau points out that this performance of suicide with gun is a take on the Mel
Gibson scene in the film Lethal Weapon (1987), which reinforces the notion of this filmed action as
performance (as Croteau claims, “these images seem more like a performance of a suicide game than a
genuine attempt to exterminate himself”) (Croteau 119). Further, as Croteau acknowledges, the image of
Hawke-as-Hamlet mimicking or paying homage to Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon recalls Mel Gibson as
Hamlet in Zeffirelli’s film (119-20). This further obscures the notion of Hawke’s Hamlet’s “authentic self”
because it imposes layers of references on Hawke’s “impression,” pushing (on both a meta-theatrical/film-
text level and on the level of character) any core behind multiple video screens.

32
Ophelia draws a picture of a fountain, with “3:30?” written near the picture—even her written language
is inhibited; a shorthand.

33
The passing of notes is part of a child-like pattern that runs throughout the production. In fact, both
Hamlet and Ophelia are frequently infantilized: Laertes physically guides Ophelia around and tries to
control her movements as if she’s an errant child, Polonius ties Ophelia’s shoe while reprimanding her and
giving her advice regarding Hamlet, Claudius grabs Hamlet roughly by the arm in order to get him “in
line,” and he also puts Hamlet’s jacket on him before sending him off to England. These images of
constant coercion and correction reinforce the notion of Ophelia and Hamlet as child-like, under the iron
fists of the “adults.”

156

34
I did, however, find it incongruous that, in such a controlled environment, Ophelia would be “allowed”
her own space—an apartment. It is fitting, though, that the men in her life barge in unannounced and
“invade” that space.

35
Polonius is bringing Ophelia balloons—another symbol of child-like joy, rather than the more adult
exchange she is having with Hamlet. Bill Murray plays the shock well when he comes upon them. He
views Ophelia as a child, a “green girl,” and he is shocked to find her in adult situations.

36
This also illustrates the distance between the two female figures. The tremendous gulf between Stiles’
sulky, frustrated school-girl aura and Venora’s lusty woman who is largely defined by her rapacious sexual
appetite reinforce the notion that Ophelia has no discernable road to follow to womanhood.

37
And as Patrick Stewart’s Claudius makes chillingly clear with a head shake of “no,” Hamlet the “boy”
has not outsmarted Claudius the “man.” As Stewart explains in a behind-the-scenes interview (a special
feature on the DVD): “When in that moment they look into one another’s eyes, they both know. But
they’re the only people in the scene that do know what is passing between them. So, Claudius knows that
Hamlet knows, and he knows that Hamlet’s got to be taken care of.”

38
This use of mirrors is particularly compelling when viewed in contrast with the mirrored nunnery scene
in Branagh’s Hamlet film.

39
This is, obviously, a reference to Laura Mulvey and her notion of the gaze.

40
Taken from the director’s commentary on the DVD from the National Theatre Live performance that was
broadcast on December 9, 2010. Viewed on June 19, 2011 at the National Theatre archives, London.

41
This tactic doesn’t fully work, as its effects aren’t noticeably played out. If the guards reported the
goings on to Claudius, as we assume would occur, wouldn’t he prepare actions accordingly? Because any
additional actions would go against the text, this particular scene of surveillance seems more gimmicky
than viable.

42
He is left standing in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, with his pants around his ankles.

157
Chapter Three: “I am not what I am”: the fractured narratives of the self in Othello

For a play in which the self is created and/or destroyed on a series of stories—from
Othello’s representation of his wild, epic tales that woo Desdemona, to his later re-
creation of himself as “honorable murderer,” to Iago’s transformation of Desdemona
from bride to whore, to Desdemona’s final acquiescence to the role of doomed bride,
responsible for her fate by absolving/refusing to name Othello as her murderer—the word
“honesty” serves an ironic appeal. Both male and female ideals in this play rest on the
word “honest”: for males, honesty is tied to honor or to truth, while for females it
signifies chastity. Yet the stories built around these ideals betray the untenable nature of
the term honest as it applies to gendered forms: the honor allied with battle is only heard,
not seen, and marital chastity cannot be physically proven here; only the suggestion of
infidelity. Words and bodily behavior don’t seem to match. In fact, the body itself
becomes suspect, from Othello as a body infected by insidious suggestion and betrayed
by overwhelming passions to Desdemona as vessel of alleged whorish adultery. The
shifting narrative definitions imposed upon gendered bodies—adventurer/noble
soldier/cuckold/murderer; jewel/cunning whore—cause an increased, frantic desire to
“get at the truth,” and the only truth ultimately revealed is the truth of a dead body,
violently undone—a final definition,
1
and an ultimate loss of self.

158
Male adventure/female fear

Othello, as high-ranking military figure in the text, has achieved his position through the
experience of adventure. The narrative of his adventures (“battles, sieges, fortunes,”
I.iii.130)
2
compels attention, both from Brabantio and Desdemona. Martial experience is
also valued by Iago, but in an inverted telling: Iago uses Cassio’s inexperience (“…never
set a squadron in the field,/Nor the division of a battle knows,” I.i.21-2) to castigate him
when lamenting to Roderigo and to prove Cassio unworthy of advancement. And with
experience comes the notion of reliability—both attributed proposed success in battle
(Othello) and providing stability (as people suppose of Iago). Yet these tenets of stability
begin to collapse as soon as they are tested: Brabantio’s perception of Othello turns
quickly from heroic adventurer and friend to “thief” or “damned” sorcerer (I.ii); Cassio
loses his reputation, and himself, in one episode of drunken violence (aligning “brawling”
with “forgetting oneself,” II.iii), and Iago’s “I am not what I am” (I.i.64) announces the
split between seeming—or naming—and being that pervades the play.

The chinks in the armor of male stability are further exposed via female influence. A
male’s honor/honesty is directly linked to his relations (or suggestions of relations) with
females. For instance, an alleged part of Iago’s hatred springs from a suspicion that not
only Othello but Cassio “’twixt [his] sheets [have] done [his] office” (I.iii.379-80).
3

Further, Iago is not the only one who understands Desdemona’s influence over Othello;

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Cassio, and the public, recognizes Desdemona’s influence/status when he claims her as
“our great captain’s captain” (II.i.74), which simultaneously elevates her status and
indicates a weakness in Othello in that he can be ruled by a feminine force. And
Desdemona’s position as Brabantio’s daughter is one of such a central proprietary nature
to Brabantio that his idealized image of her provides her with essentially no personal
space,
4
and thus when she “divides her duty,” exhibiting agency, Brabantio soon
expires.
5
So, male honor is linked to the body, or presence, of a female, in terms that
female (real or supposed) behavior can “unman” a male. And the fact that even a
suggestion of infidelity or untoward behavior betrays the frailty (or falseness) of honor
among the male figures illustrates just how questionable the construct is in the first place.
The male model, founded on stories of experience, thus only holds up if female
experience is limited or nullified. And I would argue that as the various stories of
honorable male behavior begin to collapse, a new, less gender-specific model arises, as is
evidenced in Othello’s hysterical fit (IV.i), where he is essentially rebirthed by Iago.
6

This model, giving into or overcome by passions, can no longer read the male/female
ideals, but sees (seeks?) only total annihilation, both of self and other.
7

Desdemona: penetrated body/impenetrable soul?

While the male model is driven by, and ultimately collapses under, narratives of the self,
females—though given unusual access to voice through Desdemona’s defenses and

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public displays and Emilia’s defense of infidelity and her frantic desire to speak the truth
about Othello and Iago—are ultimately felled under the constraining narratives that males
impose upon them: ideal loyal mute (as Brabantio envisions Desdemona before her
betrayal), pure soul (as Othello first imagines Desdemona), or strumpet (Iago’s
suggestion that takes hold of Othello). Brabantio sees Desdemona as, “A maiden never
bold;/Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion/Blushed at herself” (I.iii.94-6), a position
where any form of agency at all would embarrass her. Thus, any action taken, from an
indication of passionate desire, to speaking of a duty other than to serve her father, would
indicate a breach in the image of the female as cast, and kept, by the proprietary male.

Moreover, the female voice in this play signifies not power but danger, and thus invites
dismissal from the male power structure: while the male voice compels belief, as in the
Othello/Iago relationship, female voice enrages, or falls on deaf ears, thus making
“honest” words an impossibility for the female. Iago’s defenses and conjuring—all
supposed lies—move Othello, Roderigo, and Cassio to act. Alternately, Desdemona’s,
Emilia’s, and Bianca’s pleas, defenses, and condemnations, even if based on truth, elicit a
desire to stop the female voice, and, ultimately, contain the body. Both body (as object of
sexual desire) and voice are subject to obsessive male control, and any perceived
“spillage” over what males believe are appropriate boundaries of female behavior ignites
physical violent tendencies in the male figures. And in a text where Desdemona goes
from the expectation of being “never bold” to secretly married to public controller of her

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spouse (“captain’s captain”), the more space or freedom she gains (which would seem to
be expanding notions of gender), the more susceptible Othello is to being “remade” by
believing in the new, nefarious proposed female models that Iago suggests.

Othello in production

In a text where ambiguity reigns, the production history has mostly reflected continued
efforts to solidify characterizations: to pinpoint a readable (performable) “type,” such as
tragic hero, romantic lover, innocent victim, or cunning villain. And as the stage history
illustrates, the crafting or building up of characterizations, both in performance and in
critique, has relied, until the 20
th
century, on cutting down the female space. Bianca’s
character was almost universally cut out, reducing her to a mention at best, Emilia’s
defense of infidelity was certainly excised, and the “willow scene,” as it has come to be
known, was cut entirely. While it is true that the motivations for these cuts may have
been to focus on specific aspects such as forwarding action (by cutting out the
Iago/Emilia/Desdemona discussion or the clown/Desdemona exchange), the reduction of
female voice and space also shifts the understanding of the play in more radical ways—
female homosocial space is reduced or elided (Desdemona/Emilia exchanges), which
enhances the notion of female as object rather than subject. The contemporary critical
(popular and scholarly) body of work in relation to production history through the 19
th

century thus also reduced the focus on the female: with a more limited stage presence,

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and the words for the female parts cut, the focus of critical concern was male-centered
(building critical narratives such as Betterton’s “stormy” Othello, the pathos that
embodied Booth’s interpretation, Barry’s “heartfelt,” “dignified” Moor, or the
“inwardness” of Kean). Also, significantly, as both Lois Potter and Julie Hankey note in
their production histories, from the 18
th
through the 19
th
centuries (with the notable
exception of Garrick), Othello’s fit (IV.i) was excised from performance. This fit,
deemed “inappropriate” or “unmanly,” wasn’t part of a recognizable male construction.
Thus, the return of the fit in 20
th
and 21
st
century productions has particularly important
implications, and it is these implications in which I am mainly interested. For instance,
how does the epileptic fit redefine the man, and is this redefinition an expanded notion of
gender, or is it an even greater condemnation of female space if it is seen as a form of
“hysterica passio”? And if it is a condemnation—a looking down at female space—does
this not also condemn the male construction, and to what effect? I see the fit as a type of
rebirth, and a space through which the discussion of gender can thus be investigated.
Further, from the 20
th
century on, efforts have been made to reintroduce the scenes of
homosocial female space, and the attending interpretations—what the directors and actors
do with that space—is also revealing in terms of defining gender.

This chapter explores those film and stage productions which bring the gender struggle,
as exemplified through the characters of Othello and Desdemona, to light in compelling
ways. I focus on scenes where either voice or body disrupt traditional notions of

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gender—such as Desdemona’s discussion of duty with Brabantio, the
Othello/Desdemona reunion at Cypress, or Othello’s fit—and discuss how these points,
usually accompanied by violence, open up space for redefinition by either showing the
previous constructs as just that, or by illustrating the incessant desire to wipe out a body
or a voice. And in this last respect, the filmed versions are particularly useful in that
frequently the camera enacts the sort of violence that, arguably, the play endorses:
through various excisions or framing, the female body is literally cut out, or
“disappeared.”

Bodies, gender and violence on stage

RSC 1985: TERRY HANDS, BEN KINGSLEY, AND DAVID SUCHET: Two sides of
the same coin, and an undeniable female body

In the final scene of Terry Hands’s RSC production of Othello (1985), starring Ben
Kingsley in the title role (shortly after gaining worldwide acclaim for his role as Gandhi)
with David Suchet as Iago and a young Niamh Cusack as Desdemona, Desdemona is laid
out in bed, her body horizontal to the audience, sleeping, when Othello comes up from
behind. He bends down, kisses her, and then jumps on her, pinning her down, holding

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her arms, and, finally, ferociously, smothers her with a pillow. Her arms indicate a brief
resistance as they make a pounding gesture on the mattress, but then quickly fall to
stillness. When Othello removes the pillow, Desdemona’s face is in full view of the
audience. Othello then picks up Desdemona’s seemingly dead body by the torso and
hugs her, her head gruesomely dropping back limply as he speaks, and he then lays her
down again. Shortly thereafter, upon Emilia’s (Janet Dale) entrance, Desdemona wakes
up to tell Emilia of her struggle and to absolve Othello, and then dies, still holding her
face out to the audience, where the now dead body stays in position until the end of the
performance, eerily commanding the audience’s attention. This recalls Henry Jackson’s
famous account from a production he saw in 1610: “…Desdemona, who, although
effective throughout, yet moved us more after she was dead, when, lying on her bed, she
entreated the pity of the spectators by her very countenance.”
8
As Lois Potter notes,
“Jackson’s remark may be evidence of that even a drama notoriously dominated by
words could produce its finest effects through silence…”
9
I agree, and I would extend
that remark to include a silence that betrays the undeniable presence of the body.

In both popular and critical reviews/analyses of Hands’s production, the general
consensus was that this was a solid yet not stellar production, and the focus of the
criticism (both positive and negative) was on Ben Kingsley’s “actorly intelligence” (Jack
Tinker, Daily Mail, 9.25.85), rather than a deeply emotional portrayal of the Moor.
10

Another point of primary interest in many reviews centered on Suchet’s Iago, who, for

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most critics, either harbored or displayed a homosexual desire for Othello (Nathan,
Hurren, Billington). Alternately, the actors and director saw Othello and Iago as “two
faces of the same disturbed spirit,”
11
and sought to emphasize their similarities: “they had
both grown beards for the production, and in one newspaper photograph they are shown
from the same angle to bring out their physical resemblance.”
12
Further, as Potter notes,
in a production focused on the symbiotic or possibly homoerotic relationship between
Othello and Iago, there is little room for Desdemona, and she is barely mentioned in
reviews or by actors in interviews.
13
As a viewer, I would argue otherwise.
14
Though the
reviews of Desdemona’s performance indicate (and I agree) that there was nothing
outstanding about Cusack’s delivery of her lines, as seen in the above description of the
final scene, the impact of the gendered body on stage compels the audience’s (if,
arguably, not every critic’s) focus in an undeniable way, and, thus, convincingly
illustrates just how damaging the real (physical) effects are of the shifting, imposing
narratives of self. For me, what stands out in this production is the link from a calm,
quiet authority with which Kingsley-as-Othello compels those on stage and in the
audience through his measured utterances and slow movements and gestures, to a visible
loss of that calm and control as seen in his feral physical/oral/aural transformation in his
breakdown with Iago (IV.i), to the uncanny strength of his violence, with which Othello
seems to try to knock the “whore” out of Desdemona in a single shocking swipe or, later,
the final, forceful smothering illustrated above. Through his metamorphosis from
purveyor of calm to instrument of violence, we see not only the inability of the early
“stories of self” to withstand trial, we see the rise of more insidious narratives (whore,

166
cuckold), and the transformation of words into brutal action. And as the heroic narratives
collapse within Othello, overtaken by the more nefarious constructs, violence becomes
the loudest “voice,” and the female form its most direct target.

The Devolution of Male Power

Hands and Kingsley highlighted Kingsley’s Asiatic background in their
definition/presentation of Kingsley’s Othello,
15
and Kingsley cemented that description
by giving his Othello an Eastern (Arabic) accent that conveyed his presence as “every
inch an Arab prince” (Nathan, Jewish Chronicle, 4.10.85) or “a white-robed sheikh”
(Hurren, Daily Mail, 9.29.85). This Othello conveys a mystic form of authority from the
start, compelling his subjects (friends, citizens, colleagues) with his measured voice or
gestures. In his first appearance on stage, he literally stops people in their tracks with his
outstretched arms as if physically compelling/holding them from a distance—no actual
touch is necessary. He has a surprising long, drawn out calm about him: a slow walk, a
slow talk, stretching out words as if to wrap them around people, letting them fall, and a
calm rest on them as well. This serene power enhances his image—for better or worse—
as a mystic figure, giving him a sense of spiritual weight (and possibly, unintentionally
adding credence to Brabantio’s argument). Hence, male power is aligned with force and
control, but not in terms of violence.

167

In fact, this Othello wields his power specifically to maintain peace: he is calm and
measured until he reunites with Desdemona in Cypress, at which time he betrays
excitement in the form of unmitigated joy (and public expression therein). However, it
seems as though once Desdemona “ignites” Othello’s passion here, other “cracks” in his
veneer begin to show. When Cassio gets in a drunken brawl, Othello runs on stage, half-
dressed, shouting and unholstering his sword. He no longer compels through calm—now
he asserts his control through the suggestion of violence: when he says to Cassio “I love
thee, but never more be officer of mine” (II.3.237-8), he seals the deal by forcefully
holstering his sword, which makes a loud, clicking sound that has the finality of “game
over.” Immediately thereafter, Desdemona appears in the back: she wears a lavender,
diaphanous nightgown, arms stretched, each hand resting against a column. We clearly
see the outline of her figure, and this evokes a feeling of exposure—the female body is
visually exposed, and there’s a sense of danger not only in the exposure (or in our
witnessing of it) or its sexual suggestion, but also in its link to violence via the
Cassio/Othello exchange downstage. When Othello moves to Desdemona and they walk
off stage together, her dressing gown shimmers: the power associated with the female is
centered on the spectacle of the body, and desire and violence are linked.

In fact, Cassio punctuates the trend toward male violence that has now been set in
motion. As he lay on the floor, crying for his lost “reputation,” seemingly “unmanned” in

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that he has not only lost his position but his footing and weapons, his cries indicate he is
overcome. Iago picks up Cassio’s dagger and a sword and tries to hand the dagger to him
in a gesture of recuperation; Cassio rejects the dagger and takes the sword. It seems that
Cassio believes grand gestures of violence/force are needed to restore reputation.
However, this also clearly shows a hollowness in his actions: he was undone by careless
violence (brought on by careless drinking). Further, this remaking of Cassio—from
crying on the floor to man with sword, ready for battle—uncomfortably foreshadows a
more explosive degeneration and violent rebirth: that of Othello.

Othello’s male deflation is both verbal and physical: in their exchange over “Men should
be what they seem,” Othello still attempts to make grand statements of control with his
arms spread out and his robe fanning out. However, as soon as Iago injects “look to your
wife,” Othello slowly, tellingly, lowers his arms, as if his spirit is collapsing rather than
his body position. Then, when he comes to Desdemona’s defense, he hesitates on the
word “honest”—both words and actions have been siphoned of their overriding calm.
16

Thus begins his final transformation: in an explosion, the heretofore slow-moving, calm-
seeming Othello leaps on Iago, wrestling him to the ground. And at Othello’s anguished
“tear her all to pieces,” he growls and makes wild, scratching gestures with his arms. The
honorable man is now a feral creature—he has lost controlled voice and motion. Othello
rambles, his speech unclear as his hysteria rises on “lie with her/lie on her”, and by the
time Othello falls into catatonia, lying on the floor with Iago cradling him (IV.i), all that

169
once defined him as a man is gone. Othello lay on the floor in an almost fetal position as
Iago sits by him, reciting—and, I would argue, recreating. And with Iago’s “Good sir, be
a man!” the image conjured is one of Frankenstein and his monster/creation: a
facsimile/simulacrum of “man,” embodied and driven by a relentless desire to destroy.

From here on in, violence is truly his only language, and this man/monster smacks
Desdemona so powerfully in the scene of Lodovico’s arrival that she flies across the
stage, landing hard on the ground in a heap. Like before, with the click of Othello’s
sword, the sound of the smack is shocking, and it reverberates throughout the theater
space. The violent hit also indicates a shift: his physical violence is directed at
Desdemona’s body, and he is consumed by his desire to literally beat her alleged
infidelity out of her. His attacks include hitting, pushing her around (on “she can turn,
and turn, and turn again”), strong-arming her, pinning her down on the floor, and
ultimately smothering her—a final attempt to snuff out her voice when he cannot excise
the “crimes” from her body. And I would argue that his rage also derives from a frantic
desire to contain the female body—or from a realization that he cannot, in fact, contain it
while it has any agency of its own, a problem with the original construction of the female.

Still, for all of the ferociousness of the physical violence, it is Desdemona’s body on
which we linger in the final scene. And this calls us to question just what is being fought
here: the model of male honor is exposed as a construct, at best, and the power associated

170
with males is destructive, especially as it manifests itself in physical violence. Yet to
what does the exposure of the female body in this production attest? This production
betrays the bias underlying the gender constructions in the play: the female body is only
meant for a specific type of male “viewing”—one that contains a proprietary air.
Brabantio must have Desdemona as a figure without any animation, and Othello finally
realizes that even the suggestion of her body being seen by others (amplified in the scene
where she appears in the diaphanous gown) poses a danger and sets him on a maniacal
drive to take experience away from her (an impossible task). When we are left viewing
the body as it lay, lifeless, on the bed, we feel the sense of impropriety—and, I would
argue, we too are implicated in the desire to “cover her up.”

NATIONAL THEATRE: MENDES 1997: Desdemona fights back

Sam Mendes’s National Theatre production of 1997-1998 (at the Other Place and
Cottesloe) takes an alternative approach to characters and relationships, and thus
gender/violence conflicts, in the play than the Terry Hands RSC production.
17
Where
Hands emphasized the Othello/Iago connection in terms of similarity—either kindred
spirits or homoerotic desire—Mendes’s production emphasizes the differences: David
Harewood’s Othello is young, virile, and handsome, while Simon Russell Beale’s Iago is

171
older, heavy-set and flabby, and, as Julie Hankey and various reviewers have described
him, “physically repulsive” with a “bulgy clamminess.”
18
Additionally, Mendes
specifically identifies the Iago/Othello relationship as heterosexual: “[Iago is]
heterosexual. I think he has a fascination with Othello which is not homosexual, but the
fascination of a different race, a different physical type, a different mind, a different
sexual drive.”
19
And while Kingsley’s Othello is categorized by an elder, mystic, calm
power before his descent, Harewood’s Othello emanates an obvious passion, driven by
his and Desdemona’s sexual chemistry, from the start. Further, opting for a youthful
Othello/Desdemona pairing (Claire Skinner as Desdemona is of a similar age as
Harewood) instead of the Cusack/Kingsley May-December pairing, shifts the balance in
both the Othello/Desdemona relationship and in the Othello/Iago one: As Lois Potter
notes, “Because of their youth, both [Clare Skinner’s Desdemona] and David
Harewood’s Othello were sympathetic figures but also seemed inevitable victims of an
older and more experienced Iago.”
20

The above-mentioned characterizations also redefine the gender struggles in compelling
ways. Importantly, Mendes sees Desdemona as strong—as a woman who thinks and
acts; one who views herself as subject rather than object:
Desdemona made a very specific decision to marry this man. It seems to me
extraordinary for someone, even now, to creep out of the house at ten o'clock at
night and go down the road and marry a large black general without her father
knowing. So that's the main thing I had in my mind about the character. You want
someone with the courage of her convictions and the presence of mind to make
that decision.
21

172

This description highlights a solid, internal sense of space (and right) that occupies this
Desdemona, which forcefully counters the feminine ideal that Brabantio forwards (no
space) or that, arguably, even Othello tries to force Desdemona back into, and it also
provides for moments of gender-bending confusion as Othello’s passion turns to violence
and this Desdemona fights back.

The setting of this production contributes to the overall play-space within the gender
constructs in that the production is set in, loosely, the mid- to late-1930s in a military
outpost type of atmosphere, and this twentieth-century shift opens up the possibilities for
movement both in terms of costume and physical play.
22
The military atmosphere has the
men dressed in suits (either dark blue fascist-suggestive suits or khaki suited-uniforms
that evoke British armies of no particular era, according to Mendes), and the female
costuming plays against this in interesting ways—when Desdemona first appears, she
wears a deep red slim, sleeveless, long dress: a fiery passion among the muted military
colors. Her space and dress make her an undisputable focus of interest, and desire, and
this provokes a curious reaction from Brabantio: when she goes to hug Brabantio as he is
leaving after the senate scene, he physically pushes her away, which is not only a
rejection but an indication that she is a dangerous physical presence. And when she
arrives in Cypress, she is wearing black pants—a vision of her as her “captain’s captain”
as she deals in a very straightforward, in-control manner with Iago. It’s as if she is his

173
equal—or superior—a point she emphasizes when, seated in conversation, she stretches
out her legs and puts up her feet in Iago’s lap, making him, in essence, her foot stool.
Further, when Othello arrives and exclaims, “O my fair warrior!” (II.i.181), she begins to
say “my f…” as if she will repeat his words rather than respond, but then she breaks into
laughter and doesn’t finish the line. This open laughter can either be interpreted as
confirming Othello’s words as a lighthearted gender-bending joke or as her public (albeit
slight) dismissal of his gesture, and it is a gesture/compliment/raise-in-status which she
does not return, although her laughter possibly confirms the hierarchy at Othello’s
expense, publicly.

Desdemona identifies her “freedom of space” and then her “freedom to maintain her
space” throughout via tactile measures. She not only goes to hug her father and stretch
her feet on Iago’s lap, she touches Cassio repeatedly when they are in conversation (upon
arrival at Cypress), and her constant physical contact with Othello throughout the play
raises interest as love touches turn to defensive blocks and hits (Desdemona actually
beats Othello on the chest when they are locked together in conflict after he calls her
“false”) and then to wild grabs, frantic wrestling/wresting movements, and, finally,
kicking, hitting, and screaming as Othello smothers her to death. Further, the strength
(Desdemona as subject rather than object) indicated by her freedom to move and to touch
results in many scenarios in which Desdemona’s “fight skills” almost equal—or at least
contend with—those of Othello; so physical force is not solely a male purview or method

174
of communication. The various arguments that Othello and Desdemona engage in, from
the first rigid questioning over the handkerchief to the accusations of being “false” and
even to the final “fight” (death) scene, are staged so that the choreographed movement
gives both Desdemona and Othello physical give and take. In the “lost handkerchief”
scene, Othello brings Desdemona to sit by him as he recounts (or makes up) the history
of the token, but when he accuses her, they both get up in a type of stand-off. When
Othello raises his voice, Desdemona raises hers in response. When he walks away, she
walks toward him, trying to force him to see her point of view. This is compelling in that
in a role where it is easy to simply play an innocent victim who is acted upon, Skinner’s
(and Mendes’s) interpretation of Desdemona loosens the gender constraints even further
by going head to head with Othello, both physically and verbally, until the very end, thus
providing an unusual amount of female agency and space. And in the death scene,
Desdemona and Othello viciously fight, both standing on the bed at one point in the
ultimate face-off. She shouts, screams, kicks, and hits repeatedly in an effort to save her
life.
23
And when Othello finally does succeed in smothering her and her limbs go limp,
the stage, dark except for a spotlight on the bed, shows Othello, once again standing on
the bed, this time with the body of Desdemona stretched out in his arms. The weight of
the body and the toll it (and the drama) has taken is palpable—enhanced because it was
the live body that compelled our attention, so the extinguishing of that light is particularly
gruesome.

175
As Desdemona’s vigorous body crosses gender boundaries by not adhering to the limits
placed on her by the male ideals, desires, or fears, this power shift is also reflected in
Othello, and it serves to further dispel firm notions of gender. As we watch Desdemona’s
growing physical and emotional strength (tone of speech and force of action reflect a
non-gendered passion and a sense of deserving), Othello’s devolution is marked by a
sense that he has met his match at every turn, and that he has been outwitted by all those
around him. Further, the violence with which he comes to “speak” seems to weaken him
from episode to episode. For this Othello, violence does not confirm who he is, but who
he is no longer. Othello pulls a gun on Iago when he first feels the pangs of jealousy and
then he drops the gun, limply (as Iago exclaims, “Are thou not mad? Have you no soul or
sense?”). He then tears the set apart, turning over tables and chairs, physically threatening
Iago, and at “arise, black vengeance” seems to try to gain power with volume. But when
he leaves the scene, Iago calmly straightens up, resetting the table and chairs, picks up a
jacket, pauses center stage, and walks off, leaving us with the knowledge of who was
really the threatening one and who was threatened. And when Othello is “rebirthed” by
Iago, the latter sits on the couch while Othello slumps on the floor in front of him, curling
into an almost fetal position at “Lie on her?”, convulsing and eventually slipping into a
catatonic state and then fainting on the floor, splayed out as if paralyzed by venom.
When he comes to and slowly gets up, he’s a different person—he walks with a heavy
gait, staggering across the stage.

176
From Othello’s first slip of power, associated with violence (the throwing around of the
furniture, described above), the ensuing combative episodes with Desdemona seem to
“unman” him in the sense that she “speaks” his language of violence—she can match
him, up to a point, step by step, in the way the fights are played out. This speaking in
foreign tongues, of sorts (violence has been established here as the “language” of men),
opens up gender constraints both ways. And as Othello alternately growls, rages, and
cries in different combative exchanges, the foundations on which he has built his sense of
self completely collapse, while Desdemona’s unaltered convictions (she rigorously
speaks in her own defense and she physically, forcefully stands up for herself) forward a
new, solid notion of a person unconstrained by gender.
24
Yet after Othello’s rebirthing,
the only language he understands is violence, and when he finally does overwhelm
Desdemona after an epic physical battle, the (hollow) “victory,” with him standing on the
bed, holding his “trophy” ( the stage dark except for the spotlight on the bodies),
confirms Othello as the opposite of everything he previously purported to be. It takes
everything in him (emotionally, physically) to kill Desdemona, and he undoes both of
them as a result. Mendes’s production thus highlights the link between gender and
violence by opening up gender roles in such a way that the male violence betrays not only
fear of female power but an increasing suspicion that male representations have a tenuous
hold on power. And by putting physical strength and movement in the female’s control
as well, the male model is defamiliarized by violence rather than confirmed by it.

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Bodies on screen: translation, adaptation, and hybrid

BUCHOWETZKI’S SILENT OTHELLO (1922), WELLES’S 1952 FILM, AND
OLIVIER’S FILMIC REPRESENTATION OF THE 1964 OLD VIC PRODUCTION
(1965)

BUCHOWETZKI’S OTHELLO (1922): Erasing the female body and opening up
homosocial space

With any silent film adaptation of Shakespeare, one obviously expects that most of
Shakespeare’s text would be cut and amended. Further, since this film was originally
adapted and produced in Germany, even title and text cards are subject to translation
(from Shakespeare’s English to German adaptation and then again for the English text
card translations in the English-language version of the film) and thus levels of distance
from the “original” text are multiplied. Still, my interest in this film derives from a desire
to explore the images presented: how does a silent film of Othello use the camera to
direct our viewing of gendered bodies? With only minimal text used, the physical bodies
tell the story of the gendered struggle in an amplified manner, and this production uses
camera framing in such a way that it contains, distances, and eventually erases
Desdemona from the screen. I would argue that this containment/erasure accentuates the

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male/female conflict inherent in the play by using the camera to enact the male’s
obsessive drive to contain the female and, eventually, remove her from our sight.
Further, the camera shifts the focus to homosocial relationships—those of Othello/Iago
and Othello/Cassio—and thus arguably expands notions of gender in compelling ways by
offering the viewer glimpses into alternative, gender-redefining space.
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Containing Desdemona

From the start of Buchowetzki’s film, there is a certain sense of unease associated with
the viewing of Desdemona. We first see her, described by text card as “the toast of
suitors near and far,” sitting in a chair in the ornate gathering hall, surrounded by and
engaging in lively conversation with a group of men, who bear upon her closely. She
smiles and even laughs, and as the camera shifts we see first Brabantio and then Othello,
as he enters under much pomp and circumstance, eyeing her. Thus Desdemona is defined
by desire—her own desire and that of others to either engage or control. After Othello
(described by text card as a war hero returning to much acclaim and celebration) publicly
names Cassio as his lieutenant,
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the scene shifts to Othello surreptitiously flirting with
Desdemona in the grand hall, among the crowded gathering yet slightly set aside.
Brabantio, always trying to keep an eye on Desdemona, sees this flirtation and
immediately goes to her, and here we get a text card with Brabantio exclaiming, “My
daughter shall never be wife to the Moor!” So the film is structured in such a way that

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Desdemona knows her father’s wishes and, in direct rebellion against him, sneaks away
to be with Othello, escaping through the canals in a boat with the help of Othello’s men.
In the following scene of Othello and Desdemona’s first union, Othello surprises her
alone in a room, she is happy to see him, and they share a long kiss, which is shot in mid-
close-up, head-on. Then, they share an exchange where he gives her the handkerchief
and explains its significance,
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and, again, this is shot in a way that frames the two head-
on. Yet from this point on, a shift occurs: the camera begins to show Desdemona through
archways, thus framing her in a way that reflects Othello’s desire to either idealize her (as
a framed piece of art) or contain her.

Once in Cypress,
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the camera frames Desdemona in a way that accentuates her changing
status as her “honesty” comes into question and Othello starts to see her differently. We
see Desdemona and Emilia laughing in her bedroom, sitting on the bed, sharing an ease
and playfulness that goes with their homosocial space. Yet we then see Othello spying
on them through an archway, peering in on the play-space. The film shot is framed so
that we see Desdemona and Emilia on the left, then the arch separation, and Othello on
the other side of the arch. Othello and Desdemona blow kisses to each other across the
divide—game playing, but with a distance. And when we do see Othello and Desdemona
in bed together, when the Cassio-drunken-brawl occurs, the camera shoots them from
behind, through an arch, so that we only see their backs and their heads as Othello tells
Desdemona to stay while he goes outside to assess the matter. And when Othello has

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become poisoned with Iago’s suggestion of Desdemona’s infidelity, he “dreams” seeing
them kissing, and this dream is presented in close-up, head on, in a vision on the upper
left side of the screen with Othello sleeping, tossing, and turning below. The illicit dream
thus has a closer feel/clearer sight than some of the Othello/Desdemona exchanges,
which presents her, uncomfortably, in her new “incarnation.” Thus the imagined
Desdemona—one who is governed by illicit desire—is the image that’s afforded space
rather than the actual body: to Othello, Desdemona is becoming someone else.

Othello, Iago, Cassio, and the queering of male desire

From the completion of the Desdemona/Cassio dream segment, something extraordinary
occurs: as the camera affords Desdemona less space, culminating in a virtual cutting-her-
out in the death scene (to be discussed below), the film focuses on enhanced, sexually
suggestive scenes of intimacy between male figures. First, when Othello lay writhing,
tortured by the vision of Cassio and Desdemona kissing, he falls out of bed and Iago runs
to him, cradling him. Still in the midst of a dream-state, Othello kisses Iago’s hand while
envisioning Desdemona and Iago strokes Othello’s head and then wipes it with the
handkerchief Iago now has in his possession.
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This moment is complicated: it is a
combination of transference, manipulation, and, I would argue, sexual suggestion. Desire
is expanded to the homosocial sphere, and sexual desire reaches across heteronormative
gender boundaries.
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This moment thus redefines gender in that it opens up space for

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other models. Further, near the end of the film, after Othello has killed Desdemona, he
meets the male faction outside of the bedroom (in the foyer/landing), closing away the
heterosexual scene of desire/crime and engaging in an interesting exchange with Cassio:
when he is told of Cassio’s charge and readily accepts it, Cassio kneels to Othello,
begging in answer to previous allegations, “Dear General, I never gave you cause—Iago
himself abused your mind for his own desires.” Cassio then kisses Othello’s hand, at
which point Othello lifts Cassio to him, takes Cassio’s head in his hands, and almost
looks like he’s going to kiss Cassio. Instead, he brings him close, “hugging” forehead to
forehead, Othello’s arm around Cassio, the camera lingering on the two men. They seem
to hold hands until finally Othello separates himself from Cassio and slowly walks to the
bedroom door. He turns to the men, exclaims, “Think of me, if thou cans’t, as one that
loved not wisely but too well” (here the men still do not know that Desdemona is dead),
and he goes into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Desdemona’s death and the redistribution of heteronormative space

The scene in which Desdemona dies encapsulates the male view of the female: an object
meant for private viewing or erased from sight. The camera first shows Desdemona, via
mid-range close-up shot, in an idealized state, sleeping in an ornate bed, the white sheets,
her white gown, and her white skin glowing as she sleeps, an object most revered when
still and mute. As Othello approaches her, now in long shot, the camera then shifts

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between close-up shots of Othello and Desdemona as he leans in to her, his hand over her
arm, touching her hair, kissing her. When she wakes upon his kiss, the brief, heated
exchange regarding her impending death ensues, and then Othello picks her up by the
throat and shakes her, strangling her. Here the camera then begins to shift focus. We see
a long/wide shot of Othello falling on Desdemona’s body in the bed, blocking view of her
as Emilia runs into the room. Then the scene cuts to a two-shot: that of Emilia and
Othello. The camera stays on the two of them, cutting Desdemona out of the scene, even
throughout the long explanation where it becomes evident through Othello’s facial
expression that Desdemona was innocent. We see him look down at her, but her body is
out of frame—the focus is solely on Othello and his emotional transformations. And
when Iago joins the scene, the camera stays on Iago and Othello in another version of a
two-shot. Once again, it seems that Desdemona is a body that is talked about or
characterized by others, while she is ultimately not afforded voice or space. Othello kills
Iago here, and, still, Desdemona is out of frame. This reinforces the notion (both in
Shakespeare and in this adaptation) that the primary relationship is that of Othello/Iago.
The only view we are allowed is one medium shot of Othello finally looking down at
Desdemona as she lay in bed, dead, before he exits to face Cassio and the other men (in
the scene described above), and then another quick close and then long shot of Othello’s
“die upon a kiss” gesture as the men finally peer inside at the end and see Othello’s and
Desdemona’s bodies on the bed. Heteronormative space has thus been redistributed,
distanced, and, arguably, diminished.

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Shakespeare’s play obsessively illustrates how language continuously makes and
unmakes individuals. In a silent film adaptation where images are the overriding
“language,” the combination of text edits and body positioning contributes to a
compelling refocusing on homosocial space. The male model is clouded from the start in
this production: while Othello is revered as war hero, the narrative of his exploits—the
speech upon which he defines himself and from which he claims he wins Desdemona’s
heart—is omitted, and in another change from Shakespeare, Buchowetzki inserts a
defense: Othello claims “I am the son of Egyptian and Spanish princess—my blood is
fair, like hers, my wife’s…” , a declaration intended to shift focus from Othello as racial
or social other to Othello as defined by similarity to the larger, acceptable community.
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And as the male fear of female desire coincides with a refocusing of that desire on
homosocial spaces, the female body and voice get cut out, both textually and in film
edits.
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Thus the camera acts as a “weapon,” doing violence to the female form by
ultimately rendering it obsolete, and, by doing so, calling traditional, gendered models
into question.

WELLES’S 1952 FILM ADAPTATION: desire in the shadows

Where Buchowetzki’s film uses the camera to shift our focus to homosocial space at the
expense of the female, Orson Welles’s 1952 black-and-white film (restored in 1992, with
additional footage and sound, by his daughter Beatrice) presents the gender struggle

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through the use of shadows, light, mirrors, and disembodied voices. Orson Welles as
Othello is frequently seen in shadow or in head shot, and the fragmented notion of self is
further conveyed through the disembodiment of his voiceover, which runs throughout the
film. Alternately, Desdemona (Suzanne Cloutier
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) is idealized through her costuming
(always white) and bright, hazy lighting as she is given at first an angelic presence, yet
one that is not allowed much voice, as textual edits show. And as Othello’s notion of
Desdemona changes, this angelic projection shifts via the camera only focusing on body
parts or showing her through a mirror, a long shot, or eventually mummified as her face
is covered by the white gauze cloth with which Othello strangles her. So, the white that
formerly symbolized her innocence and honesty (or Othello’s idea of her innocence and
honesty) or beauty now encloses and extinguishes her. Thus both gendered figures are
distorted or obscured, and these manipulations (verbal, aural, and image-based) assist in
claiming the gender constructs as fantasy, or false.

Traditional gendered representations are called into question from the opening shots of
this film. The first on-screen image is Othello’s face—yet the image is upside down,
which makes identification difficult at first. It’s a shot from above as Othello’s dead
body is carried off on a raised stretcher. As a heavily-peopled procession carries his body
through the streets, the camera shifts to another body being carried, yet this one is
covered by a black sheer cloth. In close-up, briefly, we see that it must be Desdemona
(we haven’t been introduced to the characters yet—this procession occurs before the

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opening title credits), yet the image is fleeting and quickly shifts to a long shot of the
crowded streets as the funeral procession continues. Next we see a grimy, grimacing
figure crouching in a cage—it’s Iago (Micheal MacLiammoir), who, dehumanized in that
he resembles a caged animal, is raised on high, suspended above the crowd. So, the three
central figures are introduced to us as either dead and covered or exposed and
dehumanized. This pattern of distortion/obscuring continues once the title cards (and
subsequent general overview via text card) take us back to the traditional (or adaptation
of the) Shakespeare plot. The story is told at different points throughout via voiceover,
and it is the voice of Orson Welles’s Othello who guides us. Thus, he directs the
narrative. And the way he first presents himself is compelling, and in third person. Of
his relationship with Desdemona, he declares that “Othello fell in love with Desdemona,”
and that Desdemona was “drawn to his virtue”. Thus by self-declaration (told in third
person, hence distanced), this is his reigning characteristic. This idea is further
complicated, however, by the fact that we don’t see Othello in full view yet—we just
hear a disembodied voice. So, virtue is a hazy concept that we cannot yet align with the
man, thus undercutting it. Welles’s next scene we come to realize is Othello and
Desdemona’s wedding ceremony, shot at a distance from the back of the church, so while
it is a sanctioned ceremony, we can barely identify the figures. The camera pulls back
further to reveal Roderigo (Robert Coote) and Iago spying on the ceremony, so the
sanctioning is further undermined as this sets Roderigo and Iago on their way to
Brabantio’s (Hilton Edwards) residence. And we get the first clear, head-on shot of
Othello when he and Brabantio are at the senate house, and the camera identifies him on

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“such a thing as that” as Brabantio points toward Othello. So the first up-close shot of
him (alive, as opposed to the opening sequence) identifies him as a “thing.”

While Othello is a figure of mystery, obscured in various ways from the start, Desdemona
is defined by a shimmering brightness—she’s the embodiment of the “pearl” as she
enters the senate chamber (she arrives on her own; the scene is cut so that Othello does
not ask that she be called for), dressed in white, with long, blond hair that is laced with
pearl dressings. Throughout this scene, Othello is swathed in darkness and in shadow,
while Desdemona is lit with a glowing spotlight. She is lighter than all other figures in
the dank chamber, and thus a focal point of viewing. Yet this idealized body is only
meant to be gazed upon—her text is severely cut. While she explains her divided duties,
she does not plead for going to Cypress; nor later does she engage in a verbal exchange
with Iago (or Emilia) upon first arriving at Cypress. And, in an interesting twist, Othello
keeps his sexual passion private rather than showing overtly public displays of affection,
and this then transfers the viewing of the female body to a more personal proprietary
nature (as the owner of the gaze is more clearly defined—and this works interestingly
when Othello’s view of her changes and the camera angles/shots reflect his altered view).
When Othello says, “Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour to spend with thee. We must
obey the time,” Othello is shot in close-up, leaning over Desdemona in bed. She lay
under him, and he leans down to kiss her, so this is a private, sexual moment. And once
in Cypress, private desire once again overrides public display, yet this time the private

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sexual intimacy deflates the proprietary nature as desire becomes dark, fuzzy, and hidden.
The line “if ‘twere now to die, ‘twere now to be most happy” is said in voiceover with
Othello and Desdemona projected in shadows on the stone wall of their castle bedroom as
they engage in a kiss. They are both obscured, and the voiceover combined with the
shadow further blur (or disengage the audience from) the individuals and, arguably, the
distinctions between them.

Othello’s path of self-destruction is complicated by distancing, questionable images of
him throughout. Not only is he transforming, but because he has been indefinable from
the start, it is difficult to pinpoint his transition in any definitive way: his identity is never
solid. And this transition or shape-shifting is exacerbated by the use of mirrors and cuts
that fragment him even further. After Iago shakes Othello up with the comment “look to
your wife” (told to him as they enter the weapons room of the castle, so a suggestion of
violence accompanies his insidious words), Othello looks at himself (a head-shot) in the
mirror, as if checking who he is. This is compelling in that the suggestion of “look to
your wife” first pushes him to look at himself, thus revealing how fragile Othello’s
identity is and how closely linked it is to his wife. Further, when Othello then sits down
in his room, complaining of a headache, Desdemona tries to console him, and the shot of
her comforting him is a tight head-shot of Othello as Desdemona’s hands, holding the
handkerchief, move into frame as she tries to wipe his head. So she is now being shown
as fragmented, as is he. Further, the image of a male head with female hands is

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compelling in that it is a dual-gendered identity: a new form. When he gets up and swats
away both Desdemona and the handkerchief, he stops at the mirror again. It’s as if he
either cannot recognize himself or he is marking the changes. Then, he shifts his view in
the mirror slightly to the right and sees the reflection of Desdemona behind him (another
distortion; also they are both “framed” in the mirror), and he turns to her, walks over to
her, grabs her face, and looks at her close-up. He hugs her and then walks away toward
the bed alone, and he pulls the curtains back suddenly, as if he expected to find someone
else (Cassio) there.
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As Othello’s image of himself, and of Desdemona, shifts, he is more associated with
violence, although this production contains more of the threat of violence than actual
physical violence until the final scene (whereas the stage productions and the BBC and
Parker filmed versions, to be discussed later in this chapter, display much more overt
physical violence throughout). This is compelling in that while the physical violence is
not prominently displayed, neither is Othello’s overt passion (which is unusual in the
productions I’ve researched). As mentioned above, the scenes of sexual intimacy are
private. Even in the one instance in which Othello kisses Desdemona in front of Iago
(when Desdemona first entreats Othello on Cassio’s behalf), Othello breaks away from
the kiss quickly, and he seems embarrassed. And Othello’s most explosive burst of
violence occurs not when he slaps Desdemona (to be discussed below), but when he
threatens Iago on “make sure you prove my wife a whore.” At this point, Iago and

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Othello are on the promontory over the water and Othello grabs him and physically
makes to throw him back where Iago would hit the rocky water below and surely die
from the fall and/or the landing. But when Othello has his fit, interestingly, it’s relatively
mild but it happens outside, in broad daylight (counter to all of the other productions I’ve
seen). So, Othello, so far associated with darkness and shadows, is reborn in the light,
laid out on the ground, looking up at the sky as people look on from the castle rooftop.
After his rebirth, he resumes course (on the same path yet slightly accelerated) toward the
final undoing of both Desdemona and himself. In the scene with Lodovico, Othello does
slap Desdemona, but it is shot as an inversion of the former handkerchief scene.
Desdemona stands in the shot, facing toward the camera, and we see Othello’s hand come
into frame and slap her. So we have another picture of male/female “pieces” put
together, this time in a more violent clash. And in his later altercation with her (where he
accuses her and she defends herself) inside their room in the castle, the scene is shot in
alternating framing of Othello, reclining, only partially shown, then Desdemona standing
near him, then his hand running down her gown, her head and chest cut out of frame so
that all we see is her dress skirt—a fragment. When he gets up and walks away at “I took
you for the cunning whore of Venice…” Desdemona is left standing in the arched
doorway at the foot of the stairs, a small figure in the cavernous castle as the camera pulls
back to a wide, long shot.
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The view of her is shifting yet again.

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The death scene plays out like a combination of a noir film and a horror film, replete with
overly melodramatic music to accentuate the ominous impending doom. In this scene, the
motifs of shadows, light, and disembodied voices all come into play. In the darkly
shadowed bed chamber, Othello enters the frame only as a shadow projected on the wall.
In voiceover, we hear “it is the cause, it is the cause…” and the disembodiment of voice
and shadow present Othello as something completely indefinable—and detached from
any body—male or female. It’s as if he is just a cipher for the act of passion he is about
to commit. Further, as Othello’s voice is separated from his body, this seems to oddly
remove the male voice-power connection. Even though it is a male voiceover, and thus
the male voice “controls” the narrative, this disembodiment serves to collapse one notion
of male force (even if the physical violence is about to take over the scene). Desdemona
is not asleep, but she’s in bed, and as Othello comes out of the shadows, he walks slowly
toward her like an angel of death. The shots then follow quickly: Desdemona in close-up
closing her eyes, then a long-shot of her in bed, then back to close-up. It’s as if the
camera is sizing her up for the horrors about to come. After “put out the light,” at which
point we see a candle, part of the bed, and Othello obscured from sight, the scene shifts to
close-ups—first on Desdemona’s face, then on Othello’s face, then back to Desdemona.
They are linked in horror, and, as viewers, our gaze is complicated in that there is no
clearly governing view—only fragmentation of both male and female: the models have
been broken. On Othello’s “have you prayed” and the subsequent exchange, the camera
again shifts from face to face—talking heads—and then they are shown in a two-shot
together. When the handkerchief accusation comes up, Desdemona briefly gets up, and

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in a rare full-shot show of overt violence, he pulls her hair as he calls her “strumpet.” In
the next shot, they’re both on the bed, and we only see Desdemona’s eyes in extreme
close-up, wide in horror, as Othello pulls a white gauze cloth over her face. There’s a
shot of him, then a shot of her, in close-up, with her face completely covered. He is like
a demon, and she resembles a mummy: both non-human figures. And in a grotesque
move, Othello kisses her covered face, slowly, as if sucking the life out of her. When
Emilia knocks and Othello runs to answer the door, Desdemona falls out of bed, which is
a shocking sight in mid-long shot—we see her entire body. She lay on the floor,
groaning, as Emilia enters the scene. After Desdemona absolves Othello (“Who hath
done this deed? I myself”), Desdemona dies on the floor by the bed.

In the aftermath of Desdemona’s death, a shadow of bars falls over Othello’s face as he
stands near a gated doorway: he has put himself in a figurative prison. When the other
men enter the chamber, they are all shot in such a way that the shadow of the bars crosses
their faces, but now, Othello has moved to the other side of the gated doorway; thus he is
separated from them. He is truly the “other” now. As they leave, Othello stabs himself,
and then the camera follows him as he wanders around the room, now back in the main
space. The camera then disengages from him and goes circling up to the ceiling, where
we see the men looking down on the scene from a skylight. His last speech (“when you
speak of me…”) is shot as he looks up out of the darkness at the men above. All we see
of him is a talking head, disembodied once again. In his final action, he lifts Desdemona

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onto the bed and then falls on her (she has been out of sight/frame since the men first
arrived). And up above, the men close up the skylight. The film ends where it started:
carrying the bodies through the streets. And so this film illustrates a gender struggle as
more mysterious—the genders are not clearly pinpointed from the start. Othello is a
shadow or a disembodied voice; Desdemona is a living symbol of a “pearl,” a precious
light. However, these representations are both unrealistic, and it is through this shady,
hazy imagery that all constructions of the two are realized as false.

LAURENCE OLIVIER’S FILM HYBRID: the collision of film and stage in the 1965
filmed representation of the National Theatre’s Old Vic stage production

In a DVD commentary—a short film shot in 1965 as an introduction to accompany the
original viewing of the filmed production—Laurence Olivier offers this work, directed by
Stuart Burge from the stage production that was directed by John Dexter, as “presented
on film with all of the immediacy of the theater.” Olivier claims that this is not a film in
the traditional sense, nor is it a straightforward filmed (“photographed,” as he puts it)
representation of the 1964 Old Vic stage production—this film presentation took four
weeks to shoot.
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In this hybrid of film/theater, the sets, Olivier declares, are not
specifically stage sets or film sets. What this production does represent, he claims, is

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“offering as little visual distraction from the intentions of the author,” which Olivier
states he views as “a dueling match” between Othello and Iago (although it is common
knowledge that both Olivier and Dexter subscribed to F. R. Leavis’s famous
interpretation of the play, in which, as Julie Hankey succinctly summarizes, “Othello is
himself the cause of his own disintegration, Iago merely the mechanical device by which
the fraud of his nobility is exposed”).
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This hybrid of forms, intended to amplify the
focus on the characters and their motivations, offers sometimes confounding
characterizations due to the frequent framing of “talking heads,” as the focus tends to
stall the action or progression of the story. The camera stays close throughout, reflecting
Burge’s (and Olivier’s?) intention to focus on the words and, arguably, on a supposedly
star turn by Olivier that gained much notice in its theatrical run; however, this does not
necessarily bring about an intimacy or better understanding of the characterizations he
presents.
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Yet, three shooting decisions specifically aligned with the female form and
capturing/exploring desire, do provide moments for speculation: the extended focus on
the Othello/Desdemona kisses, the camera pull-back on Desdemona’s willow song, and
Othello’s final manhandling of Desdemona after she is dead. These three manipulations
offer a picture of heteronormative desire as uncomfortable, indecipherable, and
consuming.

Olivier’s Othello is startling in his complacency, a characteristic which works well as the
play subsequently exposes the Leavisian judgments of the fallacies of Othello’s

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construction of self. As Lois Potter describes a recollection of Olivier’s stage entrance,
Olivier arrived, “dressed like an African, barefoot, smiling with half-closed eyes, and
radiating complete, self-contained self-satisfaction.”
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Olivier’s famous stage entrance,
repeated in the screen version, shows him waltzing in, sniffing a rose, and then playfully
tapping Iago with it. He seems unfazed by many of the accusations hurled at him by
others—this is an Othello who knows who he is, and is consumed by passion for a new,
young love. And as the man that is defined, and subsequently undone, by passion, the
camera is used to enhance that conflict. The production contains numerous close-ups of
Othello and Desdemona kissing: first, upon Othello’s arrival in Cypress, he engages an
excited Desdemona in a long, passionate series of kisses, peppering his arrival speech
with them. Each time he stops speaking in order to engage in a kiss, the lingering tests
the other characters’ patience and comfort, as is evident from the stony faces when the
camera pulls back. Further, the camera lingers in close-up each time for an almost too-
long period, as if testing the limits of the audience’s viewing. We are publicly
experiencing a private moment, and this conjures a sense of discomfort associated with
the passion—emphasized by the fact that the music that serves as background for much
of the production stops on each kiss; it is passion without traditional romantic directive.
This scenario is repeated when Desdemona approaches Othello to ease his headache—at
first reticent, he soon becomes playful with her, holding and kissing her, and every time
they kiss, the camera stops on them and lingers. Thus, while passion drives Othello, it
also seems to arrest him.

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While the way in which the camera captures and lingers on the Othello/Desdemona
kisses seems enervating and suggests, in close-up, an illicit nature to both the action and
viewing of the passion, the camera shots on Desdemona in the willow scene and in her
death scene reflect a sense of either physical or emotional distance: the reigning point of
view from the position of the camera is one that almost erases Desdemona. And this, I
would argue, shows the ultimate inability of the male position of control to engage with
or understand the gendered spaces (bodies, relationships, status) that have been set out
from the start—it represents their inevitable failure. Almost every shot in this production
is in mid-range or in close-up. However, when Emilia helps Desdemona prepare herself
for bed in the willow scene, as Desdemona begins to sing the willow song the camera
starts to pan out. In what turns out to be the only long shot in the entire production, the
camera slowly cranes backward and upward, eventually resting in a point-of-view from
what would be a balcony seat in the back of a theater. The view of Desdemona is thus
obstructed as she is reduced to an indecipherable figure in the middle of a grand stage,
framed with curtains and the theater environs. The shot renders her so small that we
cannot see her features or follow her movements; and as she sings, the framing provides a
sense of disembodiment—the voice is disconnected from the bodily form. Detaching
voice from body and obscuring the view further diminishes any sense of agency: she has
become not only an object to be viewed (the framing is suggestive of a piece of art) and
contained, but her voice is no longer her own. Further, it isolates and aestheticizes female
homosocial space while at the same time rendering it powerless.

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In the death scene, the enervating passion and the drive to erase the female converge in
moments of kiss/kill violence that end up undoing both male and female space. The
scene is set to underlie the incompatibility of the obsession for the purity of the female
versus the enactment of lustful desire: a white sheeted bed with a crimson bedspread.
Desdemona, in white dress, lay sleeping, and the camera closes in and lingers again on a
kiss as Othello threatens to “kill thee and love thee after.” Desire and destruction
commingle here, and the camera reflects the destructive nature that this passion has on
them both. Othello begins to murder Desdemona by smothering her with a pillow, and he
then picks her up by the neck, an unusually graphic movement, simultaneously strangling
her and kissing her, effectively “stopping” her voice in two ways. And in this moment,
he pushes her head to face away from him, toward the camera. Here we are asked to
view her, rather than in other cases where the view is obstructed or where an action such
as a kiss arrests the story. However what this head-on close-up of Desdemona’s face
does show us is the cost of the passion for both male and female, and the fact that Othello
pushes her face away from him marks the fact that he still cannot recognize this. After
the others enter the scene and Cassio explains himself, Othello returns to the bed, grabs
Desdemona, lifts her up roughly, and shakes her again and again on “fool, fool,” thus
confusing/collapsing the referent. He hugs her and kisses her throughout his speech, his
face forward while hers in now hidden from view, tucked near his shoulder. The camera
rests on Othello hugging the obscured Desdemona’s body, and as the bodies seem to
become indistinguishable, there is still a sense of distance related to the viewing of
Desdemona. She is obscured by his methods of suffocation, and he follows this kiss/kill

197
motion to the end as he stabs himself in the neck and then lays next to her now horizontal
body, proffering yet another gruesome kiss upon her in his final kiss/kill act.

OTHELLO on the small screen

BBC OTHELLO 1981: Othello unmanned in close-up

“Othello, of all Shakespeare’s tragedies, seems ideal for television: it is a play of
relationships, intense and personal, against a canvas of military events that never
transpire; there are no battles, only a few brief outbursts of personal violence.”
--Susan Willis, The BBC Shakespeare Plays:
Making the Televised Canon
40

In her assessment of the BBC Shakespeare Series televised plays (1978-1985), Willis
considers television to be an intimate medium, in contrast to film or (large form) theater,
which is of a more “grand scale.”
41
As such, her view of Othello as Shakespeare’s most
domestic tragedy, and of Jonathan Miller’s claiming Shakespeare as “principally a fairly
domestic playwright”
42
overall, would make Miller the ideal director for a televised
version of the play that would tease out the most intimate moments of domestic drama.
In fact, Miller does present a supremely intimate view of a deeply personal unraveling of
a man. And though the production sparked much controversy when it aired, from

198
complaints against the “de-raceing” of Othello (played by Anthony Hopkins as an Arab
Moor) to charges of racism precisely because of his shift of focus away from race,
43
it
provides an unsettling portrait of a gender struggle in which we see Othello almost
literally shrink and transform into a “fountain of tears.” He cries throughout many
speeches, weeping loudly, head in hands at times, and this seems the vision of Lear’s
“hysterica passio,” which puts a different spin on Othello’s epileptic fit. This Othello
isn’t reborn in a moment: his transformation comes to him in a series of waves, as he is
overcome by “women’s weapons,” to again use Lear’s terminology. And the weapon
Othello eventually uses to strike out with, his hand (as he delivers a powerhouse knock to
Desdemona that sends her sailing into Ludovico’s arms), unleashes uncontrolled sobbing
in Desdemona and thus unites the two figures, and genders, through violence and tears.

Anthony Hopkins’s Othello is the picture of calm and control while in Venice. He
doesn’t betray offense at Brabantio’s accusations or slurs, nor does he show overt passion
toward Desdemona (Penelope Wilton) or present a heated defense of how he wooed her.
He is not an imposing figure at all, and even in the dark, enclosed spaces that Miller uses
for his Venice set (a series of small rooms, filled with bodies, but little light or space),
Othello, in body or presence, does not take up much room. His power is a quiet one, and
he is defined by a slow-paced, even-keeled nature. However, once the scene shifts to
Cypress (and the set, now a series of open rooms, maze-like, with many doorways, and
light streaming in), a shift occurs in Othello as well: he is more “open,” and this opening

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exposes an interior struggle that reflects, as Iago would say, “a passion most unsuiting
such a man.” From the moment Othello arrives in Cypress, he is out of breath, yet oddly
energized. He betrays a childlike excitement upon seeing Desdemona (a view he didn’t
allow in Venice), and he shouts, runs around, and even cheers “Hey! Hey! Hey!” in
celebration that the “wars are done!” It’s as if he has been released from role he has been
expected to play—one that didn’t fit him well. However, this unleashing of emotion
turns against him when Iago begins his campaign to undo him, and once the passion has
been unleashed, it cannot be contained.

Othello’s “remaking” is obsessively marked by the camera as it proves unrelenting in its
push to capture the most intimate moments of the unraveling of the man. Miller follows
Hopkins in mid- to extreme-close-up throughout the production, and this has a curious
effect: as Othello is permeated by suggestion after suggestion of Desdemona’s alleged
infidelity, the closer the camera gets, the smaller Othello seems. When Iago (Bob
Hoskins) pierces Othello with the reminder that “she did deceive her father, marrying
you; and when she seemed to shake and fear your looks, she loved them most,” Iago sits
in a window seat in the back/left of the frame, while Othello is in the front/right. Iago is
blurry, while Othello is in a ¾ profile, his image sharp. Yet Othello looks small, as if he
is changed by the suggestion of jealousy, thus the intimate view reflects a deflation. And
when Othello realizes, “She is gone; I am abused,” he stands alone behind his desk, the
camera cataloguing in close-up the tears as they begin to stream down his face. From

200
here on in, tears become Othello’s “prevailing orators” as he weeps and wails through
scenes from “prove her false” to his oath of revenge with Iago to his fit and on to his
dealings with Desdemona. His declension is a combination of possession and exorcism:
he alternately wails, crumbles, growls, and strikes out; and in this wrestling with self he
seems overpowered or defeated from the start—controlled by an overwhelming presence
(as revealed in the tears and the fit of passion) that is associated with the female.

If Othello is now defined by his “passion unsuiting a man,” Desdemona is stoic until a
startling force of violence links her to Othello through tears. Desdemona is almost dour
in the first scenes in Venice, only revealing a slightly more cheerful bent in Cypress. Yet
when Lodovico comes to Cypress to deliver Othello’s orders, Othello, up until this point
only betraying his transformation in private to Iago, lets forth a powerhouse smack to
Desdemona’s face that carries such force that it throws her across the room into
Lodovico, who catches her as she crumbles, crying. This is shocking in that, first, the
sound of the slap is as harsh and jarring as the motion (announcing a new reality?), and,
second, that the force comes in one swift, direct smack from a heretofore slight Othello.
It almost seems out of character, as if the motion does not fit the man. But the effect of
the motion is just as unsettling: Desdemona embarks on a long series of sobs and wails
that eerily mimic those previously exuded by Othello. Thus, an instance of violence links
the two genders and sets them on their course to final destruction.

201
The final death scene is shot in such a way that it first reduces and then excises
Desdemona from frame. By focusing on Othello at the expense of Desdemona, is the
camera aiding in the wiping out of the old model and offering instead Othello’s version
of an ungendered self? Or does the erasure of the female and the “suffocation” of the
frame with Othello’s figure show how neither model works? At the beginning of the
scene, Desdemona is the focus—she lay horizontal, in bed, in the front of the frame.
Othello leans to her, peppering her with kisses, but then gets up and begins to cry when
they have their final altercation. When he jumps on her, smothering her with the pillow,
the act is shot in close-up, but it is Othello who fills the screen as Desdemona is both
obscured by the pillow and cut out of the bottom of the frame. We only see her hand,
which grasps for Othello and then fades (a motif that Oliver Parker would later use in his
1995 film). When Emilia knocks frantically on the door, Othello gets out of bed and
picks up his swords, which have been set on the table. This is compelling in that this
Othello has not, like others, been defined through weaponry. Is he now trying to assume
a different role? And when Emilia enters the room and runs to Desdemona, we only see
their interaction at a distance, reflected through a wall mirror rather than being shot head
on. So the traditional female space recedes even farther.

The final shots reflect the total collapse of the purported models in that they are both
finally wiped from the screen. Emilia’s heated revelations to Othello occur while both of
them talk over the partially obscured body of Desdemona. Emilia further obscures

202
Desdemona when she falls on/over her as she dies. When Lodovico, and the other men
enter the room, Othello has “manned” himself with a sword, and we see two of him as he
is reflected in the same mirror that distanced Desdemona. Thus, he reflects a split self,
one, I would argue, that cannot “fill” either gender role. As he leans on his sword, he
again begins to cry, “Desdemona! Desdemona!” and when he dies upon a kiss, the kiss
happens out of frame—Desdemona’s body is cut out and he lowers himself out of the
scene. Further, though the “tragic loading of the bed” is referred to and we see the
characters presumably looking at the bodies, they remain out of frame and, thus, out of
sight. The final shot is a slow tracking shot out the hallway. The camera stops as the
men, backs toward us, recede. And this leaves a lingering feeling that the positions to
which the gendered forms have been placed, or pushed, are unsustainable.

Full-screen Othello

PARKER OTHELLO 1995: flashbacks, fantasies, and the case against Desdemona

In his1995 film, Oliver Parker complicates Shakespeare’s textual representations and
impositions of self by offering us visions—in flashback, nightmare, “reality,” or
fantasy—of the various narrative constructions that Othello and Desdemona embody or

203
rail against. Parker cuts out almost half of Shakespeare’s text,
44
and instead shows us
Othello (Laurence Fishburne) and Desdemona (Irene Jacob) as they were, are, or are
most feared to be. Yet in these multiple extra-textual episodes, fantasy and reality clash
as it becomes more and more difficult to distinguish between them. Further, as Othello’s
mind becomes poisoned with Iago’s (Kenneth Branagh) suggestions, combined/amplified
with his own vivid imagination, the supposed “mind’s-eye” visions to which we are
exposed/subjected color our vision of Desdemona as well: after all, once we have “seen”
Desdemona in sexual situations with Cassio (Nathaniel Parker) as well as with Othello,
viewing her unrestrained sexual desire (real or imagined), how much does that bear
weight as the reigning representation of “who she is”? And, how does the fetishizing of
gendered bodies contribute to their collapse?

Two motifs take precedence in this film: the proliferation of weaponry and of scenes of
(real or imagined) sexual engagement. Thus, passion is aligned with danger, and with
violence. Othello almost always has a weapon nearby, and he readily uses a dagger,
sword, or gun to punctuate his language: the blade or the gun barrel “make” his point.
Whether pointing both sword and dagger (two-handed) at Brabantio and Roderigo when
first accused of taking Desdemona, or putting gun powder in his pistol and then pointing
it at Iago’s chest on “By Heaven, I’ll know thy heart,” or sealing his oath of revenge with
Iago in blood by cutting his palm with a knife, motioning to Iago to do the same, and then
joining them together, violence seems both a threat and a promise of male security. Yet

204
as much as the male world is defined through threat of force, the real or imagined
representations of sexual scenarios reveal another type of violence: passion, a violence
that represents an uncontrollable force—something that cannot be contained. And the
bodies on screen in various states of undress and sexual play ultimately force a
breakdown of boundaries as the rampant representations of desire destroy them all.

Both Othello and Desdemona are fetishized in their presentation—we see them as objects
of desire, presented body part by body part, in close-up and in action, seemingly for our
viewing pleasure.
45
And this presentation of bodies not only links them in terms of
desire, it suggests the make-up of identities as fantasy.
46
For instance, when Othello
gives his defense to the duke of how he wooed Desdemona, we flash back to “the past”
(arguably, an amalgamation of events skewed by nostalgia and selective memory) where
we actually see Othello telling the stories to Brabantio as the two walk in the garden of
Brabantio’s house. Then we see Desdemona, sitting on a blanket on the grass, her long
hair being brushed by a servant. Desdemona looks with interest at Othello as he walks
by—and he surreptitiously notices. From here the scene cuts to a close-up of Othello and
Desdemona together, Othello leaning in close to Desdemona, and she touching the marks
(tattoos, battle scars) on his hand and his head, reading the history on his body. The
camera pans the bodies, directing our view to his head, her torso, her hands touching his
hand, and these intertwined body parts and sensual touches flash by in quick succession.
We see Desdemona’s face in close-up, her eyes filled with sympathetic tears, and then

205
Othello wipes her tears gently—with his handkerchief. This leads to kissing, which is
also shown in close-up. So we see the narrative of the self presented as an exposure of
bodies, or body parts, and the scenario—a memory, an idealization—is both revealing
and obscuring in that we see what we see, but the images are also just another layer or
level of distance (the past, a memory, a representation) over the story of the self.

The sexual suggestion and engagement becomes more blatant—and then more
confused—as the film progresses, and as sexual play becomes more aggressive, so does
its link to danger or to violence. When Othello and his men assemble for a dinner
celebration after their victorious arrival in Cypress, Desdemona puts on a public, sexually
suggestive display in the form of a dance. As the music plays and Desdemona whirls
around, beaming with happiness and blowing sweet kisses at him, the public and private
converge. This dance is just for him, but it is being displayed for all, a fact that both
excites Othello visibly and also makes him, and others, giggle in slight discomfort.
47

And though the dance is intimate rather than overtly sexual, the scene immediately cuts
to a heterosexual couple having raucous sex, loudly, in a squeaky wagon in the streets
outside. The connection is easy to make. Further, the camera then pans to Roderigo,
joined by Iago, both sitting under that same wagon. And as they plot their escapades, the
sordid nature of desire, betrayal, and danger all commingle.
48
This conflation of violence
with erotic desire is further enhanced in the following two scenes: first we quickly cut
from the raucous Iago/Roderigo plotting/playing to Iago speaking with Cassio in the

206
weapon storage room. As Iago tries to convince Cassio to have a drink, and talks of the
Othello/Desdemona union (“happiness to their sheets”), the scene cuts from weaponry to
sexual desire in a long, detailed, showy sex scene between Othello and Desdemona. Here
again there is an extended focus on bodies, and these bodies are revealed to us part by
part. First we see Othello carry Desdemona, twirling her around as they kiss and then
blow out the candles. Then the camera cuts to both of them standing in the bedroom in
front of the draped canopy bed, facing each other at a distance. From here, we get a clear
view of each character’s supposed excitement and focus, as our eyes are directed quite
specifically, in close-up, to various eroticized sites. Othello drops his shirt, exposing his
chest. Then the camera focuses on Desdemona’s and then Othello’s face as we hear more
clothing come off and drop to the floor. We see a full-screen shot of his feet, and then he
undoes his belt as the camera stays in close focus on his groin area and waist. The
eroticized male body is mostly unclothed at this point, while Desdemona still has her
dress on—an interesting juxtaposition (or collapsing?) of gendered expectations of
viewing.
49
When Desdemona starts to loosen her dress, the camera pulls back to a wide
long-shot so that now she is a very tiny figure at the far back of the frame as she
disappears behind the canopy drapes.
50
Yet once they are both in bed, the camera shifts
back to close-up, and as they kiss, Desdemona’s breast is exposed. This step-by-step,
body part by body part episode is revealing in the most obvious sense (physically), yet it
is also selectively revealing, and the camera views and cuts both enhance the audience’s
frenzy of viewing (to accompany that of the characters) and confuse the viewer as a
flurry of feet, hands, breasts present the selves in parts.

207

The presentation of “what was” (the flashback narrative of Othello’s exploits) and “what
is” (Othello and Desdemona having sex) soon turns to “what may be” as Othello’s worst
fears are “realized” in the flash-fantasy sequences of Desdemona and Cassio having sex.
And because we have seen Desdemona’s desire exposed so overtly, Othello’s nightmares
become their own “ocular proof” for the audience as well as for Othello.
51
The
Othello/Iago exchange where the latter “poisons” the former with suggestions of
Desdemona’s possible infidelity (III.iii) occurs in the weapons room, and as Iago
whispers into Othello’s ear, in extreme close-up, the camera suddenly goes out of focus,
and the image of Othello’s face becomes blurred. Interspersed with this unhinging of self
is a flashback to the first scene of revelry at Cypress: After Desdemona’s personal dance
for Othello, the party had broken into group dancing; thus, Cassio and Desdemona had a
dancing exchange. In this flashback in Othello’s mind’s eye, the isolated images of
Cassio and Desdemona, dancing and laughing together, fill his head, and the screen. And
after Desdemona tries to comfort Othello in the next scene, who now has an obvious
headache, we shift to a view of Othello walking alone to the bed, and we see Desdemona
naked behind the sheer curtain (this seems a fulfillment of the scenario in Orson Welles’
1952 film where Welles as Othello goes to the bed and pulls back the curtains, only to
find the bed empty). Othello opens the curtain with his knife, the clearest link yet of
violence to sex, and he sees Desdemona and Cassio, in the flesh, having sex. This
scenario is unsettling to the viewers as we are testing the reality of what we are seeing (is
this an addition to the text—a new twist to the story? Did this really happen? Or is it

208
fantasy?).
52
When Othello wakes up, alone, in bed, in shock of the apparent nightmare, it
is still difficult to erase or even to distinguish Desdemona’s real sexual play from the
fantasy. Further, the fact that we have seen so much sexual play renders it all a
representation of dangerous excess. And as the fantasies continue (Othello revisits the
flash-fantasy shots of Desdemona and Cassio having sex, shot in quick flashes of body
parts, during the “lie on her” scene), interspersed with violence, of course (Othello chains
himself to the wall while undergoing his epileptic fit), the preponderance of “evidence”
leaves all former self-constructs in its wake.

By the time Othello kills Desdemona, two patterns/exchanges emerge: first, Desdemona,
who has been defined by her body through her real or imagined sexual exploits, is erased
from frame, and she does not use her voice to try to absolve Othello/take responsibility
for her fate. Also, a different model of passion—that between Othello and Iago—seems
to take precedence in the final scene. Parker presents Desdemona throughout the film as
defined by her body. He cuts her dialogue so as to shorten her pleas for Cassio early on,
he limits the Cassio/Iago/Desdemona exchange upon first arrival at Cypress, and he
replaces words with the extra-textual additions of scenes of sexual play. Thus, it is
compelling that her final impressions are made with her body, only to have that body cut
out of frame, much like Jonathan Miller’s BBC production. When Othello smothers her,
she tries to push him off at first, but all we see (in camera view) is her hand against his
face, him on top, her hand rubbing his head, and then gradually losing strength. The

209
smothering coincides with an extreme close-up on Othello’s face, with Desdemona’s
hand slowly receding out of frame. We don’t even see her body, much less her face; she
is fragmented from beginning to end. Further, when Emilia frantically tries to find out
what happened to Desdemona, the camera here does close in on her face, but she does not
speak in answer to Emilia’s query. Is this a final judgment on Othello, or is it a final
comment on the limitations of the female voice? Does the body speak louder than words,
or is she, in fact, undone by the implications of her physical presence? Curiously, as the
focus shifts from Desdemona’s body, it settles on Iago, and, more specifically, on a sort
of sanctification of the Othello/Iago bond. Near the beginning of the film, Parker shows
a secret wedding ceremony between Othello and Desdemona, and we (and then as the
camera pulls back, Iago and Roderigo) get a bird’s eye view of Desdemona and Othello
in profile, ring on Desdemona’s finger, and the fuzzy figure of a priest’s robe in the
middle-back, triangulating them. Then, when Othello and Iago engage in their “blood
oath” on the tower roof, they kneel, facing each other in profile, hands joined as well.
Finally, when Iago is brought in at the end to explain himself in the wake of the carnage,
he and Othello kneel together, facing each other in profile, with Lodovico triangulated in
the center-back, assuming the position that the priest held in the first wedding scene.
Thus this is the union that is ultimately sanctified—by blood and violence—rather than
the heterosexual, married union. And the “tragic loading” of the bed is multiplied—
Othello, Desdemona, Emilia, and Iago are all piled on together. Thus, the fantasy/reality
continuum is further blurred as the question of what fuels desire leads to the destruction
of them all.

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Chapter Three Endnotes

1
I would argue that by the time both Desdemona and Othello are dead, the various gender constructions
that they have perpetuated or have been perpetrated upon them have collapsed. All of the “identities”
associated with male honor have been proven false, and unrestrained violence defines Othello at the end.
And for Desdemona, in a world where the purity of the female rests on total inexperience and suggestions
of dangerous sexual behavior chase the gendered form, wanting to impose “whore” or “strumpet” upon her,
at the end any agency at all from her renders her “other” than female, an obviously unsustainable status.

2
All quotations from Shakespeare’s play are from The Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans
(Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1974).

3
I am aware that most scholars read this reason as either questionable or wholly unbelievable. I agree with
them only insofar as it is clear that this is not the only reason for his hatred/desire to destroy Othello. What
is compelling to me about this motivation for Iago is that he recognizes female sexual power as a threat to
males (this is what enables him to construct the plot against Othello, using Desdemona) and he also
highlights his “office” as being easily usurped, thus illustrating the precariousness of both the male/female
relationship and of male status.

4
Brabantio claims Desdemona as, “A maiden never bold;/ Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion/
Blushed at herself” (I.iii.94-6). This positions his success as father as dependent upon her meekness, and
lack of voice.

5
As Gratiano exclaims upon discovering Desdemona’s death: “I am glad thy father’s dead./ Thy match was
mortal to him, and pure grief / Shore his old thread in twain” (V.ii.205-7). In the Globe Theatre’s 2007
production, Brabantio almost fainted when Desdemona spoke of her “divided duty.”

6
Especially as suggested in many recent (20
th
/21
st
century) productions, such as Mendes’s 1997 National
Theatre production.

7
To me, this fit recalls Lear’s hysterica passio, and the acknowledgement that he is turning into
someone/something else—something less aligned with the male than before.

8
Quoted in Potter, p. 5.

9
Ibid. Potter goes on to say that it could also have represented “a moment that combined striking image
with equally striking words.”

10
In his review in Listener (10.3.85), Jim Hiley cites Kingsley’s “gift for intelligent rhetoric” and “poise”
as particular merits of the production while Tinker suggests that Kingsley’s “actorly intelligence” actually
serves to provide a disconnect or distance from any emotional danger or intimacy.

11
From Jackson and Smallwood, 171, quoted in Potter, p. 165.

12
Potter, p. 165. She cites the photo as being from the Sunday Observer Magazine, September 22, 1986.
By emphasizing the similarities between Kingsley’s Othello and Suchet’s Iago, the production not only
complicates the issue of race by essentially trying to evade it, the production also emphasizes how
seemingly easily one person/character can morph, or collapse, into another. If the two are “two faces of the
same disturbed spirit,” the incarnations of self that abound seem like an infectious disease.

211

13
Potter notes, “…when reviewers are primarily interested in whether Iago and Othello love each other,
there will not be much room either for Desdemona or for a political appraisal of the play. Niamh Cusack
was not asked for her views on playing Desdemona, and Kingsley and Suchet hardly mention her in the
essays they contributed to the Players of Shakespeare series…” p. 165.

14
I viewed a videotape of the November 13, 1985 performance of this production on June 29, 2011 at
Shakespeare’s Birthplace Trust Library, Stratford Upon Avon, UK.

15
See Potter’s description of the background of casting non-white actors in the role of Othello in England.
As Potter notes, before Kingsley, the previous non-caucasian actor to play Othello in the UK was West
Indian actor Erroll John at the Old Vic in 1963. She also specifically points out that Asians are referred to
as black in the UK, so as to show how the creators/producers were apparently trying to substantiate the
casting of Kingsley in the role. Potter, pp. 164-5.

16
In the 2007 Globe Theatre production, when Desdemona says, “I hope my noble lord esteems me
honest,” Othello looks like he’s physically hit upon hearing the word “honest.”

17
While in this section I discuss Mendes’s production in contrast to Hands’s RSC production, I should
point out that Mendes’s production follows in the line of Trevor Nunn’s RSC production of 1989 (The
Other Place, Stratford-Upon-Avon), which emphasized the military aspect/environment and had a
particularly vivacious Desdemona (Imogen Stubbs).

18
Hankey, Shakespeare in Production: Othello, p. 103. Hankey quotes Robert Butler’s description from
IoS, September 21, 1997: “a frog-like creature with a shaved head (and sinister crease at the base of his
neck.” Hankey also quotes a DT review from September 18, 1997: “the only surprise is that [Beale/Iago]
doesn’t leave a trail of slime.”

19
This is excerpted from a pre-theater talk that Mendes had with Genista McIntosh on October 13, 1997.
Viewed at http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/2629/platform-papers/sam-mendes.html. Mendes goes on to
say, “I don't think he's in love with Othello, but I think that weirdly, as he destroys him, as he becomes
closer to him both physically and emotionally and begins to understand how he ticks, it sort of turns him
on. It's a power trip, and that can be very sexual. I think that's where it shades over occasionally into
accusations of homo-eroticism. But I don't think it's a homosexual love affair.”

20
Potter, Shakespeare in Performance, p. 198.

21
Mendes pre-theatre talk, Platform Papers.

22
Mendes tried to give the set a film-noir feel with fans and shutters, low lighting, and fades to black rather
than entrances/exits. He felt that by doing this it would enhance the passionate feel of the production
(Platform Papers).

23
The 2007 Globe Theatre production followed suit, having Desdemona vigorously fight, running to the
doors, pounding on them, kicking and screaming, trying to get away from Othello and save her own life.

24
Although this too is only “up to a point” because Mendes keeps in Desdemona’s final absolution of
Othello before she dies, which shows her ultimate adherence to the role she values most: wife (even if
within that role, she has shown some redefinition of the power structure).

25
I’m obviously not suggesting that this was Buchowetski’s intention. However, the presentation of
images—especially in terms of homosocial relationships—is significant in that these relationships have an
intimacy that seemingly overrides the heteronormative relationships, and this warrants investigation.

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26
There are many textual shifts and plot adjustments in this film: by publicly announcing Cassio as
lieutenant, we see Iago’s overt excitement and expectation turn to bitter disappointment. Further, this
production shows Othello as beloved by a very populated city—many bodies, crowds, fill the scenes.

27
Buchowetzki maneuvers the story so that we see the gift giving, and the history behind it, rather than in
Shakespeare’s text where the handkerchief’s history is told by Desdemona upon its loss or by Othello as a
threat. Here Othello says, “An Egyptian gave this handkerchief to my mother. There’s magic in the web
of it—and to lose it or give it away were such perdition as nothing else could match.” By setting the gift up
this way, it comes with a built-in warning.

28
Cypress is spelled “Cyprus” in the title cards.

29
The scene is set up so that Othello wakes up, sees the handkerchief, recognizes it, asks Iago where he got
it, and Iago says, “I found it at Cassio’s,” thus streamlining the Cassio plot (Bianca is excised from the
film).

30
The possibilities of the Othello/Iago homosocial relationship are in fact explored earlier on in the film—
when Othello and Desdemona first present themselves publicly in Cypress as man and wife, Othello thanks
Iago for keeping Desdemona safe and bringing her to him. He says, in title card, “I am bound to thee
forever,” an interesting placement of that line, for here it unites them in safety, security, and kinship,
whereas in Shakespeare’s text it unites them in the revenge plot.

31
Lois Potter offers an explanation for the insertion of this line, following Robert Ball: “Robert Ball
suggests that Othello’s surprising declaration to the senate that he is the son of an Egyptian prince and a
Spanish princess was inserted [in the English version] to prevent American viewers from taking offence at
the depiction of miscegenation (281)” (quoted in Potter, 98). Potter was not able to find out what the
original German text card said, nor am I, but for the purposes of my argument, the English language text
card is important in that it indicates a desire for inclusion and legitimacy on the part of Othello, which is
compelling when considering the ways that the hetero- and homosocial space reshapes groups throughout
the film.

32
Desdemona’s exchange at Cypress with Iago is cut, the willow scene is omitted, Emilia’s defense of
infidelity is cut, and Bianca is omitted completely. Further, most of Desdemona’s speeches are cut down to
a line or two (obviously, since this is a silent film, the “text” is not easily discerned) and the scenarios
represented focus on general emotional states: desire, confusion, defense, or sadness.

33
Cloutier played the role, yet, interestingly, her voice was later dubbed by another actress. Thus, the
disembodiment exists on a meta-level as well.

34
In Oliver Parker’s 1995 film, Parker adopts many of Welles’s motifs (to be discussed later in this
chapter). In this case, Parker has Othello (Laurence Fishburne) walk up to the curtained bed, part the
curtains, and he finds Cassio and Desdemona having sex in the bed. Thinking he is dreaming, he opens the
curtains again, and they are still there. Then, the scene changes, and Othello wakes up in the dark, in bed.
It was a dream after all.

35
This shot is similar to the view of Ophelia at the end of the nunnery scene in Laurence Olivier’s 1948
film of Hamlet.

36
As opporsed to, say, the filmed 1964 Richard Burton stage production of Hamlet.

37
Hankey, p. 78.

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38
Olivier’s often overblown characterization comes off as particularly hollow, especially when the camera
focuses in close-up on the variety of long speeches Olivier delivers. This serves to distance the viewer
emotionally rather than luring the viewer in. Arguably, this is not just because of the camera focus—the
characterization itself seems surface-level, but, obviously, this is just one viewer’s opinion. Olivier’s
acting style has been described as “notoriously external” with an “attention to surface [that] runs the risk of
preventing an audience from going any deeper than the surface “ (Geoffrey Bent, 1998).

39
Potter cites this as a recollection of John Gielgud, comparing Olivier’s successful/well-received
interpretation with his own “disastrous” turn three years earlier (147).

40
P. 120.

41
Ibid, p. 81.

42
Quoted in Willis, p. 108.

43
As Potter notes, “what the director’s critics really objected to was not his ideology [that jealousy ruled
the play, not race] but its practical result: a white actor was to play the most famous black character in
drama, in a televised version likely to become the standard image of the play for a whole generation of
school and university students. Miller was, and still is, accused of racism precisely because he did not
make race an issue” (154).

44
As Potter notes (193).

45
Pascale Aebischer makes similar assertions and quotes Joyce Green MacDonald (“Black Ram,” p. 190)
as saying the same regarding the presentation of Othello and Desdemona is such that it offers “a
representation of both their bodies as fetishized objects of an eroticized gaze” (148). As both Potter and
Hankey attest, the emphasis in this production is not on the difference of race, but on a mélange of
similarities. They cite the international cast—many of whom for which English is a second language—as
offsetting any sense of a “norm.” Thus, without an “insider,” outsider status is not as much of a concern, as
they all, in some way, share that title.

46
That is, of course, until the fantasy and reality become indecipherable as the image patterns begin to form
a case against Desdemona.

47
When Othello first arrives at Cypress, he and Desdemona engage in a few very long, public kisses, which
make the people around them visibly uncomfortable: they either smirk, shift their eyes, or bow their heads.
There seems to be an overwhelming feeling of discomfort, yet just what is the focus of the disapproval? Is
it the public display of intimate behavior, the interracial component, or is the inappropriateness tied to the
way a man “should” behave in public? Only when Othello announces their victory does the crowd perk up
and then cheer—an indication that he is now fulfilling his appropriate male role.

48
Interestingly, while Iago tries to rally Roderigo as co-conspirator, their conversation is often interrupted
or overridden by the sounds of the couple above having sex. And, at one point, Iago playfully riles
Roderigo up by seemingly grabbing at his crotch. Thus, sexual play extends past the heterosexual model.

49
By eroticizing both male and female bodies, this production disrupts the gender roles in such a way that
shifts focus to their similarities as sexual objects. Aebischer and Potter argue that by fetishizing both male
and female bodies, the film tends to reinforce stereotypes (especially regarding race), but I suggest that,
while eroticizing the male in this case does align him as “other” with the female, it also somewhat collapses
the male/female divide.

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50
This seems an interesting juxtaposition as well—exposing the male body, part by part, while using the
camera in long shot to “contain” and yet obscure the female. Is this desire still indefinable? Or is the
camera view now ruled by/reflecting the male point of view in terms of a male/female divide?

51
Both Potter and Aebischer make this point as well.

52
See Potter, 193-95, for her assessment of the ways in which the various flashbacks and fantasies disrupt
and confuse the viewing.

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Chapter Four: King Lear and the Representation of Violence: Mapping the
Gendered Self

In his book King Lear: Shakespeare in Performance, Alexander Leggatt makes the
astonishing—and astute—observation that, as far as theater review history goes, the
character of Cordelia seems to disappear.
1
He is referring to the paucity of space
attributed to performance assessment of Cordelia. This is particularly relevant to my
investigation as, I would argue, the lack of space given to Cordelia in performance
reviews correlates to the lack of space Cordelia is “allowed” in the text. A common
critique of Cordelia, both in text and in performance, is that she’s simplistically “good,”
while Regan and Goneril tend toward overarching “evil.” Yet Cordelia is violently acted
upon—she’s misunderstood, banished, and, when she returns to try to save and/or restore
her father, she is subsumed into his cause, his (prison) fantasy, and finally is killed for her
associations.

In fact, King Lear (and the various productions and adaptations thereof) is concerned
with the many often violent ways in which both male and female figures struggle to
either maintain, embellish, or destroy identity. An overbearing amount of verbal and
physical violence is unleashed on the characters in these texts
2
, and underlying each
curse, strike, stab, or beating is a desire to know, or define, a person. While Lear is the
key figure through whom this violent declension of status and identity is explored, his

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struggle is inextricably linked to his notion of just what makes a man, or a woman. And
his ideas of the feminine and masculine divide, and of the perceived threats therein,
contribute to his ultimate undoing and call all gender constructions into question.

The province of the male is most readily assumed by Lear at the start of the play. It is
Lear’s world, and he thus has the power to control language, bodies, and physical space,
or so he believes. As head of the patriarchal order of his kingdom and family, he assigns
himself the right to determine others’ positions within his hierarchy, yet his
misunderstanding of the mutability of words and meanings creates a fissure that upends
all notions of identity within the text. Lear’s understanding of the words “king,” “love,”
“all,” and “nothing” is predicated on the notion of confirming his status; thus it does not
take others (male or female) into consideration—they function simply as echoes to
confirm his desires and his notion of self. His is the voice, and the body. Lear’s “love
test,” meant to confirm that he is “all,” even as he divides what secures his identity (“rule,
interest of territory, cares of state,” I.i.50)
3
and perverts the feeling of love by demanding
flattery, instead exposes his tyranny (in the form of interrogation/punishment) in a way
that leads him on a path of transformation from “king” (which he designates using the
royal “we”) to “father” to “old man” to “Lear’s shadow” to “fool” to “babe” to
“unaccommodated man” and finally to “nothing” as his life expires. Yet I would argue
that in this declension, a figure influenced by the feminine in terms of tears (“women’s
weapons”), “the mother” (“hysterica passio”), and a feminized (environmental) “Nature”

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also emerges and defines him. So his is the most mutable identity of all, even surpassing
traditional notions of gender.

Underlying Lear’s loss of self is sense of a feminine threat or power, and he responds to
this threat with both verbal and physical violence. As mentioned above, Lear sees tears
as “women’s weapons,” thus a weakness, and he fears being overcome by “hysterica
passio.” And though he might seemingly embrace “Nature” in terms of the storm, it
holds an awesome power as the arbiter of curses (“Hear Nature, hear, dear goddess”
I.v.267), and this Nature, as it manifests in the storm, arguably pummels him and strips
him to his core. Lear responds to the female threat by physical means: he “beat[s] at this
gate” (I.iv.172) or he lashes out. He is quick to hurl verbal violence—curses—at his
daughters when he believes they disobey or mistreat him, and the threats he chooses are
decidedly gender-specific: Lear conjures imagery of barrenness or monstrous
regeneration. When Lear commits verbal violence against Goneril, he rails, “into her
womb convey sterility,/Dry up the organs of her increase,/And from her derogate body
never spring/A babe to honor her” (I.iv.270-273). And when castigating both Regan and
Goneril, he identifies them as “unnatural hags” (II.ii.459), among the epithets he uses. So,
he either fears descending into a feminine state or being abused by female monstrosities.

In fact, the female space in this text is problematic for a variety of reasons: when Lear is
in power, he expects his daughters to exist for him (regardless of their marital status),

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which is an untenable position. When Cordelia refuses, Lear first denies her status (“her
price is fallen” I.i.198) and then her relational existence (“We have no such daughter”
I.i.265). And her banishment from the play until Act IV reflects the lack of space for her
in Lear’s understanding. The subsequent reconciliation scenes only further Lear’s
misguided perception: he either reads her as a “soul in bliss”—another untenable
position—or he reverts back to the desire to have her “all” in the prison fantasy. In each
instance—the daughter who must love him “all,” the banished “nothing,” or the “soul in
bliss”—the result is the same: she has no autonomous space. And as for Goneril and
Regan, their willingness to speak Lear’s language eventually translates into an adoption
of his violent methods. They become the monsters he makes them, and administer their
own systems of punishment. And while the violence arguably turns them into something
else (Albany calls them “tigers” and a “fiend” 4.2), it also eventually destroys them.

In this chapter, I analyze stage and screen productions in order to explore Lear’s
epic/tragic journey in terms of the ways he sees, or refuses to see, who he is. His identity
shifts are most clearly revealed in his collisions with females or a female space, and I
investigate how his impositions either make the female monstrous or angelic, and how
both of these characterizations are destructive—and false constructions. I pay special
attention to how various productions not only characterize both Lear and the female
figures, but how staging, blocking, and camera shots are used to delineate the male versus
female space. I begin with one textual example, Nahum Tate’s 1681 script, because of

219
the ways it reshapes the male and female space, and because it introduces a specific type
of violent threat into the text: rape. I then shift to the twentieth century and consider
notions of male/female space as presented first in Peter Brook’s filmed productions of
1953 (starring Orson Welles) and 1971 (starring Paul Scofield) and then as expanded to a
consideration of a heavily populated landscape, linking the royal family to the people
they’ve “taken too little care of” in Kosintzev’s 1971 film. From the bleak meditations in
black and white above, I move to the small screen and analyze the Richard Eyre/Ian
Holm 1998 production (shot for TV from a 1997 stage production) in terms of Lear as
whirlwind who destroys everyone in his range—including himself. I end with an
exploration into British theater productions in the current millennium: the Globe
productions of 2001 and 2008, which illustrate the spiral effect of Lear’s trajectory, and,
finally, the Alexander/Redgrave RSC production of 2004, which offers a not-yet-old
Lear, but one who takes a vicious fall, and drags Cordelia with him.

NAHUM TATE’S THE HISTORY OF KING LEAR: Virtue, Desire, and Rape

Nahum Tate’s adaptation of King Lear, the basis of stage productions performed between
1681 and 1838
4
, revises the notion of what makes, or unmakes, a man or a woman in
compelling ways. The generational influence between Lear and his daughters is more

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blatant— his daughters ape his notions of power through their own versions of tyranny or
love tests. Further, Tate takes great pains to overtly define just what is to be feared,
desired, and revered in a woman. The Edgar/Cordelia love-plot device functions not
simply to provide a “happy ending”—it illuminates, in more ways than one, the ways in
which male and female identities are constructed, and to what effect. And, most
importantly, the violence perpetrated in this text becomes more sex- and gender-specific
as threat of rape takes focus. So, in ages (1681-1838) where propriety and manners take
precedence and there is a notion of how a “proper lady” should or should not behave as
well as considerations of what type of violence is appropriate for representation, Tate and
those who followed him, using his text in some form, considered rape, or the threat
therein, against a female an appropriate focus. Further, by shifting the violence to
thoughts of sexual assault, the language of violence reflects a more pointed gender
conflict. If heterosexual desire and feelings of “love” are linked to rape, the desire to
control—and to destroy—is enhanced.

In Tate’s text, the male paradigm is called into question from the start. As Kent claims to
Gloucester in the first scene, the king is already in an altered state—he is not fully
“himself”: “I grieve to see him /With such wild starts of passion hourly seiz’d,/As renders
Majesty beneath it self” (1.1.51-3).
5
Cordelia also recognizes the king as “chol’rick”
(1.1.93). So, the supreme model of patriarchal power—the king, a man in control,
“majesty”—has already been compromised. Even the king himself recognizes that others

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think he is “not himself” when he exclaims: “’Tis said that I am Chol’rick,” which
illustrates not only a chink in his male armor, but also the fact that the apparatus has been
punctured from external sources—gossip has infected Lear’s absolute control of his
environment, a feat seemingly impossible to the Lear of Shakespeare’s text (in terms of
how Lear understands and presents himself). Rather than owning his possible distemper,
he blames it on others—specifically, his disobedient daughter Cordelia. He blisters in
response to Cordelia’s “nothing”: “judge me Gods,/Is there not cause [for his chol’rick]?”
and calls on powers above to substantiate the (female) cause of his infection. Further,
knowledge of Lear’s diminished status leaves others free to dispute—or refuse—him:
When Lear informs Burgundy that Cordelia’s “price is faln [sic]” (1.1.188), Burgundy
first “demand[s] the Dow’r [Lear] proposed” (1.1.191-2), and when Lear refuses,
Burgundy claims: “Then Sir be pleas’d to charge the breach/Of our alliance on your own
Will/Not my Inconstancy” (1.1.196-8). To speak against the king in this way is to call his
supremacy into question. It also lays claim on Burgundy as “base,” according to
Cordelia, and rouses her “just suspicion on the Race of Men” (1.1.237-8), provoking
another model of male harshness. Two other figures inhabiting the male roles both exist
in relation to female desire: Edgar, in this text, is not just a wronged son and brother; he
is the parody-ripe figure of the tormented lover, and Edmund, while maintaining his
status as deceitful social climber, is also used to illustrate the dangerous desire that
women’s sexuality provokes in men.

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The female paradigm is built upon what the male figures impose on them, yet many of
those structures are untenable embellishments or ideals. Cordelia is set up as favorite by
Lear (meant to carry him in his old age) and object of worship by Edgar. Like
Shakespeare’s text, Cordelia’s obedience to her father is questioned from the start (yes,
she obeys him, loves him, honors him, but she also publicly humiliates him by refusing
his test), yet her motives are not (Shakespeare’s) truth of feeling versus lip-service, but a
more personal motivation: in her pending ceremony upon which Lear will give Cordelia
to Burgundy, she laments:
Alas what would the wretched Edgar with
The more Unfortunate Cordelia;
Who in obedience to a Father’s will
Flys from her Edgar’s Arms to Burgundy’s?
1.1.62-5

She and Edgar are in love, and though she wrestles with custom (obey her father and
accept his choice of man for her) versus love from the start, she is more than willing to
feign emotion to test others’ obedience or altruism: Taking the lead from her father, after
Cordelia is rejected by Burgundy, she administers her own love-test to Edgar:

This Baseness of th’ ignoble Burgundy
Draws just suspicion on the Race of Men,
His love was Int’rest, so may Edgar’s be
And He but with more Complement dissemble;
If so, I shall oblige him by Denying;
But if his Love be fixt, such Constant flame
As warms our Breasts, if such I find his Passion,
My Heart as gratefull to his Truth shall be,
And Cold Cordelia prove as kind as He.
1.1.237-45

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In this respect, she is definitely her father’s daughter: she imposes a grueling test on
another to reveal the limits of their love. And in opposition to Shakespeare’s Cordelia,
this daughter is not straightforward. She even dons disguise later in the play, when she
goes with her servant Arante to find Lear after the storm. So, her feminine self, and
motives, are cloaked, yet she is still exploited by Edmund, who desires to rape her and by
both Edgar and Lear, who idealize/idolize her, promoting her by her “virtue.”

Cordelia, Goneril, and Regan are all defined in terms of their sexuality. As mentioned
above, Cordelia is promoted by her virtue: it is the reigning characteristic in her
(mentioned many times throughout the text) that keeps Edgar in chase and in
subservience to her, and it is that quality that ultimately persuades Lear to make her
Queen. In addition, her virtue (“O charming Sorrow! How her Tears adorn her/ Like
Dew on Flow’rs, but she is Virtuous,” 3.1.114-16) ignites Edmund’s desire, and this
desire leads to thoughts of violation in the form of rape:
I will enjoy this Semele in a Storm, ‘twill deaf her Cries
Like Drums in Battle, lest her Groans shou’d pierce
My pittying Ear, and make the amorous Fight less fierce.
3.1.167-70

The central act of torture in Shakespeare’s play has always been considered the plucking
out of Gloucester’s eyes, and while this remains true for Tate’s play, it is interesting to
note that the violence to which many of Tate’s age were opposed, and one main reason

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for which many felt Shakespeare’s play needed revision (the violence of tragedy itself), is
in fact enhanced by the specific, female-centered threat of rape. Or, if Tate’s audience
did not consider that threat an enhancement of violence, then rape as conventional notion
associated with women should be considered further.
6
How is the threat of rape an
improvement to Shakespeare’s text (if it was indeed considered so by Tate), and why is it
not only acceptable, but a common language linked to the female? Cordelia also defines
herself in terms of virtue, her “virgin innocence,” and tries to use that to empower her in
her quest to save her father: “blow Winds (borrowing Shakespeare/Lear’s words), and
Lightnings fall,/ Bold in my Virgin Innocence, I’ll flie/ My Royal Father to Relieve, or
Die” (3.1.154-6). She offers herself as virgin sacrifice for her father, which is compelling
in that if she is valued most, or all, for that virtue, this is her version of “love you all.”

Goneril and Regan similarly ape their father’s behavior. Goneril is quick to identify Lear
after he has departed with his train: “He thinks to play the tyrant here” (1.1.413). In
naming him thus, she identifies him as monstrous yet also depletes him of the title—he’s
only “playing” tyrant in her house. His masculine control is fading fast, and another
component of Lear’s identity has been exposed as futile, or a façade. Yet both Goneril
and Regan take those tyrannical tendencies and enhance them exponentially in their own
persons: when their ascent to power is complete, they play “female tyrants” (3.1.79) by
taxing the poor. In fact, the iron hand with which they wield power brings the entire state
to mutiny. Is female power thus more dangerous than that of males? In a shift from

225
Shakespeare’s text, Tate gives Goneril the lines to send Lear and Cordelia to their
presumable deaths (though they are later spared—but not by Goneril). And while
Cordelia is held up as the personification of virtue—the name prescribed to her by her
patriarchal society, the idea is problematic: Cordelia is presumably a virgin, but is she
virtuous in other senses of the word? And when she applies the terms virtue or piety to
herself, their uses vary: when she joins in the cause to revenge her father, she falls into
echoing the established prejudices regarding the male/female divide:
That I cou’d shift my Sex, and die me deep
In [Lear’s] Opposer’s Blood, but as I may
With Women’s Weapons, Piety and Prayers,
I’ll aid his Cause…
4.1.491-5

She seems to give in to the concept of women’s weakness here. And even Edgar and
Edmund can only talk about their (absent) mothers in terms of piety, chastity, or lack
thereof as they engage in their final battle (5.1.205-16).

Thus, when Lear makes Cordelia Queen in the end, abdicating his power to her and to
Edgar (in a change from Shakespeare’s text), it is a power that arguably has already been
called into question, both by what Lear and his other daughters had previously wielded
with that power, and with the exposing of just how tenuous it is, and on what fallacious
values and notions it is based. Further, the feminine power in this text carries an implied
menace—females use the terms that the male sector imposes upon them, or the behavior
with which the males control women, and they use it in ways that seem to be a danger to

226
the men. The violence, or threat of violence, then bears the women’s mark—and
responsibility, to a certain degree.

King Lear on screen: shutting out female space

PETER BROOK: Lear, Cordelia, and the Space of Fantasy:

I. BROOK/McCULLOUGH AND WELLES: Good and Evil in White and Black

From the start, Peter Brook’s production of King Lear, produced for American television
in 1953 with camera direction by Andrew McCullough, emphasizes the notion of division
of the self. The title, King Lear, seen in screen shot in white block letters, is juxtaposed
over a crudely-drawn map comprised of black lines over parchment. Following suit, the
production begins with Lear’s (Orson Welles) line, “Give me the map there,” thus
establishing mapping, defining, and division as central concerns.
7
From Lear’s
preoccupation with division—he physically rips the map up as he divides his kingdom
and gives a piece to both Albany and Cornwall—to his railing against, and retreating
from, his “evil” daughters, to his ultimate “consumption” of (or, one could argue,
consumption by his notion of) Cordelia, this production focuses on—and reveals—just

227
how tenuous identity can be, and how quickly the physical body can become separated
from or betray one’s idea of the self. Further, the dismantling of the self that Lear suffers
(or brings about) is linked to a distinctive feminine threat that he perceives either through
his daughters, whom he alternately demonizes or sanctifies—aligning them with darkness
or light, or through the “feminine” nature that either reigns/rains down from above, pours
out through tears, or rises up from within.

From first sight, Cordelia, Goneril, and Regan’s characters’ alignment with “good” or
“evil” is illustrated through lighting, camera, and costume, as well as through language.
Goneril (a stern yet compliant Beatrice Straight) and Regan (a false-seeming Margaret
Phillips) are dressed in dark gowns, and they deliver their professions of love while
standing, in three-quarter view—an accurate reflection of hidden motives. Cordelia
(Natasha Parry, measured yet earnest), on the other hand, is dressed in a lighter gown,
and the camera focuses on her in a straightforward close-up.
8
Her asides, preserved here
(though Brook excised them in his 1971 film), are shot with Cordelia in a seated position,
the camera straight on her, and the lighting enhanced in order to emphasize her luminous
intentions and transparent feelings toward her father. Further, in this scene, Lear is
dressed in dark robes, aligning him with the “darker” forces, and his journey of self-
redefinition is mirrored by his eventual shift in dress from dark to light robes.

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Staging to emphasize the effect of camera framing is quite important in enhancing
Brook’s thematic concerns regarding shifting notions of identity. For instance, Lear’s
already diminishing status is revealed through staging when he banishes Cordelia:
Cordelia is in the front-left of the frame, close to the screen, whereas Lear is in the
center-back of the frame on a platform, sitting on his throne. The perspective reinforces
the identity shift in that Cordelia’s figure overwhelms Lear’s figure; he seems small. So,
as the voice prods (“Nothing will come of nothing; speak again”) and roars (“thy truth
then be thy dower”), there’s an emptiness, a draining of the self—he is becoming
someone else, and his act of banishment, and the dubiousness of it, is given weight
through Cordelia’s overpowering presence in this frame—her undeniable body. Further,
when Lear banishes Kent as well, Kent moves downstage next to Cordelia, in the
forefront of the frame, and upon his utterance “banishment is here,” his figure obscures
view of the king. Lear has become his mistakes, and those mistakes will eventually
overwhelm him and snuff him out.

The instances in which Lear exhibits power are clearly aligned with political or
patriarchal custom: first, the only way he can get Kent to stop his protestations regarding
Lear’s behavior is when Lear raises his arm in kingly proclamation, at which sign Kent
kneels and all other motion is stilled. As a person making a bad judgment, Lear is almost
overwhelmed by Kent and the others, yet when he invokes kingly gesture, they remember
“who he is,” and act accordingly. So, only his “place” as king warrants obedience—it’s

229
the title, not the man. (Lear uses a similar tactic to give credence to his curse on Goneril
in a later scene.) Likewise, Lear “recovers” his power momentarily after disowning
Cordelia in the ritual of “giving her” to either Burgundy or France. Here, Brook has
Cordelia kneel, her back to the screen, face out of sight, barely visible at the bottom of
the screen, while Lear occupies the central position and Burgundy and France are in
profile, occupying the left and right space. The men discuss who will take Cordelia now
that “her price has fallen,” but Brook cuts all of Cordelia’s lines. She doesn’t defend
herself, she doesn’t protest, she doesn’t talk back to Burgundy when he rejects her, and
she doesn’t speak to France, or to her sisters. The female has no say in this ceremony—
she loses herself.
9
Moreover, this gives Lear authority as both king and father—he is still
in control of the situation. He still “knows” who he is.

Yet as Lear begins to lose his sense of self, the changes are marked by verbal violence
and by signs of physical punishment or torture, and these scenes are linked with a
perceived feminine danger. When Lear tests his identity, both with Goneril and Regan,
he requires physical touch to confirm who he is. His question, “Are you our daughter?”
(1.4.209) is asked as yet another test to Goneril: Lear holds out his hand in expectation of
Goneril kissing it; she hesitates, but then complies. As she does so, he pulls it away
hastily; thus “proving” his position. And when he arrives at Gloucester’s castle to see
Regan, the exchange (“R: I am glad to see your highness; L: Regan, I think you are”
2.2.317-18) is accompanied by Lear grasping Regan’s hands and forearms.
10

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When the relationships between Lear and his elder daughters turn antagonistic, Lear’s
loss of self corresponds with his growing perception of their threat to his existence. This
loss of self and growing feminine threat is again illustrated through triangular blocking in
three different cases: first, when Lear curses Goneril,
11
then when Goneril arrives at
Gloucester’s castle and she and Regan grip hands (showing who they are by touch as
Lear loses his grip) and, finally, when Lear has lost his knights, and thus his position, on
the line “reason not the need,” Lear is shown in background, his figure reduced compared
to the large profiles of Regan and Goneril that take up most of the screen. This actually
serves to take the wind out of some of Lear’s speeches—his threats seem emptier.
Moreover, when he and the Fool are en route to Gloucester’s castle, they are walking
laboriously in the dark, and Lear’s recognition of “I did her wrong,” escapes from his
mouth in a breathless fashion. Each utterance regarding his daughters depletes him
further. And when he proclaims, “I’ll not weep,” his spirit is cracked for good. This
Lear, histrionic and maudlin, succumbs to “hysterica passio”
12
early on, and he never
recovers. Lear’s dilemma is not overtly one of male versus female because the
patriarchal constructs show their hollowness early on: Lear only has power as “king” and
“father” by ceremony or tradition. Yet as soon as he cuts his bonds to both kingdom and
child, he fades into—or is overtaken by—weeping: “women’s weapons,” which, I would
argue, signify a collapsing of the male/female divide. The startling image of Lear after
the storm, covered by seaweed and holding a starfish, only reinforces the empty
ceremony that encompasses “king.” He even reverts to his familiar yet empty phrase,
“Give me the map there,” when the blinded Gloucester comes upon him, yet there is not

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even a spark of lucidity, no shred of kingly identity: all has been revealed as false
construct.

As Lear unravels throughout the production, railing and ranting and dissolving into
weeping fits, he finally seeks—or finds?—restoration in the subsuming of Cordelia.
First, upon reuniting with Cordelia in the tent, they are aligned by light-colored robes and
by bright lights focused on them, indicating Lear’s crossover to Cordelia’s side—the
“good” side. Yet this is almost immediately complicated when they are captured by
Oswald’s troops
13
: In the “Come, let’s away to prison” scene, Lear and Cordelia engage
in a procession, walking down a path made by the placement of guards on each side with
swords. This calls to mind a wedding march, with Lear and Cordelia promenading after
the ceremony. It evokes a sense of possession, commitment, or, bonding, once again, yet
it is a perverted bonding in that traditionally the father should walk the daughter down the
aisle to give her away, and here Lear and Cordelia are marching toward a life—or
death—locked together.

The final scene is a startling culmination of Lear’s desire to consume Cordelia, and the
consequences of such a perverted desire. As Kenneth Rothwell claims,
In a memorable closing moment, the old king’s howls over the death of Cordelia
originate in the darkness and dwindle as he moves into the light. Shockingly the
rag doll he seems to be dragging turns out to be Cordelia, a bit of business
imitated from the Italian tragedian, Tommaso Salvini. The loyal daughter has

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become a bauble in the hands of a man who has himself reverted to childlike
innocence.
14

The description of Cordelia as “rag doll” and “bauble” reinforces the notion of Cordelia
as not fully human—she only exists for Lear, not on her own. Further, even though she is
not alive, she is still attached to Lear—he will not let her go. Reducing her to “doll” or
“bauble” seems to indicate decoration, and while the claim of a reversion “to childlike
innocence” is debatable, he has surely fulfilled the prophecy of “old fools are babes
again” by exhibiting childlike behavior—the wailing boy with his “toy.” Yet there is still
some menace associated with his connection to Cordelia. He literally wipes the floor
with her. And as he devolves toward death—from king to “the thing itself,” from
patriarchal monarch to dying, grief-stricken, sick old man, there is no looking for breath,
no feather to test for life, no unbuttoning of his garment. He just drags Cordelia’s body
up onto the steps leading to the throne and then, tellingly, climbs into the king’s seat and
dies on the repetition of “never.” Lear and Cordelia’s bodies are both bathed in white: a
strip of brightness illuminates them. The light suggests Lear’s transition from unwieldy
patriarch to broken-down yet sympathetic man, yet his consumption of Cordelia
complicates—even collapses—the dark/light, evil/good binary that has been set up and
reinforced through costume and lighting. Neither the “darkness” of kingly demand and
power-hungry elder daughters nor the “light” of Cordelia’s “truth” or Lear’s
“conversion” ever fully hold up. Each construct made for each character is exposed as
untenable in the end.

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II. Brook, Scofield, and the Parched Soul

In Peter Brook’s 1971 film, based loosely on his 1962 RSC stage production,
15
starring
Paul Scofield as a brittle, brutal King Lear who exists in a landscape that is arguably
devoid of female space, Brook also carries over some compelling textual choices from
the 1953 Welles production: he severely cuts the text (he does keep in the
Gloucester/Edgar/Edmund subplot, though manipulated and reduced here, while in the
Welles TV film it was completely excised) and he offers Cordelia as a “white” space—
aligned with “good” or light (in the reconciliation and death scenes), yet in this film he
accentuates the divide between male and female as he takes away any verbal agency
Cordelia has from the start, except for the word “nothing.”
16
In fact, this film presents
Lear’s kingdom as a bleak, dry, elementally brutal environment, both physical and
emotionally, and this environment is staunchly ruled over—and subsequently poisoned
by—a sense of maleness associated with verbal and physical violence. This brutality is
so prevalent that it encompasses Goneril and Regan as well, who learn to “speak” in the
brutal way in which they were presumably raised, and thus Cordelia, I would argue, is
presented as a fantasy—a feminine projection that either must be excised or, ultimately,
can only exist as a figment of Lear’s imagination.

Brook’s vision of the male order in this production is brutal in its enforcement of “the law
of the father,”
17
yet bears a sense of fragmentation that is illustrated through “talking

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head” close-ups or quick cuts that reinforce the sense of diminishing power and enhance
the sense of confusion—both on the part of Lear and the audience. The credits open over
a sea of still, mostly male bodies—dour faces, shot from the torso up. In this crowded
landscape, we don’t hear a sound—no music, no grumblings from the crowd, nothing to
orient the viewer as the camera pans their faces. They all just stand, grouped together yet
somehow unrelated/alienated, as if suspended in time and space (and, thus, oddly
dehumanized).
18
From here, the camera moves to an interior shot of a room, peopled
with the nobles of the play, also standing or sitting in wait: humanity lives or dies by this
king’s word. In the center of the room a cylindrical tube stands almost ceiling high—shot
from behind we cannot yet see that it is the king’s “throne.” This phallocentric image, a
clear, imposing representation of the dominant male order, holds Lear in its seat, as the
screen shot/camera view soon reveals. The introductory shot of Lear is startling in that,
cocooned in his throne, surrounded by a cavernous darkness, we only see Lear’s face—in
extreme close-up. The king’s first words, “Know that we have divided in three our
kingdom,”
19
are spoken with a quiet intensity, a manner that characterizes Lear
throughout the production. His words contain his power; volume is not needed for
enforcement. Yet as his declarations turn to threats or curses, still uttered in hushed,
stinging tones, the fragmentation of the “talking head” or close-up screen shots of Lear
and others reinforces the notion of words as male province yet also illustrates just how
that power undercuts a unifying notion of humanity. Further, the textual edits are
extreme throughout: Brook doesn’t only cut scenes or rearrange plot points
(Edmund/Edgar and even Cornwall), he foregoes the poetry of Shakespeare’s text in

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favor of fragments of lines,
20
which illustrates a male order that, while overbearing, has
been reduced to a shorthand—one that reveals the effects of its brutality in that snippets
of phrases betray not only the stranglehold but the sense of its cost on the actual bodies of
the men—and women—who use it.

Brook further reinforces the notion that words are the province of males by severely
cutting the text of Cordelia (and of Goneril and Regan, at crucial points throughout the
production). The love-test is edited such that Goneril and Regan deliver their
declarations of love, but Cordelia’s verbal reactions are excised (“What shall Cordelia
speak? Love and be silent”; “Then poor Cordelia!/ And yet not so, since I am sure my
love’s/ More ponderous than my tongue”), and we just get a quick flash of her sitting in a
chair, dour in temperament, like her sisters. When she takes her turn in the love test, she
takes the ceremonial orb in her hands, like her sisters before her, and engages in only the
“Nothing, my Lord,” “Nothing” part of the exchange with Lear. Cordelia offers (or is not
allowed?) no explanation regarding her divided duties; Lear just commences with his
curse of removing her from his relation. The rapidity with which she is excised from his
life is startling, and the lack of explanation or defense from Cordelia has a curious effect:
with no audible reason for her obstinate behavior, she appears hard-hearted. Yet she has
no means (words) with which to defend/explain/define herself: Brook edits the
Burgundy/France/Cordelia marriage discussion down to France briefly speaking for her
(Burgundy is cut out entirely) and Lear thus giving her to France. Cordelia does not

236
speak—there is no discussion of her “value,” she makes no verbal gesture of acceptance
to France, and she does not have any verbal exchange with or about her sisters. Thus,
where Lear (and, by extension, the male faction) is defined by words that carry the power
to make or break someone (including, eventually, himself), Cordelia is shown as
someone who cannot hold space in this environment. And for those female figures who
do have a “voice”—Goneril and Regan—their only voice is in either upholding the status
quo (through flattery) or eventually using their voices to mimic Lear’s brutality as they
learn to speak his language.

This brutality is reflected environmentally as well as verbally. The landscape
illustrates/enhances the inner turmoil in a much more all-encompassing way than just
storm-as-metaphor-for-Lear’s-tears/sorrows. This primarily desiccated terrain (except for
the storm), with its cold, dry winds, frost, bleakly barren lands, or stark beaches (the
screen bleached and lit as if to reinforce the dryness of the sand), seems the
environmental representation of a depleted, parched humanity. The male governing order
seems to have sucked the life out of its inhabitants, offering them little to no protection
from the elements—either human or natural. The screaming wind, and the inept human
action against it, mimics spoken word (although arguably louder) and action in that it is
harmful and violent (it “hits” or “whips” the human figures). For instance, when Regan
uses her language of violence and suggests Kent be put in the stocks not “till noon,” but
“till night, my lord, and all night, too,” Kent is taken outside, into freezing temperatures

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(we can see their breath in the air when they talk, and they shiver from the cold), and
placed in the stocks, and, in a cruel gesture of violence begetting violence, Oswald takes
off Kent’s shoes before exiting the scene. The next morning, when Lear and his
entourage arrive, Kent is literally frosted over. His hair, clothing, and bare hands and feet
are covered with snow and ice, and his nose, cheeks, and feet actually look bruised from
the cold. Thus the terrain, like the human environment, wounds.

Because of the fierce, punishing nature of the environment, when the storm hits and
nearly drowns the screen (Brook shot this in a series of dark flashes, where the figures
were largely indiscernible, and Lear’s soaked-to-the-skin visage pops, disembodied
again, on screen amidst the flashes), it functions not just as an embodiment of Lear’s
sorrow, but as a judgment on what’s missing in this world: a sense of sympathy; a space
for humanity, and, arguably, a female space (as aligned with the lack of what exists in
this world). This Lear is a man who, when railing against “women’s weapons” or
declaring “I’ll not weep” actually does not shed tears. And while Goneril tears up
slightly with fear while Lear spits his curses at her and Regan sheds a few tears in the
aftermath of Gloucester’s torture, the two females’ participation in violent acts (from
Regan stabbing Cornwall’s servant repeatedly to Goneril’s murder-suicide of Regan and
herself) well outweighs a tear or two “escaping.” Thus, this dry world is “hit” by
cataclysmic judgment. Further, when both Lear and Gloucester wander in the wilderness,
they roam toward a bleak, bleached (through overexposed lighting) stretch of beach, as if,

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even so close to water, they are wrung out on dry land. As Leggatt suggests, this empty
beach suggests a “point of origin,” “the biological origin of life itself. Following some
instinct, the characters come to the sea to die.”
21
And when Cordelia’s military faction
finds Lear on the beach, he runs into the ocean on “sa sa sa sa sa” in what appears either
an attempt at suicide or a perverse baptism. Is he now, at that point of almost total
collapse, ready to understand the language of tears? His subsequent Cordelia fantasies
(to be explained below) suggest that the only space for female engagement is imaginary.

Before exploring the “fantasy space” of the female, it is important to note where and how
this space is missing from this world, and identify the places where gender comes close to
collapse. As previously discussed, this world severely diminishes or cuts out Cordelia’s
ability to speak. Yet it is also through Goneril and Regan’s violent acts that female space
is negated. And Lear’s curses fuel the trend toward violence. When Goneril arrives at
Gloucester’s castle and interrupts Lear’s reunion with Regan, two exchanges occur in
which it seems as though Lear visibly loses himself and Goneril and Regan gain strength:
first, when Lear identifies Goneril as “a disease that’s in [his] flesh,” the camera shows
them in a two-shot close-up, in profile, facing each other. Both of their heads are only
partially shown in frame (the back portions are cut out, while the faces remain). This
lopping off of part of their heads links them and also perverts their frames. So, these
fragmented bodies mirror the distortion and the commingling of the images Lear’s words
suggest. Further, when Goneril and Regan harshly suggest/demand Lear to “disquantity

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[his] train,” the camera cuts to an extreme close-up on “reason not the need.” This close-
up shows Lear’s face as his full head cannot be contained in frame. Similarly, the camera
shifts to extreme close-ups of Goneril and Regan when Lear pleads “thou art a lady,” and,
as the camera shifts again to Lear, his face is shot in such an extreme close-up that his
face is blurry. He is becoming unidentifiable as his former self (a reflection of his
diminishing status, but also of the gendered constructs which he has set up), and the
visions of a “lady” are also distorted, and thus called into question. The extreme close-
ups that follow the Lear-Regan-Goneril exchange regarding the reduction of Lear’s
knights is thus a version (or inversion?) of Lear’s love test: the females have adopted
Lear’s language of measurement and now use it against him. And in a final, horrifyingly
brutal expression/culmination of the female/male imitation, after Edgar kills Edmund
with a hatchet in one stroke, Goneril faces off with Regan and, in one broad stroke,
surprisingly grabs Regan by the head and throws her back against the rocky terrain,
killing her instantly.
22
She thus mimics violent male behavior. Then, stunningly, Goneril
seems to enact “hysterica passio”: she kneels, starts to go into a type of trance, gathers
her skirts (with camera in close-up) and starts to rock back and forth. She builds up
momentum as she moves her lap in circles over her knees, and then she brains herself on
the rock-side. Thus, she enacts Lear’s fear—the “mother” that he feels swelling in him
takes over Goneril and thus completes his curse, ending generation. And as soon as
Goneril’s head hits the rock, the shot immediately shifts to Cordelia hanging. The
elimination of females is thus complete.

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In this environment where female association is either subdued, banished, or leads to
death, the one space that remains for any notion of “female” proves to be imaginary. In
the mock trial scene, when Lear is accusing “Regan” and “Goneril,” they show up in
quick flashes on the screen. Yet after Lear exclaims, “is there any cause in nature that
makes these hard hearts?” Cordelia also flashes on screen, and Lear seems spooked.
Then, when Lear awakes in Cordelia’s tent after being brought there by her men, we see a
similar flash of Cordelia, which, like Lear, calls us to question the reality of her
existence: is she a ghost, or a “soul in bliss”? The brief reunion scene has a surreal
element to it both because of Lear’s tenuous emotional/physical state and because of Lear
and Cordelia’s seeming lack of relationship from the start (due to the cutting of her lines).
This surreal state is enhanced once Lear enters the scene carrying Cordelia (dressed in
white) after her death. We hear Lear’s howls as he carries Cordelia along the rocky
stretch of beach. He lays her down and bends over her, claiming “she’s gone forever,
dead” as the camera view cuts her out, staying on Lear in close-up. When Lear finds “the
feather stirs” he gets up, with Cordelia still cut out of frame. Then, when he claims, “I
might have saved her,” he looks directly at the camera. Thus we have become
Cordelia—a space beyond the “fourth wall.” He looks at us as he calls “Cordelia,
Cordelia”; however, on “what dost thou say’st,” an image of Cordelia flashes on the
screen, alive, walking, and then she’s gone. Thus, the space of/for Cordelia is fantasy: it’s
either in Lear’s imagination or projected on/in/through us. When Lear claims, “my poor
fool is hanged,” there is a two-shot of both Lear and Cordelia, in their white robes,
standing, looking at the camera, and then only Lear looks at us. When he exclaims, “no

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life,” he is talking to us, and he is shown on the right side of the screen with the left side
empty: Cordelia’s missing place. And again, “look on her” becomes either a plea to us or
it puts us in Cordelia’s position. As the screen begins a white-out, Lear turns his head to
the right, looks in the distance, and then begins a slow descent out of frame. The white
screen solidifies the notion (tied to Cordelia in white) that Lear’s vision (arguably, from
the start) of Cordelia is fantasy, and that in this world, this is the only space allowed her.
And his alignment with her at the end suggests Lear (and his construction of self) as
fantasy as well.

GRIGORI KOZINTSEV: King Lear, violence, and a peopled landscape

Grigori Kozintsev and Peter Brook shot film versions of King Lear at similar times, and
they covered similar concerns. Both present people living in harrowing terrain—
physically and psychologically—and both use the non-historically-specific landscape to
enhance the sense of a universal decline of humanity. While Brook’s film presents a
world where female space is finally relegated to fantasy projection, Kozintsev uses a sea
of bodies to link humanity together. Kozintsev’s moving 1971 filmed adaptation of King
Lear (adapted into Russian by Boris Pasternak with a musical score by Dmitri
Shostakovich) merits consideration in my exploration of violence and its relation to
gender even though (or perhaps because) the film does not investigate that relation
clearly.
23
In fact, the film’s overriding concern is one of human loss, abuse, and care,

242
regardless of gender. What makes this production applicable to my study is the way in
which Kozintsev investigates his thematic concerns: through a screen littered with bodies.
The sheer number of bodies, from the great crowds of itinerant peasants that seem to
burst from the land (or give an excruciating weight to it) to the knights and attendants of
the wealthier class, highlights the violence on the physical form in ways not usually seen
on stage, or even on screen in terms of Shakespearean adaptation. Shakespeare’s play,
and most productions, shows the perils of the “state of man,” from king to father, from
“majesty” to “the thing itself” in mostly abstract, symbolic ways. This film puts a face—
in fact, a plethora of faces—on “unaccommodated man,” and by doing so shows just
where the king, or royal family’s (as Goneril, Regan, and even Cordelia’s actions play
out) violence takes its most profound effect. It is these people of the land who eventually
bear the extreme, lasting effects of the violence, and it is to them the royal family must
answer, and from where to seek redemption, if any exists.

The film opens with a close-up on a weathered shoe—a peasant walks along the dry
landscape. The screen then fills with more and more peasants, and their number
increases as they plod across land and over hills. This conjures a feeling not simply of an
arid, tough landscape, but of the people, the bodies, who populate it, work on it, live on it,
and wrestle with its elements. This is man (read: mankind) in harsh connection with
nature (the violence of existence in itself), and also man who is left with little comfort
under an established rule. When the camera takes us to Lear’s cold stone castle, lit by

243
ceremonial fires, the royal family in robes and secured behind stone walls, we feel the
divide between these warm bodies and those that are on the outside.

Lear’s struggle is still one of self-understanding, but in this film he must learn—
achieve—his identity not just in reflection of his immediate family, but in those people he
rules, of whom he has “taken too little care.” At first, Lear (the small-statured Yuri
Yarvet) is a man who seems untouched by, or oblivious to, violence. He plays with his
fool from the start as they both hide behind a door wrestling with a homemade “mask” of
sorts. His division of the kingdom is read aloud, as a proclamation, by one of his
attendants, while he warms himself by the fire—he even plays with the fire, at points
bringing his hand dangerously close to the flames—a sign he thinks he’s impervious to
danger, or to violence, perhaps. This formal delivery of Lear’s proclamation reinforces
the notion of the amplified status of royalty—someone else reads the king’s “majestic”
words, so the figure of the king is inflated. The king’s subjects (including his family)
should either be his mouthpieces or silently obedient, and Lear expects the same from his
daughters in his love test. When Cordelia refuses to play Lear’s words-for-land game,
Lear flies into a rage, ripping in two the quite large map, splayed out across the floor,
which seems to overtake the scene. This is significant because the way Lear sees his
land, a piece of paper that can be divided and is most pertinent to his family, omits
consideration of those who actually populate it—the bodies of the people. Further, when
Lear curses Cordelia, it is not in the den amongst the family and loyal followers. He goes

244
up on the roof of the castle, a small figure on the precipice of a huge stone structure from
which the flames are emitted behind him, and he delivers his curse not only to the
heavens or landscape: the camera here reveals the crowds of peasants, who fall to their
knees and then bow to the ground upon seeing Lear and hearing his voice. This startling
image calls attention not only to Lear’s rage against his daughter and the wound he
believes she has given him, but to the more widespread effect any action he takes has on
the land itself. The land is not a map: it is a population.

As Lear’s curses continue in response to his dealings with both Goneril and Regan, it is
interesting to note that, like Cordelia’s curse, they are not spoken directly to either
daughter in their entirety (only “degenerate bastard” and “detested kite” are hurled
directly at Goneril, and the heated conversation with Goneril and Regan that precedes
“what need one,” after which they shut the doors on him), but are played outside, with
Lear alone, as a dialogue between Lear and the heavens or, quite possibly, between Lear
and himself. His pleas against his breaking heart ( “Oh me, my heart, my rising heart!
But down!”) and the desire to calm down what he calls “the mother” (“Oh how this
mother swells. Down, thy climbing sorrow, thy element’s below”) are also delivered
with Lear the solitary figure on screen or in focus. This shift of focus—the larger,
“spiritual” conjurings, pleas, and admonitions mostly in isolation—serves to illustrate the
larger struggle Lear faces: just who is he on his own? He is more lost and sad than angry

245
in these scenes: his transition from king to man comes swiftly in this production. And if
he doesn’t like what he sees in his daughters, where does he go for answers?

The storm scene, what many consider to be the climactic scene in the play in terms of
both drama and Lear’s struggle, is put in a secondary position in this film to the outbreak
of war
24
(to be discussed further below). But what is truly compelling about Lear in the
storm (a much-abridged version of Shakespeare’s text) is Lear’s arrival in the hovel.
Upon entering the hovel with the fool and Kent, not only do we see Poor Tom
25
, but the
hovel is heavily populated. Many people need shelter from the storm, and now Lear
comes to an acute understanding of just what he has “taken too little care.” His “poor
naked wretches” speech brings him in heartbreaking contact with the fallacies and brutal
realities of his rule. We can see he is now a member of his population. As both he and
his people are battered by the elements, he understands the violence, even unintended,
that he has perpetrated—it’s a violence that extends to all genders and classes. And when
he has become one of those “unaccommodated” people again, though there is some
acknowledgement of the toll the events have taken on him (he’s carried on a stretcher
when Cordelia’s forces find him), he’s not simply a broken man; he has become a man of
the land, and we get a sense that he accepts, or even welcomes that. When we see Lear
on the heath, here it is a field of long, light-colored grass, and as he crawls amongst the
weeds/stalks, smiling, he (and his long, white hair and light robes) melds into the
landscape. For a moment, they’re indistinguishable. Later, when he is reunited with

246
Gloucester and Edmund, they’re among the groups of peasants—everywhere the land is
populated—and Lear, sitting in the dirt, kisses the ground. The violence that either he or
his daughters have perpetrated (the love test; Cordelia, Goneril, and Regan’s behavior
and actions; extra-textual actions that set up and have maintained this society) carry a
heavy personal price, in terms of putting faces on the heretofore unidentified “man.” It is
not the condition of “man” but of individual people: hence a redefinition from top to
bottom.

The violence imposed on the bodies in this film fully erupts in the form of war and its
effects. Just as the land is peopled with the peasantry, the dispute between Lear and his
daughters brings about a fully-peopled war: As Leggatt notes, “the war sequence, off
stage and perfunctory in the text—is the climax to which the film has been building. This,
not the storm, is the chaos that really matters.”
26
And this chaos is a crowded one. From
Cordelia’s armed forces to Albany and Edmund’s (Goneril and Regan’s) knights, bodies
hurriedly traverse the screen. Shots of fire, smoke, and battles come at full force, and the
audience can finally feel the full impact of the destruction this family has wrought.
Significantly, as knights course through the towns they light structures on fire: again, the
common citizens pay—with their livelihood, homes, and bodies—for the rage of the
warring factions. And Lear and Cordelia, prisoners now, seem to momentarily get lost in
the shuffle as armed soldiers run one way and peasants the other. This chaos isn’t
selective: all genders and classes succumb to it. And when Edmund and Edgar have their

247
showdown, they do so in front of an unruly crowd, who cheers on the violence of the
fight in general: it seems as though they don’t care who wins. They’ve succumbed to a
mob mentality.

When Cordelia is hanged, the effects are startling: at first we hear a disembodied howl,
of a volume and scope that seems to permeate the entire land. This howl, finally attached
to Lear as the camera comes upon him with Cordelia hanging at a distance, bears the
weight of both his personal loss and that of all those who have been affected by the
chaos. And the commentary on the lasting effects of the violence, or perhaps where any
hope of recovery will begin, is illustrated by the camera panning on the now-burned-
down, devastated towns, and on the citizens trying to douse the fires and pick up the
pieces. Overall, in imagining and creating a Lear that is still focused on yet expands
beyond the family in specific ways, Kozintsev has found a profound way to illuminate
the personal, individual toll that violence takes on the human form. This violence
transcends gender, but at the same time brings genders closer together, linking them
under a similar emotional and physical toll.

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King Lear on the small screen

RICHARD EYRE AND IAN HOLM: Lear in hell

The televised adaptation of Richard Eyre’s National Theatre production of King Lear
(stage:1997, filmed for TV: 1998) presents a world engulfed by rage and fear that is in
stark contrast to the filmed productions of Brook and Kosintzev. From the fiery set—a
red-drenched room with flaming torches—that represents Lear’s den of power, in which
he rages and has everyone on edge, to the steely cold grey of the domain that Goneril,
Regan, and their affiliates inhabit and in which they inflict their torment, to the wild, wet
stormy terrain and the foggy confusion of the sandy heath, the landscape reflects the
battery of abuse committed upon, or perpetrated by, the characters. Bodies in this
production are both verbally and physically debased to the breaking point: nobody
survives intact in this brittle, bleak representation of the startling struggle to retain a sense
of self against what appears to be a freefall into chaos. And in the struggle to maintain or
assert one’s identity, certain assumptions regarding masculinity and femininity come to
light.

From the start, this Lear (a small yet ferocious Ian Holm) holds his court in somewhat
terrified obedience. He acts in an irascible manner as he commands attention by shouting

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and bounding about the long table around which everyone is seated.
27
He gruffly shouts
his order, “Give me the map there,” and people scurry, in a fluster to accommodate him.
Everyone around this unpredictable king seems jumpy, for fear of what he’ll do next. He
commands attention verbally—by volume and tone—and physically, manipulating the
unwilling participants of his “love test.” When he mischievously sets the test in motion,
asking “which of you say doth love us most,” he has walked behind the seated Cordelia
and kisses her on the back of the head to punctuate “most,” thus stacking the deck. When
Goneril recites her “love” speech, Lear has moved over to Regan, hugging her as if to
bait Goneril. Regan takes up the challenge, and when she delivers her words of “love,”
she walks over to the now-seated Lear and hugs him. Lear chuckles when Regan declares
that her sister “comes too short”: he clearly loves this game, and we can feel the tension
between the sisters. After Regan’s speech ends, he kisses her on the lips. This Lear sees
the world, and especially his daughters, as his toys, to play with as he chooses. When he
approaches Cordelia, prompting her to speak, he grabs her in a hug—but she lets a small
gasp escape: she’s clearly uncomfortable. This is rough love. When Cordelia offers up
“nothing,” she explains her stance in a genuine way, easily and convincingly showing
rather than telling her emotion. Her “obey you, love you, and most honour you” is heard
and acknowledged by all, and the explanation behind “why have my sisters husbands if
they say they love you all?” is clearly registered by those sisters. As Alexander Leggatt
observes, “[Cordelia’s] defiance of her father is a strong, intelligent argument. It
provokes startled glances around the table.”
28
The surprised, “schooled” look on their
faces shows that Cordelia’s form of speech is rare in this atmosphere of shaky

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submission. So the daughters, pawns in their father’s game, are shaped by what they are
allowed to express. The rest simmers beneath the surface.

As the set reveals, the entire scene evokes an unearthly picture—Kenneth Rothwell
identifies Lear’s den as “hellish,” and I would agree with his assessment.
29
The blood-
red interior, from walls to flaming torches to red-cloth-covered furniture, leaves the
viewer with an inescapable feeling of peering into a red-hot cauldron (as opposed to the
stone-cold, dank, or dry atmospheres of the Brook and Kosintzev productions). Add to
that the figure of Lear as fiery whirling dervish (he rants and raves and constantly circles
his “targets” in a kind of taunting dance of control) and the others as held in tense thrall,
and this becomes a scene on the verge of constant boiling over from the start. It also
evokes something like the hell of Sartre’s No Exit in that these people are locked in
together, pushing each other’s buttons, doomed to live in the constant chafing with one
another, with no escape visible. And the nonverbal reaction shots—slips of emotion that,
for now, remain unspoken—confirm the continuous emotional tightrope they all seem to
walk. When “all hell breaks loose” as a result of Cordelia’s resistance and the fallout
therein, we get to see just how Lear’s treatment of others “makes” them, and unmakes
him. Further, when we move from Lear’s domain to that of Goneril, Regan, and the
outside world, the set reflects a cold steeliness, which has the effect of a world drained of
blood. This is pertinent in that the brutality visited upon the characters—especially the
torture of Gloucester and even the curses of Lear to Goneril and Regan—aims to make

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them less human. Blood is associated with fire and rage in this production, while as the
new regime takes effect, the heat shifts to an unwieldy sexuality (more on that below).

If this is hell, then Lear’s devilish figure and reign of terror sets the tone for the
surrounding behavior. Lear’s violence is both verbal and physical, and Lear’s words take
an emotional toll and have a physical impact on his various targets. Lear growls (when
Regan says, “say you have wronged her”), roars, laughs derisively and mischievously,
and even hisses (upon Edmund’s instructions to take the prisoners Lear and Cordelia
away) and barks out commands. Small in stature, he makes up for lack of height with
volume of voice and force of touch. His verbal rants cut to the quick: when he curses
Cordelia (especially on “’tis better thou had not been born than not to have pleased me
better”) and Goneril (“into her womb convey sterility”), they are reduced to tears. Regan
also tears up, though less so, when she is the recipient of Lear’s derision, and it is clear
that even though she can “play the game” at first, when Lear extends his curses to her,
she is shaken to the core. In fact, all three register complete shock at the verbal slings,
and we can see the arrows hit deep. Lear’s rage is ready: from simple instructions (“get
me the map there”) to curses, he considers his word final. He is his word. He even takes
on a supernatural alliance when he “conjures” spirits in his assistance: when Lear calls
upon “the sacred radiance of the sun/ The mysteries of Hecate and the night” in his
disavowal of Cordelia, he stands in black robes, with open arms, looking up, with the
wall, saturated red, and the flaming torch behind him.
30
The Devil’s sorcerer? Perhaps.

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His words and show temporarily bring the room to a halt. And, startlingly, when Kent
tries to argue with Lear, their heated exchange is cut off first by Lear putting his hands
over his ears—a sign that his words are the only sound that make up (his identity and) his
world—and he then jumps on the table, bellowing “hear me recreant!”, pointing to Kent
to bow down in submission, his words and gesture bringing Kent, finally, to his knees.
So, Lear has defined himself by the power his “words wield”—as king, as father, as man.

As Lear’s power is derived from his words, his physical threats also set the tone for the
gruesomely violent escalation of events. As stated earlier, Lear circles (stalks the
circumference of) the targets of his verbal attacks, from his love test to his curses, and
even to his “catching” of Cordelia in the prison scene, circling his tied arms around her.
Lear isn’t afraid to use physical force on others, or on himself. At “beat at this gate,”
Lear hits his head repeatedly against the table. And when he curses Goneril, he
punctuates the “hot tears” with the snap of a whip. Even his “show” of love functions as
physical assault: as mentioned above, his hugs and kisses during the love test are exhibits
of control; further, some are unwanted, but none can be refused. And his words and acts
of violence have a ripple effect: from Regan’s blood thirst—she thrills in the idea of Kent
being kept in the stocks “till night” and excitedly holds Gloucester’s head while Cornwall
plucks out his eyes—to Goneril’s high volume attack-like speak (to Albany) to Kent’s
beating of Oswald (he attacks Oswald with a sword and beats him repeatedly with a
leather bag) and even to Cordelia’s punching of a guard as Lear and she are taken to

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prison, excessive violence is the reigning language—it imposes the perpetrator’s identity
on the victim.

While Lear, in his steely patriarchal grip, is identified by his “choler” and assaults from
the outside in (words, whip, gesture, grip), there is a feminine heat that rises from within:
With Lear, the feminine element is identified as the hysterica passio, which interestingly,
when he feels it rising, he whispers to try to tame it. He feels the hysterica passio in
response to seeing Kent in the stocks, which, in this case, don’t only encase Kent’s feet
and arms, but his neck. The language of violence, shown back to Lear rather than
instigated by him, is too much for him to take. Tears, or “women’s weapons,” are also
something he aligns with the female, so he uses his whip on Goneril to try to overpower
the feminine. For him, femininity is something to hide. It is interesting then, that this
production offers two very sexualized daughters in Goneril and Regan. They both exhibit
an early interest in Edmund, and they both share long, passionate kisses with him, with
other people (Oswald, Albany) in full view of the action. The frantic nature of their
sexual conquest of Edmund is an offshoot of the fury that drives Lear: for female figures,
especially those who have been cursed by their father perverting their sexual or
reproductive status or turning them into fiendish figures, is this their only outlet?

This Lear is broken by the time he endures the storm, and he never recovers. The
turbulent wetness of the storm neither drowns nor baptizes him, although the picture of

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Poor Tom standing on the stump as unaccommodated man serves to show the declension
from king (ranting on the table) to fool (aping him by climbing on the table at Goneril’s)
to poor soul being beaten down by the elements. When he is brought to Cordelia he is
strapped down into a chair like a mental patient. And after one last assertion of his
former self—shouting “I am bound upon a wheel of fire”—he is largely evacuated of the
anger, the fire, that defined him. Still, the only power Lear retains is in his ability to
corral Cordelia. She may have sought him out, “done his business” wearing armor (in a
recollection of Joan of Arc, as Leggatt and others note and as is readily visible), yet in his
world, she still has no space of her own. Leggatt asserts:
In Lear’s reunion with Cordelia, and later when they are under arrest, there is a
recurring device: after watching them together for a while, the camera breaks their
dialogue down into close-ups and reaction shots, so that we see only one of them
at a time. When they finally come together, for a handclasp in the first scene and
an embrace in the second, the camera pulls back and lets us see them united.
31

I would argue that these reaction shots do reinforce the notion of separation—reactions of
one person to another, seemingly giving each person their own space—yet the handclasps
and embraces forward not the idea of “unity,” but of forced control. When Lear
“embraces” Cordelia in the scene of their arrest, their hands are individually bound, so
Lear takes his bound hands, a rope strung between the hands thus keeping them tied, and
“ropes” Cordelia to him, giving a chilling portrait to, “have I caught thee?” Cordelia, her
own hands tied and now pinned to her by her father’s embracing body, has nowhere to
go, and we see the fear on her face as Lear’s embrace tightens and the camera circles
around the two locked figures. This echoes the first scene between them in which Lear

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tries to control Cordelia by kissing the back of her head to punctuate the “most” in
“Which of you say doth love us most?” and then hugging her forcefully, and shocking her
by doing so, upon his command for her to “speak” for her portion of land. There is no
space for her as a stand-alone figure.

And in the end, all of the bodies—Lear’s, Cordelia’s, Goneril’s and Regan’s—are piled
onto a cart. Now their identities have certainly melded, or ceased entirely, the humanity
completely siphoned out. As Leggatt notes, “As the cart disappears, we see legs and
arms dangling over the side. It does not look like the preparation for a state funeral; the
suggestion is that all of these bodies will be dumped into a mass grave. They have
lost…individuality…”
32
. No distinction exists between father/daughter, king/subjects,
male or female. All pretence is gone. They have collapsed into a heap of violated,
abused, exhausted flesh.

Mapping the gendered self in the twenty-first century: King Lear on stage at the
Globe and the RSC

GLOBE THEATRE 2001: The inner circle
In the production notes to Barry Kyle’s 2001 King Lear at the Globe, Kyle states that he
sees the world of the play as “a world in transition,” and, as thus, wanted to “investigate

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the text poetically rather than historically.”
33
Both the set and the costumes reflect a
timelessness in that they focus on the elemental: earthy colors/textures, organic materials
(wood, dirt, flowers, water), and a suggestion of the domestic.
34
Kyle had three key
words for the evocative nature of the costumes: totalitarian (Lear’s rule), timeless
(pastoral, shown in earthy colors on Cordelia, Lear, and Gloucester in later scenes) and
terrorism (Goneril and Regan as they come to adopt his ways and take over, and the
war/battle and its aftermath as reflected in black, military-like garments or accessories)
35
.
But most significant to his overriding vision of timelessness is the “wheel of fire”
imagery, from which his mythic/poetic/timeless notion of the play derives.
36
Kyle’s
staging, and, in particular his use of circular/geometric blocking, plays out the picture of
identity in transition. The staging rests on the notion of spatial relation, and the attendant
positioning serves to show the audience the answer to Lear’s questions, “Who am I?” and
“Who is it that can tell me who I am?” Further, in key moments, as Lear’s declension
plays out on stage, the circle of “who’s in” and “who’s out” changes to reflect an alliance
with Cordelia; one that calls notions of gender into question.

From the start, the circular positioning and motion of the characters on stage set the scene
for the definition of identity and also suggest the mutability therein. When Lear (Julian
Glover) enters, dressed in a white fur-like robe and a crown, he circles the table set out at
center stage, thus claiming ownership therein. Cordelia (Tonia Chauvet, also in white) is
close to center, while Goneril (Patricia Kerrigan, in dark grey) and Regan (Felicity Dean,
in light grey/lavender) stand further to each side, slightly outside the main perimeter that

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Lear has established. Lear’s love-test commences by Goneril stepping to center stage and
issuing a fairly earnest, emotional declaration of love. As Regan follows suit, she too
steps into the “inner circle,” giving a straightforward proclamation. When Cordelia takes
center stage to profess her love—or to refuse to do so in Lear’s terms—the circle of
Lear’s world tips off its axis: and, as if repelled by a centrifugal force, Lear turns his back
on Cordelia. The entire dialogue, from Lear’s gloating toward the audience at the
expectation of what Cordelia will say to the “nothing” surprise exchange, takes place
with Lear’s back to her. He finally turns to face her on “so young and so untender,” and
her response, “so young, my lord, and true,” now sets Lear in centripetal motion. What
(or whom) Lear has heretofore thought of as the center of his world (as he and Cordelia
are also aligned by wardrobe color) now becomes a force that must be destroyed: he
comes at Cordelia, circling round the table, and pushes her down forcefully on “thy truth
then be thy dower.” Pushed outside of the sphere of influence, Cordelia is now hidden
behind a column at the side of the stage. Lear takes his central seat on the throne to
divide the kingdom and only gets up to engage Kent in argument and, similarly, throw
him out of the circle. On his throne again for the Burgundy/France debate, Lear gets up
and circles them when talking of Cordelia’s “fallen price.” Cordelia is still off to the
side, while Goneril and Regan (and their husbands) have moved into position on either
side of the throne: the sphere of influence has begun to shift. After Lear walks out,
Cordelia, Goneril, and Regan are left on stage in an interesting pattern: Goneril and
Regan each stand on opposing sides of the stage, while Cordelia is triangulated in the
back, framed in the doorway. As they have their tense exchange, the image of female

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space is accentuated as one that is on the margins, and one that is at odds with a male,
circular sphere of power.

Lear’s position in, or outside, the circle of influence is accentuated by the use of chairs.
From Lear’s central position of power in his throne, when he starts to move—first to
Goneril’s, then to Gloucester’s and beyond—where and what Lear sits in shows us (and
him?) where—and who—he is. At Goneril’s, Lear, still circling in order to protect who
he thinks he is, engages in an unwitting game of musical chairs. As Lear argues with
Goneril over the behavior of his knights, he has been occupying a seat at the head of the
table. As the conversation gets more heated, Lear gets up and engages with Goneril on
foot, he circles her on “who is it can tell me who I am?” and the Fool (John McEnery)
steps into the spot Lear just left and claims, “Lear’s shadow.” Then, circling back to the
table at “darkness and devils,” when Lear curses Goneril’s womb she now sits in Lear’s
former (and rightfully her) seat. Thus, Lear’s declension is shown by a perversion of
placement that, interestingly, also suggests Lear’s curses of perversion of gender as
places and position no longer fulfill their roles. Lear has gone from king to fool to
someone without any space of his own. And, remarkably, the male space has been
usurped.

Lear’s sense of male power is also punctuated by physical violence: he pushes Cordelia,
hits his fool hard when the fool delivers the ass/cart joke, grabs Goneril’s face at “how

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sharper than a serpent’s tooth…” and even uses hugs to try to physically control Goneril
and Regan and stop them from trying to “disquantity [his] train.” But the circular
motion, physical violence, and even the chairs begin to shift as Regan and Goneril adopt
Lear’s methods of control and the means of identification shift from male to female.
Lear’s status reduction has already been seen in his “loss” of a seat: his throne is replaced
by his taking Goneril’s seat at her home, and then her reclaiming that position, leaving
him “seatless.” Now, in his travels, Lear’s fool carries a portable seat for him—his
traveling “throne,” thus without a solidly central position. As Lear fights, curses, and rails
back and forth with his two elder daughters over his knights, he is pushed from center to
margin, literally, as the staging shows Goneril and Regan take center stage at “what need
one?” while Lear is relegated to the side—previously the female space. His final burst of
violence occurs when he tries to regain his position by running to Goneril and Regan and
grabbing and pushing them on his “reason not the need” speech. Yet, as if in final
comment on the end of his male reign, his “women’s weapons” that threaten to overtake
him also signal his exit. Left center stage are Regan and Goneril, and when they walk
out, a servant comes on stage, drags Lear’s portable chair to center, and drops it in a
heap, symbolizing the end of Lear’s reign in full. The next chair that comes into
prominence is the one to which Regan and Cornwall strap Gloucester so that they can rip
out his eyes: the seat of power—and the center—have shifted, and Lear’s methods of
control turn, as director Barry Kyle put it, from totalitarianism to terrorist.

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With Lear’s “seat” lost,
37
he is next seen in a Beckett-like “Lucky/Pozzo” situation with
the fool—in the storm, the two are connected by a rope (foreshadowing Cordelia’s
hanging, perhaps, as well as more overtly linking Lear to the Fool?). At first Lear drags
the fool, and then Lear himself falls. And the “fallen” Lear is incapable of restoration, as
Cordelia’s successive efforts illustrate. When Cordelia’s faction brings the storm-beaten
Lear on stage, he sits in a throne that is set up on a circular platform: an ironic twist on
Lear’s primary position.
38
And when Lear and Cordelia are prisoners, they kneel
together, center stage, Lear still harping on “who’s in and who’s out,” and then walk off
arm in arm—an important alignment in that Lear is feminized and both are completely
outside the circle of power, and this suggests not only the completion of Lear’s original
wish, to have Cordelia give him her “all,” but also signals the unsustainable nature of that
wish. When Lear carries the dead Cordelia on stage, he walks her out over his back and
then lays her on the floor, her head in his lap. When he dies, looking to the heavens, the
stage placement of the bodies is such that Goneril’s body is placed stage left, Lear and
Cordelia lay side by side in front center stage, and Regan is placed stage right. All have
assumed their original positions, yet what has defined them, as king, father, daughter,
man, woman, has radically shifted in meaning. And this is not only a matter of “who’s in
and who’s out”; it’s a suggestion that the way that gender is enacted here ultimately fails
for all involved. The structures of enclosure or oppression force these notions to a
conflict, and, in the proverbial eye of the storm, the false constructions do not survive.

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DOMINIC DROMGOOLE’S 2008 GLOBE PRODUCTION: From circling to tears

The 2008 King Lear at the Globe takes the male power patterns from Kyle’s 2001
production and inverts the direction of the force, thus illustrating the transference of the
language of violence from male to female, and the deflation (and destruction) of both
genders therein. Dromgoole uses the center/margin motif, yet punctuates it with more
aggressive physical threat and action, and rather than a feeling of being marginalized, we
see Lear slowly, aggressively surrounded, circled, and basically put to his own test,
which he fails miserably. Three scenes illustrate the power shifts via circular motion: the
love-test, the Goneril/Regan knight reduction, and the prison fantasy. In all three, the
center is the focus, and Lear stays center. Yet in all three, the meaning of the center
shifts. And as the target, Lear becomes “unmanned,” overcome by women’s weapons,
shifting the violence to the parties who enclose him. And the methods of coercion that
Goneril and Regan engage in redefine, and ultimately collapse, the power structure
altogether.

This Lear (David Calder) enters in a regal red robe as a map is lowered from the
overhang, like a flag, in full view of all. When the love test begins, both Goneril (Sally
Breton) and Regan (Kellie Bright), guided to center stage by Lear, profess their love with

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an ease and even a giggle, and everyone claps as Lear jovially gives Regan her portion of
the land in reward. Cordelia (Jodie McNee), off to the side, does not walk to center for
her declaration. Her “nothing” elicits a laugh at first from Lear, as he thinks she must be
joking. Then, when she continues her speech from the perimeter, Lear responds with
curses from his point at bull’s-eye center. This Lear is more hurt than angry, but his
position stays firm. As Kent (Paul Copley) “steps into the ring” to reason with Lear, the
latter keeps him at bay—he is not allowed in this sphere (nor, arguably, is this the space
for reason). In fact, Lear suddenly lunges at Kent with a knife, and both men have to be
physically restrained. In the resulting France/Burgundy discussion, Cordelia and Lear
stand apart, both facing the two men, and for every step Lear takes toward her, she moves
away as they engage in a circular pattern of movement that reflects Cordelia’s fear of
Lear’s behavior.

The circle of enclosure continues, first with Goneril, and then with both Goneril and
Regan, and with each encircling, Lear feels the pain from the center of the circle of
power, though the “center” is eventually siphoned of power in favor of “women’s
weapons” and a weak heart. Lear, who “hath ever but slenderly known himself,” still
does not see the seriousness of the situation when he asks those assembled at Goneril’s to
confirm his identity. When he sees Goneril’s “unreasonable” behavior in wanting to
“disquantity [his] train,” he finally does turn to upset and, as he embarks on his curses, he
stands center stage, as if to give his curses more power. He goes to leave after spewing

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against his “thankless daughter,” yet he comes back toward center at the utterance of
“fifty.” The descending quantity draws him back in as the reduction of self takes center
stage. And at Gloucester’s, like in Kyle’s 2001 production, here Lear uses hugs to
coerce/control Regan, and he even hugs Goneril upon her arrival when he says “my flesh,
my blood” and then pulls away at “a disease that’s in my flesh.” Yet these methods of
persuasion/control no longer work, and the new center of power show their control (in an
inverse of the 2001 production) by circling Lear themselves as they discuss the reduction
of Lear’s knights, and of Lear, to zero (“what need one?”). This enclosure unleashes
Lear’s tears, and this is the language which follows him through the rest of the play
(unlike the 2001 Lear, this Lear cries after “reason not the need,” at “heart break,” in the
storm, at the mock trial, and on through the reconciliation with Cordelia). So it seems as
though Lear’s ‘center,’ no longer a symbol of strength, is now under a different control:
one dictated either by female force or “women’s weapons.”

The transmission/transformation of Lear’s violent tendencies is illustrated through both
dress and action: Kent first mimics Lear’s attack on him by running after Oswald with a
dagger. Then as Regan and Goneril adopt/take over Lear’s power, they dress in brown
and crimson, more closely resembling the red robe that Lear first wore. And male
menace is most tellingly transformed in Regan’s participation in Gloucester’s (Joseph
Mydell) blinding: Cornwall (Peter Hamilton Dyer) plucks out Gloucester’s eye with his
fingers and then holds the eye up for the audience before throwing it back through the

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door; Regan then mimics Cornwall and she plucks out Gloucester’s other eye and
displays it for all to see.
39
So the violence that attends/confirms power is now gender
neutral, yet the controlling element of Lear’s reign with its emphasis on lack of space or
individual expression (other than to confirm Lear’s position) has turned to literal
(physical), violent destruction.

When Lear is wheeled on stage in a wheelbarrow after being “saved” by Cordelia’s men,
his white nightshirt serves to signify his transformation from fierce controller (in red
robe) to something new. Lear’s “prevailing orators” (to quote Titus) now seem to be
tears, and Cordelia physically helps Lear offstage, his fragility exposed and his power
evaporated (or drowned…). Yet in Lear’s prison fantasy, the impulse for suffocation
survives: now center stage again, Lear and Cordelia are surrounded by four guards who
circle and then enclose them in military threat. Further, the enclosure doesn’t end with
the guards—Lear pulls Cordelia in so close to him, his arms circling her in a hug, that she
almost faints, thus he catches her on “have I caught thee?”, though the physical action is
undercut by the metaphorical implications of being “caught.” In the push to the central
position in this production, whoever occupies the center, male or female, is doomed to
expire. Thus, in the final scene, when Lear lays Cordelia’s body out center stage, both of
them dressed in white, him fawning over her dead body, crying (as she fawned over him
in the reconciliation scene after the storm), he dies by her side, collapsing after looking to
the heavens—one of the only times he looks outside of his circle. So, finally, even if they

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are aligned in death, a sense of unease surrounds his continuous hovering over at picking
at her. And the center/core reveals itself as incapable of holding up.

BILL ALEXANDER’S 2004 RSC PRODUCTION: CORIN REDGRAVE: From jokester
to fool
Bill Alexander’s 2004 RSC production of King Lear offers the making or unmaking of
identities in compelling ways: it is an overtly violent production—much more so than the
2001 or 2008 Globe productions discussed above. Everyone, from Lear to Kent to
Goneril to Regan to Cornwall and even Albany, uses physical force as their reigning
mode of expression. Further, similar to the Globe productions, the power is measured in
terms of movement: the less power one has (like Cordelia, and subsequently Gloucester
and Lear), the less space one is allowed or the more one is physically “manhandled.” Yet
here the physical violence is sometimes offset by (often cruel) jokes—a device that turns
to a mocking violence; another way to cloud or diminish identity. This Lear (Corin
Redgrave, acting in a part his father was famous for 50 years prior) is definitely not
feeble or geriatric; critic Charles Spencer describes him as, “a man in vigorous middle
age,” “a bristling-moustached, crusty retired colonel type who has had his own way for
too long,” and “a domestic tyrant who laughs a lot just so long as he is getting his own
way, but throws childlike, petulant tantrums whenever he doesn’t” (Daily Telegraph,
1.20.2005)
40
. And while he at first defines himself by jokes and force, when the tables

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turn on him, and he is overcome by the cruelty (and mocking) he has perpetrated, his
association with Cordelia reveals a different self—one that foregoes gendered
boundaries. As Lear retreats from the public to the private (as shown in the reconciliation
and prison fantasy scenes), he absorbs the female position.

From his first entrance, Lear is defined by his ability to shock others—which he uses as a
method of control. He hobbles onto the stage (into what looks like a grand dining area
with a long table set up in a scene evocative of the Last Supper) using a cane, as if he is
feeble, helped along by a nurse. All eyes are on him as he slowly shuffles to the table.
Then, he breaks into laughter—this has been a joke.
41
His performance of self reveals a
desire to be the center of attention: and with this focus comes power. Everything is a
joke to this Lear—even his division of the kingdom. As he begins reciting his mandate
“Know that we have divided…” he is reading off of cue cards. He even plays up his lines
for comic effect as he says he has divided the kingdom in…then he pauses, looks at his
daughters, then back at the cards for “three.” The “show” continues as Lear has Goneril
(Emily Raymond) and then Regan (Ruth Gemmell) stand at the table and perform their
love test as a type of public toast. Lear really enjoys this as he hugs Regan, then
chuckles, then goes over to a map that has been wheeled out on an easel board to delegate
each space. When Cordelia refuses to “play along,” Lear goes to her, takes her hand, and
tries to get her to play along and “mend [her] speech.” When she instead reprimands her
sisters, looking at them while claiming she wouldn’t “love [her] father all” if she was

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married, Lear explodes, alternating hurt and angry in his boisterous condemnations. Lear
has one compelling moment where a different self is revealed: this spoiled, showy,
tantrum-throwing center of focus leans down in a quiet, private moment with Kent to
confide in him “I loved her most.” This is significant in that it conveys a more private
self—one that is explored later in the production, as discussed below. However, Lear
quickly returns to his violent rants, and these explosions set in motion a chain of episodes
of physical force that permeate the production.

Once the “game” of the division is over, the joke-like fun is usurped by a violent casting
off, and this violence exposes just how little agency even a feisty Cordelia is allowed.
When Lear verbally shoots “Hence and avoid my sight” at Cordelia, he proceeds to
physically chase her out of the room. Then, like venom spreading, Kent picks up the
violent impulse and commences at first to fight with Lear across the table, and then he
goes to Cordelia and drags her, roughly, back toward Lear while exclaiming “thy
youngest daughter does not love thee least.” The Lear/Kent fight soon escalates as they
push each other with their hands and fists, and finally Lear pulls a knife. When Kent
departs, banished, he again pulls Cordelia roughly. This time it is to hug her goodbye,
but he “manhandles” her nonetheless. She looks like a rag doll being dragged around the
stage. She exhibits no will of her own. Lear continues the pattern of physical abuse as he
pulls Cordelia down harshly on “her price has fallen” when in discussion with France and
Burgundy.
42
While Kent and Lear both display Cordelia for different reasons—Kent to

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defend her and Lear to show her as an ingrate—they both manhandle her in a way that
makes her an object. Even France controls Cordelia’s movement: when France agrees to
take Cordelia and gives his supportive speech, Lear claps sarcastically—he is still the
cruel jokester. Upon hearing the claps, Cordelia tries to flee the scene, but France stops
her and physically guides her back to say goodbye to her sisters. So, the “game” or
performance that has been played out for all to see and to absorb is one in which the male
is defined by the degree to which he can control the female.

Lear hurtles through the Goneril and Regan scenes in a flurry of alternating violence and
jokes that illustrate the breakdown of his performance of self: he punctuates his
complaints at Goneril’s castle with whips, but he makes a joke of “Does any here know
me?” He still plays to his men here, not understanding that he has already been
prescribed a different role. The fool’s “Lear’s shadow” comment doesn’t affect him at
all—he dismisses it with a swat of his hand. And after he rails and storms out on
“thankless child,” when he returns, he surprisingly cries to Albany about his knights.
This suggests not so much women’s weapons but an enactment of “old fools are babes
again,” a suggestion which he will come to embody more overtly as the production
progresses. In his altercation with Regan and Goneril at Gloucester’s, Lear does not
make an external show of his “hysterica passio”; he is too caught up in the whip-enabled
violent tantrum alternated with jokes (begging raiment). His cries on “women’s
weapons” are no joke, though, and as he explodes with his curses (“unnatural hags”), he

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finally runs off—a mixture of provocateur, tormentor, and tormented child, with no
stable, discernible identity after all. And in the storm, a more feeble looking Lear lays on
the ground, collapsed, and as he claims, “I will say nothing,” he slaps his hand over his
own mouth in a gesture that’s both literal and suggests that the jokes are finally over for
him—at least as perpetrator. He then curls up in a fetal position as the Fool and the other
men in his party cry over him. Is this a death? A rebirth? And, if so, as what is he being
reborn?

Lear’s transformation coincides with the shift of control to Goneril and Regan, and their
manifestation of power mirrors their father as they adopt his mode of communication or
increase their mobility. In the Gloucester torture scene, a diabolical Cornwall stands
behind the tied-up Gloucester, stroking his head and smiling. He stands with his back to
the audience, blocking the view when he plucks out the first eye, but the second plucking
is done in full view of the audience, with Cornwall seemingly gloating afterward. Regan
stabs Cornwall’s servant, but, in a twist, when Cornwall reveals he is hurt and extends his
arm for Regan to help him, she denies him by simply walking away (a motion that was
not allowed Cordelia in the opening scene; thus, the gendered space has changed).
Similarly, Goneril and Albany have a nasty physical fight/mocking discourse when she
arrives back home after her kiss with Edmund. They circle each other and as the insults
fly (“milk-livered man”), the fight escalates to a physical altercation. Yet this time in the

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face of male violence, Goneril is no puppet—she fights back. So violence is no longer
primarily the province of males, and both male and female are thus redefined.

The Lear/Cordelia reunion after the storm presents Lear adopting a space previously set
for females, and it also makes a cruel “joke” of him: he is no longer in control of how he
is “played.” He is wheeled on stage in a wheelchair, wearing a white robe, his arms in a
straightjacket, and sunglasses over his eyes. He has seemingly lost mobility, or at least
lost autonomy—he’s now the “puppet” or doll-like figure, but perversely so. And in a
cruelly ironic gesture, as Cordelia goes to him in sympathy, she takes his glasses off,
kneels to him, and then starts to pet his head. While this gesture is meant earnestly, it
eerily recalls Cornwall petting Gloucester’s head before he plucked out his eyes. After
the straightjacket is removed, Lear sinks to his knees and then eventually starts crawling,
which prompts Cordelia’s “please, your highness, walk!” All of his performed identities
have evaporated and the picture of “crawling unburdened toward death” also seems a
cruelly wicked irony. The private man underneath all of the jokes and tantrums who was
glimpsed in the first scene (in his quiet “I loved her most” exchange with Kent) returns in
the prison fantasy scene. When Lear suggests, “Come, let’s away to prison,” he and
Cordelia sit on the floor alone (only Edmund stands at the opposite side of the room,
watching them), hand in hand, and he speaks in a private tone to her. They sit, faces
together, in a moment of private intimacy, but a guard soon pulls them apart. Thus, they
have arguably lost themselves: Lear is in a feminized position of immobility, while

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Cordelia, who doesn’t use the language of violence, has no chance for survival either.
And the moments of privacy in which all of the performing is finally shed, are gone as
well. Yet in the final scene, Lear comes in dragging Cordelia like a wheelbarrow, but
without wheels. He still controls her movement; is he still trying to “be a man,” or is he
mourning the loss of a more authentic existence? And while he tries to resuscitate
Cordelia, he actually pushes on her chest, and this motion also looks as if he is choking
her. So he has not completely shed his original mode of expression. Either that, or this is
the final illustration of just what made everything fall apart.

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Chapter Four Endnotes

1
P. 12.

2
When I talk about the original “text” or “texts” of King Lear, I refer to Q1 and F. I believe that the text is
fluid, not static, and the various lines in the versions of the play can be used to create compellingly different
interpretations. See Gary Taylor’s The Division of the Kingdoms for an intriguing collection of essays on
the topic of the two primary texts and their implications. Further, the ways in which the text is altered and
adapted for stage and screen continues this proliferation of interpretation.

3
All quotations are taken from the 1997 edition of King Lear, edited by R.A. Foakes.

4
Foakes, R.A. Introduction to the Arden edition of King Lear, p. 1. Tate’s version, first edition performed
in 1681, was “later revised by George Coleman (1768), by David Garrick (1773), and by John Philip
Kemble (1808)” (Foakes, 85).

5
All quotations are taken from a Rutgers University online edition, edited by Jack Lynch, based on the first
edition of 1681, and “is transcribed from a copy in the Furness Collection at the University of
Pennsylvania.” http://ethnicity.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/tatelear.html.

6
It is interesting to note that when Edmund does visit Cordelia, with the intention of raping her, she cries:
“Help, murder, help! Gods! Some kind thunderbolt/ To strike me Dead” (3.1.354-5). This brings to mind
Titus’ Lavinia, who asks for murder rather than the shame of rape. Does Cordelia know what kind of
violence was intended? If so, that would reinforce the notion that she is her virtue.

7
This production excises the entire subplot of Edgar and Edmund; thus the first scene is cut. The text is
heavily edited throughout for this production. Interestingly, Alistair Cooke introduced the production by
saying, “Our version of King Lear runs about 73 minutes. Peter Brook said that if he’d had 3 hours, it
would still run 73 minutes,” which implies, of course, that Brook adapted/edited the text exactly the way he
wanted—what remains is what Brook considers the essence, or the heart, of the play.
8
The show was shot in black and white, so the costumes register in shades of dark or light—black, grey,
cream, and white.

9
Brook cuts the text in a similar way in his 1971 film, offering Cordelia no voice, and no space in which to
resist.

10
Brook rearranges this scene so that Lear sees Regan immediately upon entering the castle—he has not
yet seen Kent in the stocks, nor has he any inkling of undue alliances between Regan and Goneril.

11
When Lear curses Goneril in this scene, she’s in profile on the right of the screen, pointed toward the
middle of the screen. This is in opposition to Cordelia’s placement in scene 1—Cordelia, in profile, stands
on the left side of the screen, facing center. Does this imply the opposition of good versus evil? And, if so,
where does Lear “stand,” and how is that reflected in his screen position?

12
When Lear sees Kent in the stocks (here positioned after his meeting up with Regan at Gloucester’s, but
before Goneril has arrived there), Kent is also behind bars. This imprisonment reinforces a notion of
segregation and diminished capacity of persons and power associated with the king. It also brings the
image of what Kenneth Rothwell calls “a bondage Lear” to the forefront, with the squeaking steel and
forced enclosures.

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13
Since Brook eliminates the subplot, he has Oswald become the object of affection of both Goneril and
Regan.

14
Rothwell, Kenneth. A History of Shakespeare on Sceen, 2
nd
edition. UK: Cambridge UP, 2004, p. 80.

15
Brook was influenced by Jan Kott, Samuel Beckett, and The Theater of the Absurd in the bleak world he
presented in his 1962 RSC production. The production (and the 1971 film) showed a world that does not
exist in a particular historical time; the emphasis was on a bleak, hopeless humanity, beaten down by
emotional and physical environment.

16
This film is obviously more aligned with Brook’s 1962 stage production, also starring Paul Scofield as
Lear. However, I am focusing on the three filmic productions—Brook’s 1953 television production, his
1971 film (that contains elements of the 1962 production, but overall is quite different), and Kozintsev’s
1971 film—because I’m interested specifically in the ways in which the filmmakers use the camera to
present bodies in distress. For a comprehensive overview/analysis of both Brook’s 1962 stage production
and a comparison between the 1971 Brook and Kosintzev films, please see Leggatt’s Shakespeare in
Performance. Also, for a compelling assessment of the “film texts” of Brook and Kozintsev, see Barbara
Hodgdon, “Two King Lears: Uncovering the Filmtext.” Literature/Film Quarterly 11.3 (1983), 143-51.

17
I mean to use this phrase both literally, in terms of the play, and theoretically, in terms of a feminist
reading.

18
Pauline Kael famously “hated” the film, and titled her review “Peter Brook’s ‘Night of the Living
Dead,’” referencing the zombie-like state of the actors and their “dead eyes” (Kael, New Yorker, December
11, 1971). Quoted in Leggatt, p. 116.

19
Brook eliminates the Gloucester/Kent/Edmund dialogue from Shakespeare’s text, as well as Lear’s
announcement of “his darker purpose”—this Lear gets right to the point.

20
See Leggatt and Hodgdon for descriptions of text edits. Further, it is important to note that Brook
actually wrote the “Lear” story he wanted to tell as a narrative first, only later inserting the Shakespearean
dialogue he wanted to use (as described in Hodgdon).

21
P. 110.

22
In the lead up to this action, Regan hands Albany the letter that Goneril sent to Edmund conveying her
feelings, and, upon that revelation (Albany quickly reads the letter to himself), Albany asks Goneril,
“knowest thou this letter?” to which Goneril replies, “Ask me not what I know” and then proceeds to brain
Regan. Thus, like Lear, she uses few words. It’s as if she one-ups Lear here—where in the opening scene,
Lear “undoes” Cordelia by disassociating himself from her quickly, here Goneril “unmakes” Regan by
killing her.

23
Analyzing this production is complicated by the fact that I’ve had to view this film, in Russian, with
English subtitles. Pasternak didn’t just translate Shakespeare’s text; he updated it into contemporary
Russian. And the subtitles clearly show 1) Shakespeare’s language and 2) that what is being said on screen
is not precisely what is written in subtitle. (Leggatt notes the same in his chapter on this film.)

24
Leggatt notes this as well.

25
In this production, Edgar’s transformation into Poor Tom is critical, and poignant. He doesn’t just think
up his disguise based on information he’s heard about the Bedlam beggars; he’s hiding behind some stones,
dirty and desperate, and he sees peasants walking by. He mimics their dress (rips his clothes and puts dirt

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on his face) and then falls in line behind them. He has become Poor Tom. This production showcases a
rare instance in which the audience feels the real danger Edgar finds himself in, and it also suggests that
we’re all just a step away from the peasant, if that.

26
Leggatt, p. 96.

27
Alexander Leggatt interestingly describes the set, which is a red room containing a long, rectangular
table and chairs, around which the family sits: “The long table has dual suggestions in the first scene. We
are in a board room for a business meeting; and we are at a dinner table for a family discussion. We are not
in a throne room. There is no throne, and Lear’s authority consists of sitting at the head of the table,
making him chairman of the board (with the puns inherent in those words) and the head of the family”
(146-7).

28
Ibid, p. 160.

29
Rothwell, p. 265.

30
Interestingly, this act is parodied on two different occasions: at Goneril’s castle, the fool, a doppelganger
for Lear in terms of physical appearance, jumps on the table during his “lesson” of “Have more than thou
showest…”, and on the heath in the storm, Poor Tom steps on a stump (platform) while Lear stands in awe
of “the thing itself,” recognizing “unaccommodated man.” So, Lear has gone from all-powerful king to
fool to “the thing itself.” Yet is this truly a diminution? Was he all “hot air” as king? Was his “self”
merely a construction maintained by verbal terror? Or is the thing itself “fake” as well? After all, Poor
Tom is Edgar… Is all identity a façade in this production? Certainly the males see their pretences
exploded. And what’s left, after all?

31
Leggatt, p. 157.

32
Ibid, p. 168.

33
From the Globe Bulletin: King Lear, a compendium of notes on the 2001 production. Accessed via
Internet at: http://globe-education.org/files/King_Lear_Bulletin_Final_Collated.pdf.

34
Ibid., p. 3.

35
Ibid., p. 5.

36
Ibid., p. 3.

37
And, again, here I argue for a “seat,” both literally and figuratively as increasingly not gender-specific as
all of the parameters set out by Lear have been exposed as fallacies.

38
Further, when Lear is put in new, white clothes (he stripped to a loincloth in the storm), he is specifically
“meant to be dressed like Cordelia in scene 1” (Kyle, Globe Bulletin, p. 6). So, the uneasy association of
center/margin and the costs of the sphere of power are emphasized.

39
These eye-pluckings and display elicited a very loud reaction from the audience, from groans to screams
to gasps.

40
This review is from when the production moved from Stratford to London. Spencer, and many other
critics, gave Redgrave’s characterization of Lear a middling to poor review. The production overall
received middling reviews, but, for the purposes of my exploration of gender and violence, this is right on

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point. However, this presentation of a middle-aged, vigorous figure is at first confusing, and runs
somewhat counter to the traditional textual understanding of the character. Further, it complicates the
motive for the division of the kingdom—why would a not-yet-old king want to give up his kingdom so that
he could “crawl unburdened toward death”…in about thirty years? Spencer and other critics make these
points as well (Spencer specifically mentions the “crawl unburdened” line in his review).

41
This scene is oddly reminiscent of Gene Wilder’s entrance as Willy Wonka in the 1971 US film.

42
This pattern of suggested physical abuse recalls the 1993 Adrian Noble/Robert Stephens RSC
production, where Goneril is terrified of Lear when he raises a whip to her at different points in the play.
Further, that implied abuse carries into her relationship with Albany, who raises a hand to her as if to beat
her.

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Conclusion

In my investigation of the intersection of gender and violence in the playtexts and select
stage and screen productions of Titus Andronicus, Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear, I have
found that a significant underlying current exists that suggests both male and female
models of gender construction are not only faulty, but unsustainable. I believe I have
shown that current to be an innate structural part of the original written texts, and that no
matter what types of cuts or enhancements are made in the productions assessed, what
cannot be fully excised or subjugated is the notion that the trend toward violent
destruction in the plays and productions derives from, or is linked in some way
(consciously or subconsciously) to, an inability to fully inhabit or sustain the gender
models as prescribed. Moreover, it is precisely at moments of verbal or physical
violence—Lavinia’s rape and its aftermath; Hamlet and Ophelia’s emotional and (in
production) physical clash in the nunnery scene and Ophelia’s subsequent expressions of
madness; Othello’s fit, his curses against Desdemona, and his ultimate murder of her; and
Lear’s attempted subjugation, banishment, and cursing of female forces—that the gender
conflict most fully reveals itself. The more the main characters in these four tragedies try
to “perform themselves” or enact their prescribed roles—be it a male as defined by
martial might or a female that is expected to serve as echo and as embodiment of
chastity—the more they are evacuated of agency: they thus render these constructions
destructive or false rather than confirming them. And, as the productions variously

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suggest, either the models completely collapse, as in Titus, Hamlet, or Lear, or this
collapse directs our view to the possibility of an alternative space, as in the Buchowetzki
and Parker productions of Othello, which highlight homosocial pairings.

In all four plays and their incarnations, one main problematic is that the designated
female space (if any is allowed) is devoid of subjectivity.
1
Lavinia is the object of
exchange between Titus, Saturninus, and Bassianus, and she has minimal (a momentary
look of alarm or a flinching gesture in productions) to no say as to where she goes—or to
whom. Similarly, Ophelia is constantly being corralled by Polonius and Laertes, and
even by Claudius and Gertrude in her mad scenes, in an effort to contain her and to limit
her emotional (or physical) experience. Following suit, Desdemona is envisioned by
Brabantio as a static, yet angelic-seeming body who is so delicate that any type of
thought would cause her to blush. Finally, Cordelia has only been viewed as an echo of
her father, and when she exhibits agency in the form of a voice of her own, which
contests Lear’s “truth,” she betrays a sense of autonomy and thus is banished for it.
Moreover, underlying all of these male-endorsed and enforced notions of woman as
object is a sense that any motion is associated with an active sexuality, and, I would
argue, this fear of the power of female sexuality further fuels the male drive to contain
the female and to evacuate her of any agency. Both the Lavinia betrothal exchange (to
Bassianus, then to Saturninus, then back to Bassianus) and her subsequent rape rest upon
Lavinia’s perceived chastity, and the value this chastity gives her—or gives the men who

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“take” or “own” it. Alternately, Ophelia is warned, guarded, and sequestered by her
father and brother in an effort to prevent her romance with Hamlet, and Hamlet’s epithets
in the nunnery scene also point toward her sequestering. Further, the breach between
Desdemona and her father derives from the fact that she has “divided her duty,”
specifically through marriage, and Othello’s subsequent dismay is a result of the
suggestion of Desdemona’s infidelity. Finally, Lear upends his kingdom and family
because he, arguably, cannot stand the thought of a Cordelia who will not give him “all,”
especially if she is married, which assumes sexual activity. So the model of woman as
inanimate object breaks apart as soon as the suggestion of sexuality enters male
consciousness. However the female is also an object of desire for males, so this web of
conflicting desires (to attain her sexually, to prevent her from using her sexuality)
complicates both the subject/object divide and makes it impossible for the female to
flourish because as soon as she acts (what men want), she is punished (what men want).

The male construction in these texts is just as untenable as the female: identified with
martial might, and the understanding that physical force is aligned with honor in terms of
military prowess or the ability to protect one’s family or society, these plays and
productions catalogue not a series of honorable, sustainable acts, but a series of painfully
destructive acts that undo them rather than preserve them. Further, the male characters’
inability to “act like a man” in a way that sustains the construct, whether through physical

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force or the force of the voice, reveals the influence of other forces aligned with
femininity that either redefine, “rebirth,” or overcome them. For instance, Titus’s shift
from the ideal martial male, riding into Rome with a parade of laurels, to powerless
outcast, is not only marked by Titus’s use of weapons or words. It is through tears, as
they become his “prevailing orators,” that we most fully see Titus’s transition. The
culmination of these tears in his “I am the sea” speech, during which he is entangled
(physically and emotionally) with a devastated, violated Lavinia, brings both male and
female constructs close to collapse. Similarly, both Othello and Lear are “rebirthed,” of
sorts, as Othello is overtaken by passion in his “fit,” and Lear tries to hold back tears, or
“women’s weapons,” is overcome by “hysterica passio,” or the “mother,” and finally
undergoes a baptism of sorts by the most effusive flow of tears imaginable: the storm.
And when Othello and Lear revert to the violence of their traditional constructs
(Othello’s castigation and then murder of Desdemona; Lear’s prison fantasy for him and
Cordelia and his handling of her body after her death), both male and female are
destroyed. Though Hamlet is never quite able to even fully enact the male model because
of the desires imposed upon him by others (Hamlet’s father) or the corrupted models
presented to him (Claudius), he enacts a parody of manhood in his treatment of Ophelia
in the nunnery, Mousetrap, and funeral scenes, which only serves to illuminate just how
hollow these constructs have become. In fact, the inability of the males in all four plays
to either inhabit, fulfill, maintain, or pass on sustaining characteristics underscores just
how tenuous, and I would argue destructive, they are and thus initiate the need for
alternative models. So, ultimately, these tragedies are not simply tragedies of hubris (in

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the Aristotelian sense); they are tragedies of a specific hubris or fear or struggle that
comes from a direct link to unsustainable or faulty models of gender.

The study of stage, television, and film productions of these plays has allowed me to see
just how pervasive the gender conflicts (and how false the gender constructs) are
throughout, regardless of the historical time in which they were produced, take place, or
were first shown or performed. For instance, three Hamlet productions from different
time periods may use different methods of constraint/containment, yet they all ultimately
reveal faulty gender constructs through violent episodes: Jean Simmons, the Ophelia in
Olivier’s 1948 film, is thrown down on the floor and abandoned or stepped over and
ignored, yet this dismissal of her and the further constraints placed on her by framing her
in arches, windowsills, or even the brook, thus aestheticizing her, don’t fully work as her
loud, echoing cries haunt the castle, and the men, and reveal the damage that their gender
constraints have wrought. Olivier uses a camera pullback in the nunnery scene (up the
stairs, with Ophelia ever receding from view, lying in a heap on the floor at the very
bottom) and the subsequent sobs to show how the impetus of men to dismiss women not
only haunts them but undoes them as Ophelia’s cries overshadow Hamlet’s “To Be”
speech, thus rendering it—and him-- hollow. The Gielgud/Burton 1964 stage production
(filmed in real time with a theatrical audience present) takes a different tactic to uncover
the gender unrest: Linda Marsh’s Ophelia, having been under the constant watch of
Polonius (Hume Cronyn) until his death and of no use to anyone (she is frequently left

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alone on stage at scene endings, reinforcing the notion that she exists outside of the
power structure, though Polonius does check on her if only to make sure she doesn’t
move freely), sees (in her madness) no autonomous space in the toxic environment of
Denmark. From the point of Hamlet’s rejection and her father’s death, she first mimics
the male model, gaining in voice (volume) and motion, which causes visible unease to
Claudius, Gertrude, and Laertes—she has clearly overstepped her bounds. Then, she
imitates male action in the only way she is able: she turns it to self-abuse as she takes a
running leap off a platform as if to jump to her death. And though Laertes catches her,
this action certainly suggests that she ultimately does kill herself and that, arguably, the
male constraints that have been placed on her result in her realizing the only agency she
has is to end her own life. Finally, Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 film presents a vision of
Ophelia (Kate Winslet) as seemingly sexually free (Branagh uses flashback sequences to
show the two having sex) yet ultimately more (literally and figuratively) imprisoned than
ever. Both Polonius and Hamlet physically abuse her (pushing her, throwing her, locking
her up), and the fact that she has been sexually active seems to give the men more license
to restrain her, as she is a more aggressive threat due to her “experience.” In fact, this
Ophelia is such a threat that she ends up in a straightjacket in one mad scene, and, at the
end of the second mad scene, she seems to give up trying to gain any space as she walks
calmly to a padded cell (though she later reveals that she has hidden a key in her mouth,
so she presumably uses it to escape and kill herself). All three of these Hamlet
productions, filmed/performed at different times covering a span of 48 years, and taking
place in different historical time periods as well, still unleash a barrage of images that

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reveal the cost of the violent gender conflict on the bodies involved. And though it’s
fairly obvious or easy to say that these similarities arise from the fact that the same play
is being enacted, I argue otherwise: these productions offer three quite different
characterizations of Ophelia and her limitations and use different methods to show the
definition of her space, or lack thereof. In fact, they create scenarios or images that don’t
exist in the original texts (the suicide jump, sex, the padded cell) to distinguish
themselves. So the overriding feeling/revelation of the suffocating gender constructs as
mainstay is particularly compelling.

My exploration of different modes of viewing has also elicited compelling contrasts,
especially in the ways bodies in distress are presented—or handled—on the small versus
large screens (television versus film). In the television productions I assess, the camera
elicits an intimacy via extreme close-up, as in Jonathan Miller’s BBC production of
Othello, in which Miller follows Anthony Hopkins-as-Othello’s dissolution into a stream
of tears in a series of seemingly private moments. Other television productions such as
the 1953 Brook/Welles Lear (adapted for American television from a British staging) and
the 1998 Eyre/Holm Lear (adapted and shot for television from the 1997 stage
production) take the cataclysmic declension of Lear and lock it into a tightly framed
family drama, thus evoking a feeling of bodies suffocating from the constraints. Further,
in Miller’s Othello and Jane Howell’s 1985 production of Titus Andronicus, both BBC
productions made for television, the camera doesn’t just give us an intimate view; it

283
enacts a violence of its own on bodies by shifting focus away from female figures
(Lavinia post-rape or Desdemona as she is being murdered and after she is dead) and by
cutting them out of frame, thus exacerbating the struggle of these figures to define
themselves or to hold on to any secure identity. Where the television camera and framing
lock bodies in (or out), the films I assess tend to emphasize vast landscapes in order to
enhance the scope of the devastation on the bodies. Brook’s and Kozintsev’s Lear films
impose an environmental as well as emotional and physical punishment on bodies. Julie
Taymor’s Titus uses wide shots to encompass a landscape that she argues engulfs all of
history in which to explore the transhistorical nature of violence. And Branagh’s Hamlet
uses the vast landscape in contrast to the goings-on in the castle (Blenheim Palace) in
order to illustrate (in one scene with Hamlet, particularly) just how small he is in the
global equation. Yet most compelling to me in terms of film is the way in which the
directors use flashbacks, fantasies, or video manipulation to offer alternative narratives of
self. From Taymor’s “penny-arcade nightmare” sequences that illustrate the changing
status of the characters (the PANs interpret both Titus and Lavinia’s redefinition by
violence), to Branagh’s Hamlet/Ophelia scenes of sexual play, to Parker’s flash fantasies
of Desdemona having sex with Cassio—fantasies that ultimately condemn Desdemona
both in Othello’s mind’s eye and, arguably, in the viewers eye, to Almereyda’s use of
videotape machines on which Ethan Hawke’s Hamlet constructs alternative realities,
these manipulations offer space for reinterpretation of gender constructs, yet still enforce
the violence and devastation of those constructs.

284
In a final comment on the stage, I return to where I started: with the 2006 productions of
Titus at the Globe and in Stratford. In these, and other stage productions I assess, the
safety of the viewer is disrupted by a sight (Lavinia’s maimed, bloody body being carried
through the audience) or a sound (Marcus’s protracted scream upon seeing Lavinia, post-
rape), and, arguably, this is where the plays exert their cultural influence. Though both
Lucy Bailey (Globe) and Yukio Ninagawa (RSC) both state that they see violence as
transhistorical (“then” and “now”), the ways in which we receive, confront, assess, or
dismiss these images (or sounds associated therein) defines our own notion of, among
other things, gender construction. I see my project as offering something new in the way
that I read both the older and the newer “texts.” Scholars such as Susan Bennett and
Alisa Solomon look to unconventional adaptations of Shakespeare through which to
explore gender concerns, and they see those productions as being most “fit” through
which to find fresh expression. They thus find the most meaning in Shakespeare outside
of Shakespeare’s texts. Counter to those notions, I find that revisiting more “traditional”
productions from the RSC and National theaters and the BBC offers exceptional support
to my claims of the innate nature of the gender conflicts. Further, in the more loose
adaptations such as Buchowetzki’s and Parker’s films of Othello, as discussed above, the
shifting focus offers an alternative view of relational structures. And in the various
enactments of “becoming,” of using tears as “prevailing orators,” of succumbing to
“women’s weapons” or “hysterica passio,” or of being overwhelmed by fits of passion,
the words and concepts of the old texts speak across time, and offer views of gender that
are in transition or that collapse the binaries that have been set up.

285
Conclusion Endnotes

1
Obviously, characters such as Tamora in Titus, Gertrude in Hamlet, and Goneril and Regan in Lear do
exhibit agency, yet as I argue below, female agency is associated with danger—especial in terms of sexual
power, which these characters exhibit. Thus, they, too, ultimately illustrate how the female paradigm is
basic on a static notion and any “movement,” sexual or otherwise, initiates an instinct in the male to
suppress or contain them.

286
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Appendix: Main Productions Cited

Title: Titus Andronicus
Form: Theatrical production
Director: Peter Brook
Cast: Titus Laurence Olivier
Lavinia Vivien Leigh
Venue: Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon
Production Company: Royal Shakespeare Company
Year: 1955
Archival materials consulted: promptbook, production photographs, reviews
Materials viewed at Shakespeare Centre Library and Archive, Stratford-upon-Avon

Title: Titus Andronicus
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on videotape)
Director: Deborah Warner
Cast: Titus Brian Cox
Lavinia Sonia Ritter
Venue: Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon; The Pit, London
Production company: Royal Shakespeare Company
Year: 1987, 1988
Archival materials consulted: videotape, production photographs, actors’ notes, reviews
Materials viewed at Shakespeare Centre Library and Archive, Stratford-upon-Avon

Title: Titus Andronicus
Form: Television production (viewed on DVD)
Director: Jane Howell
Cast: Titus Trevor Peacock
Lavinia Anna Calder-Marshall
Production company: BBC/Time-Life
Year: 1985

Title: Titus
Form: Film (viewed on DVD, with commentary)
Director: Julie Taymor
Cast: Titus Anthony Hopkins
Lavinia Laura Fraser
Production companies: Fox Searchlight Pictures, Clear Blue Sky Productions, and
Overseas Film Group
Year: 1999

294
Title: Titus Andronicus
Form: Theatrical production (viewed in-person in 2006 and on videotape in 2011)
Director: Lucy Bailey
Cast: Titus Douglas Hodge
Lavinia Laura Rees
Venue: Globe Theatre
Production company: Globe Theatre
Year: 2006
Archival materials consulted: videotape, programme, production notes, reviews
Materials viewed at the Globe Theatre research library, London

Title: Titus Andronicus
Form: Theatrical production (viewed in person in 2006 and on videotape in 2011)
Director: Yukio Ninagawa
Cast: Titus Kotaro Yoshida
Lavinia Hitomi Manaka
Venue: Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon
Production company: The Ninagawa Company, Horipro Inc., and Saitama Arts
Foundation in association with Thelma Holt
Year: 2006
Archival materials consulted: videotape, reviews, programme
Materials viewed at Shakespeare Centre Library and Archive, Stratford-upon-Avon

Title: Hamlet
Form: Film (viewed on DVD)
Director: Laurence Olivier
Cast: Hamlet Laurence Olivier
Ophelia Jean Simmons
Production company: Two Cities Film
Year: 1948

Title: Hamlet (Gamlet)
Form: Film (viewed on DVD)
Director: Grigori Kozintsev
Cast: Hamlet Innokenti Smoktunovsky
Ophelia Anastasiya Vertinskaya
Production company: Lenfilm
Year: 1964

Title: Hamlet
Form: Filmed stage production (DVD)
Director: John Gielgud
Cast: Hamlet Richard Burton
Ophelia Linda Marsh

295
Production company: Classic Cinemas
Year: 1964
Archival materials consulted: DVD, production notebook, reviews

Title: Hamlet
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on videotape)
Director: Ron Daniels
Cast: Hamlet Mark Rylance
Ophelia Rebecca Saire
Venue: Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon
Production company: Royal Shakespeare Company
Year: 1989
Archival materials consulted: videotape, production notes, reviews
Materials viewed at Shakespeare Centre Library and Archive, Stratford-upon-Avon

Title: Hamlet
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on videotape)
Director: Adrian Noble
Cast: Hamlet Kenneth Branagh
Ophelia Joanna Pearce
Venue: Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon
Production company: Royal Shakespeare Company
Year: 1993
Archival materials consulted: videotape, production notes, reviews
Materials viewed at Shakespeare Centre Library and Archive, Stratford-upon-Avon

Title: Hamlet
Form: Film (viewed on DVD)
Director: Kenneth Branagh
Cast: Hamlet Kenneth Branagh
Ophelia Kate Winslet
Production company: Castle Rock Entertainment
Year: 1996

Title: Hamlet
Form: Film (viewed on DVD)
Director: Michael Almereyda
Cast: Hamlet Ethan Hawke
Ophelia Julia Stiles
Production company: Miramax Films
Year: 2000

Title: Hamlet
Form: Film, adapted from a stage production (viewed on DVD)

296
Director: Gregory Doran
Cast: Hamlet David Tennant
Ophelia Mariah Gale
Production company: Royal Shakespeare Company, BBC TV, NHK
Year: 2009
Archival materials consulted: DVD, reviews
Materials viewed at the Shakespeare Institute Library, Stratford-upon-Avon

Title: Hamlet
Form: filmed stage production (viewed on DVD, with additional short film/director’s
commentary)
Director: Nicholas Hytner
Cast: Hamlet Rory Kinnear
Ophelia Ruth Negga
Production company: National Theatre
Year: 2010
Archival materials consulted: DVD, reviews
Materials viewed at the National Theatre archives, London

Title: Othello
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on videotape)
Director: Terry Hands
Cast: Othello Ben Kingsley
Desdemona Niamh Cusack
Venue: Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon
Production company: Royal Shakespeare Company
Year: 1985
Archival materials consulted: videotape, reviews, photographs, production notes
Materials viewed at Shakespeare Centre Library and Archive, Stratford-upon-Avon

Title: Othello
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on videotape)
Director: Sam Mendes
Cast: Othello David Harewood
Desdemona Claire Skinner
Venue: Old Vic Theatre, London
Production company: National Theatre
Year: 1997
Materials viewed at the National Theatre archives, London

297
Title: Othello
Form: Film (viewed on television)
Director: Dmitri Buchowetzki
Cast: Othello Emil Jannings
Desdemona Ica von Lenkeffy
Production company : Worner film
Year: 1922

Title: Othello
Form: Film (viewed on DVD—re-release version)
Director: Orson Welles
Cast: Othello Orson Welles
Desdemona Suzanne Cloutier
Production company: Mercury (re-released by Castle Hill)
Year: 1952 (re-release: 1992)

Title: Othello
Form: Film based on stage production (viewed on DVD)
Director: Stuart Burge (John Dexter—director of stage production)
Cast: Othello Laurence Olivier
Desdemona Maggie Smith
Production company: British Home Entertainment (film)
Year: 1965
Archival materials consulted: promptbook, production notes, and reviews from the
1964 theatrical production, on which this was based.
Materials viewed at the National Theatre archives, London

Title: Othello
Form: Television production (viewed on DVD)
Director: Jonathan Miller
Cast: Othello Anthony Hopkins
Desdemona Penelope Wilton
Production company: BBC/Time-Life
Year: 1981

Title: Othello
Form: Film (viewed on DVD)
Director: Oliver Parker
Cast: Othello Laurence Fishburne
Desdemona Irene Jacob
Production company: Castle Rock Entertainment
Year: 1995

298

Title: King Lear
Form: Television production (viewed on DVD)
Director: Peter Brook (camera direction by Andrew McCullough)
Cast: Lear Orson Welles
Cordelia Natasha Parry
Production company: Omnibus
Year: 1953

Title: King Lear
Form: Film (viewed on videotape)
Director: Peter Brook
Cast: Lear Paul Scofield
Cordelia Diana Rigg
Production company: Filmways
Year: 1971

Title: King Lear
Form: Film (viewed on DVD)
Director: Grigori Kozintsev
Cast: Lear Yuri Yarvet
Cordelia Valentina Shendrikova
Production company: Lenfilm
Year: 1969

Title: King Lear
Form: filmed stage production adapted for television (viewed on DVD)
Director: Richard Eyre
Cast: Lear Ian Holm
Cordelia Victoria Hamilton
Production company: BBC2
Year: 1998

Title: King Lear
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on DVD)
Director: Barry Kyle
Cast: Lear Julian Glover
Cordelia Tonia Charvet
Venue: Globe Theatre, London
Production Company: Globe Theatre
Year: 2001
Archival materials consulted: DVD, production notes, reviews, programme
Materials viewed at the Globe Theatre research library, London

299
Title: King Lear
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on DVD)
Director: Dominic Dromgoole
Cast: Lear David Calder
Cordelia Jodie McNee
Venue: Globe Theatre, London
Production Company: Globe Theatre
Year: 2008
Archival materials consulted: DVD, production notes, reviews, programme
Materials viewed at the Globe Theatre research library, London

Title: King Lear
Form: Theatrical production (viewed on videotape)
Director: Bill Alexander
Cast: Lear Corin Redgrave
Cordelia Sian Brooke
Venue: Royal Shakespeare Theatre
Production Company: Royal Shakespeare Company
Year: 2004
Archival materials consulted: videotape, reviews, photographs, production notes
Materials viewed at Shakespeare Centre Library and Archive, Stratford-upon-Avon

Abstract (if available)

Abstract My project examines the ways that acts of violence intersect with notions of gender in stage, film, and television productions of Titus Andronicus, Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear. In these four tragedies, an unrelenting amount of verbal and physical violence is perpetrated against the female body, and I find that these acts—especially as revealed through violence of male figures against females—reflect an underlying sense of faulty gender construction. As Titus tries to transition into civilian life as a heralded citizen of “honorable” Rome, or Hamlet attempts to “become” a man in charge of setting his political and familial environment straight, or Othello struggles to live up to the honorable narratives he has built for himself, or, finally, Lear makes the cataclysmic mistake of determining that he can “shake all cares” and still maintain his position in his family and society, these male figures show how their disrupted transitions are innately tied to a troubling sense of just what makes a man or a woman. The male ideal in these plays is tied to a notion of martial might and honor, while the female is defined by her lack of space and voice, and her main measure of value is her chastity. Thus a subject/object divide is exposed, and gender and violence collide in scenes such as Lavinia’s rape and the way the males interpret Lavinia thereafter, the nunnery scene and Ophelia’s mad scenes, Othello’s fit and his subsequent accusations and murder of Desdemona, and Lear’s alternate banishing and cursing of his daughters or his fear of succumbing to such “female forces” as “hysterica passio” or being exposed as weak by emitting tears or “women’s weapons,” as he calls them. And through these violent episodes, the previously sanctioned gender constructs—both male and female—prove untenable. ❧ I argue that the faulty gender constructions are a crucial structural element to these plays

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Asset Metadata

Creator Fisher, Laurie Dawn (author)

Core Title 'This object kills me': the intersection of gender and violence in performance of Shakespearean tragedy

School College of Letters, Arts and Sciences

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program English

Publication Date 05/01/2012

Defense Date 03/28/2012

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag gender,OAI-PMH Harvest,Performance,Shakespeare,Violence

Language English

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

Advisor Smith, Bruce R. (committee chair), Lemon, Rebecca (committee member), Mancall, Peter C. (committee member), Rollo, David (committee member)

Creator Email ldfisher@usc.edu,lfish1@yahoo.com

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c3-18648

Unique identifier UC11289150

Identifier usctheses-c3-18648 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-FisherLaur-688-1.pdf

Dmrecord 18648

Document Type Dissertation

Rights Fisher, Laurie Dawn

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the a...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus MC 2810, 3434 South Grand Avenue, 2nd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90089-2810, USA