The Blackfriars Playhouse

Last Sunday, thirty students traveled the short distance to the nearby town of Staunton, Virginia to view Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.  Drooping eyelids and lackluster stares caused by late night festivities characterized the majority of the group.  The class’s enthusiasm paled in comparison to the professor’s.  I drove to Staunton dreading a two-hour performance with a plot that I couldn’t follow in language I couldn’t understand.  Renaissance Literature isn’t one of “my favorite things.”  In other words, I avoid it at all costs.

Blackfriars PlayhouseBut my initial – and less than enthusiastic – attitude was overcome by a very different reaction.  The Blackfriars Playhouse’s simple wooden railings and a hand-painted stage generated intrigue that countered my earlier feelings of woe.  My history major tendencies engulfed me as I thumbed through a pamphlet I snagged in the lobby.

The Blackfriars Playhouse in Staunton is the only recreation of Shakespeare’s Blackfriars Theatre, the first indoor theatre in the English-speaking world.  At the Blackfriars Playhouse Staunton, the American Shakespeare Center performs Shakespeare’s works under their original staging conditions, which I learned meant on a simple stage without elaborate sets and an audience that shares the same lighting conditions as the actors.  I was expecting an intricate set and ornate, Elizabethan costumes only to realize that I knew nothing about the true essence of Shakespeare and his techniques.

So, how does this apply to literature you ask?  Shakespeare’s works, specifically his plays, build upon basic, yet classic, principals that are still prevalent in modern literature.  His literature matches the simplicity of the theaters they were preformed in.  Julius Caesar stresses conflicts that force the reader to contemplate what separates a passionate martyr from a greedy tyrant?  Are Brutus and Cassius noble executioners or butchers?  What is Caesar’s ambition?  Was he virtuous or evil?  Or was Caesar simply a victim of humanities weaknesses? Blackfriars Playhouse

Shakespeare echoed building upon basic fundamentals in order to communicate the magnitude of his literature to audiences and readers.  Simplicity governed his approach to his writing and productions. Unlike his original theatre, his literary techniques survived the test of time.  I wonder if he would be as impressed by Staunton’s version of The Blackfriars Playhouse as I was.


Christopher Marlowe’s “Doctor Faustus”

Christopher MarloweChristopher Marlowe’s play Doctor Faustus recounts the tragic tale of a man who sells his soul to Lucifer.  Religious controversy in the play reflects the early seventeenth century Reformation.  Doctor Faustus appears to readers as an educated but ordinary man.  Faustus changes into an extreme example of a human being when he must choose between being satisfied with wisdom he already attains or selling his soul in exchange for power and knowledge.  From this predicament, Marlowe reflects the religious debate of free will versus predestination that surfaces in Christianity.

The conflict compels Faustus to either take control of his choices or be subjected to fate.  Three questions beg to be answered.  Does humanity have the ability to choose his destiny or does God control who is and is not damned? Does an individual have the choice to repent or do the heavens conspire against him?  Must one subject to a predestined fate in order to relieve themselves of the burdens of their consequences?  Marlowe portrays the weakness of humanity and alludes to Faustus’s ultimate decision of accepting God’s damnation through the dialogue between Faustus and the Good Angel and Evil Angel in Act Two Scene Three.

Good Angel: Faustus, repent yet, God will pity thee.

Evil Angel: Thou art a spirit.  God cannot pity thee.

Faustus: Who buzzeth in mine ears I am a spirit?
            Be I a devil, yet God may pity me;
Ay, God will pity me if I repent.

Evil Angel: Ay, but Faustus never shall repent.

Faustus: My heart’s so hardened I cannot repent.
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven
But fearful echoes thunders in mine ears:
“Faustus, thou art damned!” Then swords and knives,
Poison, guns, halters, and envenomed steel
Are laid before me to dispatch myself
Had not sweet pleasure conquered deep despair.
Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander’s love and Oenone’s death.

Faustus reveals an important aspect of his character by choosing to sell his soul to Lucifer and settle for the theory of predestination.  Faustus convinces himself that he is chosen to be damned so that he isn’t forced to bear the guilt for his choices.  By claiming he was doomed from the beginning, he avoids the consequences of his actions and transfers the blame to God.  The Good Angel reveals Faustus’s blindness by reminding him that free will is possible if he chooses it.  Marlowe used Faustus as an anecdote for a larger trend he viewed during the early seventeenth century.

Faustus and Lucifer

Marlowe distinguished between those he considered enlightened and those he deemed stubborn and obtuse by classifying the enlightened as those who chose to exercise free will and bore the consequences of their decisions and those who simply resigned themselves to their predestined fate and excused themselves from penalties amassed by their choices.

 


Gonzo Journalism

I recently read two of the most prolific examples of Gonzo journalism in my Journalism 318: Literature of Journalism.  With the recent addition of a Mass Communications minor to my degree audit, I added several Journalism classes to a course load already laden with writing heavy History and English classes.  My initial reaction to the differences between journalism and literature was that one conveyed hard facts while the other created a story to relay a truth.  Or better yet, an atmosphere.  It never occurred to me that the two occasionally combine.  But they do.  And as I read Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, I became enthralled with Gonzo journalism at its finest.

            Gonzo journalism combines describing the action while simultaneously living it.  Thompson did this in his acid-trip of all acid-trips to Las Vegas.  He wrote in a first-person narrative in order to achieve an accurate representation of the scenario through personal experiences and emotions.  Elements of literature enter journalism as a Gonzo journalist forsakes hard facts for the sake of conveying a particular interpretation of the situation to the reader.  By using sarcasm, humor, and exaggeration, Thompson revealed a satirical journey he experienced into the heart of the American dream.

Tom Wolfe approaches Gonzo journalism in a slightly different fashion.  He maintains a first-person narrator throughout the story.  He is physically next to Ken Kesey.  But he stays outside the realm of immediate action.  Wolfe dictates the journey of the Merry Pranksters and the kool-aid teaming Acid Graduations as an outsider.  But his creative approach and prose saturated in Owsley acid make him a less reliable narrator.  Similar to his friend and colleague Thompson, Wolfe wished to conjure a portrait of the Merry Pranksters by using elements of journalism and literature.   And in a book that reeks of marijuana, Hell’s Angels, and LSD, he did just that.


Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Born on January 19, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts, many credit Edgar Allan Poe as the father of the detective story.  Poe found himself orphaned at the age of three after his mother died and his father left the family.  John and Frances Allen, successful Virginia tobacco merchants, adopted Poe and raised him.  Poe initially attended West Point Military Academy before his expulsion for failing to fulfill his military duties.  His infamous detective stories started in 1841 with the publication of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”  He won a literary prize in 1843 for “The Gold Bug.”  He reached his height of fame with the “The Raven” in 1845.  Poe entered a period of declining health after the death of his wife Virginia in 1847.  He passed away on October 7, 1849.


Descent by Kathryn Stripling Byer

The Louisiana University Press recently debuted Kathryn Stripling Byer’s book of poetry titled, Descent.  Byer frequently contributes her work to Shenandoah.  David Huddle reviewed the book and wrote that,

“Byer’s work is to be cherished for its beauty, its courage, and the gift of its revelation.  Her poems shine a light that we yearn for here in the darkness of the first century.” 

The following poem from Descent, titled “Gone Again,” first appeared in Shenandoah.

“Gone Again”

I used to believe Scarlett would forever be

standing atop that small rise of Georgia clay

staring at Tara, intoning Tomorrow, Tomorrow,

that sad pace of syllables, the Old South

newly colorized, ready to hoodwink another generation

of belles.  But I won’t be among them,

no doddering old lady still telling of how

I remember my mother reciting her tales

of the premiere of Loew’s Grand theater,

all Atlanta agape at the glitterati.  No ma’am.

 

I have sat through that gorgeous monstrosity

five times in English and once in dubbed

Spanish.  Miss Scarlett does not anymore stir

me into a passion of Southernness.

 

Once I imagined myself limping home

with a worthless mule, nothing but rags

in a wagon, waiting for the moon to reveal

the house still standing , me weeping

into my muddy hands, having survived

such a journey and all for a lost cause.

 

I didn’t much like Scarlett after the war.

Standing there in the moonlight

was our shining moment, unfazed by

the real sounds of hound dogs

and katydids, down on the road

a horn playing “Dixie,” it’s drunk driver heading

back home to his fraternity house.

So frankly, my dear.

 

I don’t give a damn whether or not Scarlett’s

barbecue ball gown looks brand new

after sixty-two years. Scarlett makes me feel

tired – all those hours I waster, enraptured

by someone whose skin was sheer

celluloid, whose voice, when the reel came

loose, gibbered like mine when I tried

to pretend I lived down the road

from that movie set, cotton fields painted

on canvas, the loyal slaves hoisting

up sacks full of nothing

but chaff for the wind, that old

Hollywood hack, to keep blowing away.

 


Stereotypes Created “In Cold Blood”

People love stereotypes.  They love to categorize things into neat boxes tied up with bows.  They like to assume that every jock is a meathead, every southern accent is a straw-chewing hick, and every sorority girl is a brainless blonde.  But like it or not, life never neatly fits into a box.  Stereotypes always fall short.  Truman Capote uses his nonfiction novel, In Cold Blood, to show the strengths and weaknesses of stereotypes.  He conjures images as the Clutters as the All-American family and of the antagonists, Dick and Perry, as the classic Wild West fugitives.

But Capote exposes Dick and Perry as more than classic villains.  Within their relationship, a marital stereotype exists with Dick as the masculine, husband figure and Perry as the dreamy, wife figure.  Dick sports the manly name of, “Dick Hickock,” and calls Perry’s long-winded dreams of finding Spanish gold stupid.  He also creates a habit of calling Perry names such as, “honey,” or “baby,” or “darling.”  One can only imagine Dick’s demurring, manipulative tone.  In accordance with a female demeanor, Perry sings, draws, and plays guitar.  His physical stature is small and compact, while Dick is tall and manly.  As Dick and Perry flee from Holcomb, Kansas, their uneven relationship hits a note of tension that reappears later.

Capote follows Detective Dewey as he interrogates all possible suspects and friends of the Clutter family.  Dewey stumbles upon a break in the case that leads him to arrest Dick and Perry.  As Dick and Perry reveal the events of the blood-filled night, the reader learns that earlier stereotypes of Dick and Perry’s relationship do not hold true.  Readers originally believe, based upon earlier clues, that Dick killed all four members of the Clutter family while Perry hustled to make sure the family was comfortable while they died.  The drawn covers over the figures of two victims leads the reader to think that this was Perry’s idea of showing remorse for Dick’s bloody work.  But the stereotypes established by Capote reveals loop holes in Dick and Perry’s relationship that lend to the twist in the ending.  Readers learn that Perry committed all four murders.  Perry pulled the trigger.  Perry rebelled against his womanly stereotype and revealed his true brutal nature.  It seems as if Capote uses this moment to remind readers, never judge a book by its cover.


Fear and Loathing in Lex Vegas

During the first week of Journalism 318: the Literature of Journalism, Professor Robert de Maria introduced the class to journalist Hunter S. Thompson and his book, Fear and Loathing in Las VegasNoting the title of the course as the “literature of journalism,” I was immediately intrigued.  Where is the journalism in this acid trip of uppers, downers, laughers, and screamers?  Where is the journalism amidst the saltshakers of cocaine, amyls, and ether?

The answer is this: Gonzo Journalism.  It’s an interesting word, gonzo.  (I’m not sure why, but the word “gonzo” conjures images of Fonzi from Happy Days in my mind.  Perhaps it’s the two-syllables and emphasis on the letter “z.”)  The word holds origins in both Irish and French vocabulary.  Some believe that Gonzo originated from Irish slang meaning the last man standing after an all-night drinking marathon.  Others believe that the word maintains French origins from the word, “gonzeaux,” which translates to the shining path.  In my opinion, either of these interpretations fit Thompson and his Gonzo practices to a “T.”

Gonzo journalism is a style of journalism that includes the reporter as part of the experience through first-person narration.  The term described one of Thompson’s first journalism pieces.  He continued to popularize the style in his writing throughout the 1970s.  Gonzo journalism emphasizes personal experiences and emotions to achieve a desired reputation of an event or idea.  The “Gonzo fist,” two thumbs and four fingers holding a peyote button, became the symbolism for Thompson and Gonzo journalism.

Most of the students in Journalism 318 felt conflicted by what we, as students, know as journalism.  The journalism taught within the Journalism and Mass Communications Departments includes detached writing that spells facts and observations to a reader.  How could Gonzo journalism and the writings of Hunter S. Thompson fall beneath the category of journalism when the narrator appears everything but reliable?

My response to the problematic question is this: Thompson knows exactly what he wants the reader to understand and he uses any means possible to achieve the desired understanding.  In a way, Gonzo journalism behaves like a fiction short story.  An author desires the reader to feel a certain effect and uses the story to achieve the desired feelings.  (Thompson did indeed trip acid and other drugs while in Las Vegas.  He based Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas upon his acid trip adventure with Oscar Acosta.  But he warped the truth in order to attain his goal of describing the “American Dream” to the reader.)  Thompson believed that this approach advocated a certain truth that was otherwise difficult to achieve.

In a 1973 issue of Rolling Stone, Thompson stated, “If I’d written the truth I knew for the past ten years, about 600 people—including me—would be rotting in prison cells from Rio to Seattle today. Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism.”