King Lear at The Shakespeare Tavern Playhouse: Bearing Witness to the Bard’s “Excellent Foppery of the World”

With the bleating of trumpets and the lighting of sconces, Jeff Watkins’ production of King Lear begins, immediately immersing the audience in the dual family drama unfolding on stage. We begin in media res, watching Chris Kayser’s Lear, Maurice Ralston’s Gloucester, and Matt Nitchie’s Kent talk over Chris Hecke’s smirking Edmund, poking at the latter’s parentage. The irony of this interaction comes back full-force in the coming acts, but at first, it seems merely indicative of the tension between a father and his “issue” (1.1.16). When Lear moves forward, shifting the conversation back to his “darker purpose” (1.1.34), a large map – really, more of a rug – can be seen spread out in front of him and his retinue, with three divisions clearly marked upon it. His intentions are clear; each piece of land shall be gifted to his daughters, so long, he crows, as they are able to profess who loves him most. The love test plays out most cruelly on this stage, with Lear’s daughters literally at odds with one another; Goneril (Anja Lee) and her husband (Drew Reeves) to the far left, Regan (Gina Rickicki) and her spouse (Tamil Periasamy) to the right side of Lear’s throne, and Cordelia (Alexandra Pica) farthest away from it all, placed far from the family circle. But which daughter is the most convincing? How much of a performance do these women give in order to get what they desire? Alternatively, what does Cordelia’s lack of a performance suggest?

Goneril does not face her father when she professes her love for him, instead directing her feelings towards the audience. We hear Cordelia’s aside from the side-stage, but it’s drowned out by her other sister’s cloying words, as Regan cunningly affects adoration, stalking towards Lear’s throne all the while, finishing her speech with a caress of his shoulder. To Cordelia Lear finally turns his attention – and quite apparent to all, both on stage and witness to it – he makes it clear that he plays favorites, choosing to speak to Cordelia in a manner most different than that directed towards her sisters, fondly referring to her as his “joy” (1.1.80). Cordelia’s ensuing honesty and lack of a performance – there’s no love to be affected here, only the truth to speak – incenses Lear’s rage, blinding him to his daughter’s intentions. The interaction between the two characters brims full of tension, and when Lear disowns Cordelia, many on stage seem shocked, while others (namely, her sisters and their husbands), appear smug and haughty. It’s Kent that outright defends her, daring to come between the “dragon and his wrath” (1.1.119), interrupting Lear’s stubborn assumptions that though he “loved her most” (1.1.120), Cordelia appears to love him the least. Kent, like Cordelia, speaks the truth, but Lear once again appears to be blind to it, which becomes clearer when Kent entreats him to “See better” (1.1.155) – to look beyond the surface of things. It doesn’t take long for Lear to banish Kent in the same manner he disowns his own flesh and blood, though he tries to run him through with a sword first – does this constitute instability? Impulsiveness? What other proclivities does this King carry, we must ask? Appearances seem to matter most, making words and the bonds they create carry little weight.

We see Kent rush across the stage to hold Cordelia at this point, going nowhere until he whispers his plans to her – plans the audience isn’t privy to hear. All the while, Cordelia’s suitors come out of the woodwork, looking for a marriage arrangement. Lear causes destruction even here, attempting to dissuade each of them from marrying so unworthy a “wretch” (1.1.209); Cordelia in turn attempts to defend herself, appealing to her father once again, claiming that her intentions held no ill-will, and that he make it known what she was truly disowned for: “a still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue …” (1.1.129-130). The next words Lear speaks set the tone for the acts that follow, as in a simmering rage, he tells Cordelia, facing her directly, “Better thou / hadst not been born than not t’have pleased me better” (1.1.233-234). If he’s capable of speaking this way to his child, what else can he be capable of? Most importantly, we must ask, does Lear understand the kind of love Cordelia describes, or is he himself incapable of feeling it? What do we mark from this extraordinary display? Thus far, we’ve been presented with a headstrong, entitled monarch who relies on empty promises and praise in order to reign, who actively chooses not to listen to good advice and to his own intuition – until it’s far too late. Though we know Lear suffers at the end of the play, I was most curious to see how this pattern of behavior changes as Lear comes to understand the full effects of his many follies.

When it comes to misunderstanding love, Goneril and Regan seem to be some of the best examples in the play, as Cordelia wisely tells them, exiting the stage in the following scene, “I know you what you are” (1.1.266). To the youngest daughter, her elder sisters practice a kind of “plighted cunning” (1.1.277), affecting filial love in order to obtain – and gain – value. It’s not dissimilar to the kind of performance Edmund gives when playing with his own father and brother. When Edmund enters the stage during the second scene of act one, solo, he begins a monologue detailing the “baseness” of his birth, which, he tells the audience, leads him to set into action most foul deeds. He places an emphasis on the word “legitimate,” mocking it as he would his brother, proclaiming “Edmond the base / Shall to th’ legitimate” (1.2.19-20). The audience laughs at this point, perhaps because Edmund plays such a convincing role. His villainous desires have a clear motivation, though we obviously can’t condone that he intends to carry them out. After all, we can at least understand why a child would want retribution for the way they are neglected or misunderstood by a parent or a sibling, even if we cannot accept their particular methodology. The line between feelings and actions blurs in Edmund’s case, prompting us to reconsider his characterization. Indeed, when his father surmises that his beloved elder son’s perceived betrayal comes as a portent of nature’s wrath, Edmund mocks him in a soliloquy directed at the audience (utilizing a valley-girl accent at one point, much to our delight), telling us, “This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when / we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own / behavior, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the / moon, and stars …” (2.1.109-112). It’s as if Gloucester blames mercury retrograde for his troubles, when in reality, he should see through this younger son’s treachery, understanding that his own forbearance of love has led to it. Though Edmund serves us with some comic relief in this particular scene, he also brings to our attention a prevailing kernel of truth: the perils of bad parenting – a misunderstanding of filial love and obligation – lead to disastrous consequences for all involved.

While we observe many characters affecting emotion in order to manipulate others, we are also given an insight into how affecting a new persona – such as putting on a disguise or playing a particular role – produces a path towards justice and reconciliation. I’m referring directly to Natalie Karp’s Fool, but also to Kent’s disguise as a loyal, poor subject of Lear’s, and indirectly to Edgar’s transformation into the wild man, known as “poor Tom”. The Fool plays an important, varied role throughout Shakespeare’s plays; in this incarnation, we see Karp’s iteration act as Lear’s conscience, at some points ridiculing his choices and admonishing him for his actions, while in others, showing a more tender side, attempting to alleviate his inner turmoil. There’s a powerful moment at the end of scene five in act one when the spotlights focus on Lear’s contemplative, sorrowful form, and that of his Fool; it’s here that we first hear Lear admit to his guilt, when he mournfully states, “I did her wrong” (1.5.20). It’s not to Goneril he refers, though he’s done her wrong as well (one immediately thinks of the curse he threw at her earlier, and of Goneril’s visceral reaction, holding her belly), but rather to Cordelia, as the Fool gently reminds him that unlike his elder daughters, Cordelia remains the only constant one. At this point, we see a slight change in him, one perhaps capable of forgiveness – of an emotion that evokes truth. Alas, with the subsequent betrayal of his other daughter, Lear plunges into a state of near-madness, his Fool witness to the pronouncement that he believes himself to be “a man / More sinned against than sinning” (3.2.59-60), whose “wits begin to turn” (3.2.68). This shift in his mental state becomes ever more pronounced by Edgar’s appearance, bedraggled, half-naked, and out of his own wits with grief. The latter reminds Lear of his impending doom, should he lose himself in the madness brought on by his own deeds – to the stricken King, Edgar acts as a “philosopher” (3.4.140), a portend of the fate to come, a spirit to guide his way, but most importantly of all, a symbol of change. Throughout it all, Kent remains steadfast by his side, looking out for the King’s interests – but also his own. I would ask that we consider if Kent’s actions are done out of his love for Cordelia, which we witnessed at their mutual banishments, or if they are done for love of King and country? Does one outweigh the other? While this play asks us to consider how familial relationships twist and turn, it also serves to remind us of how similar the family unit resembles the structure between citizens and their ruling politics. Kent’s performance leaves us with these questions in mind, awaiting a resolution.

In the final acts, I found it most compelling to witness how the blinding of certain characters, both literally and figuratively, bestows them with a new vision, giving them sight of the truth, and leading them towards a reconciliation of their actions. The most obvious example lies in the physical blinding of Gloucester in act three, who only after losing his sight, recognizes how Edgar has been cruelly “abused” (3.7.90). His subsequent interactions with his son, still disguised as the madman philosopher “poor Tom,” allow him to reflect on his hasty actions; reconciliation between the two of them comes from a symbolic walk towards the edge of a cliff, upon where Gloucester intends to take his own life. Of course, Edgar would never allow this to happen, and as the two progress, we bear witness to the change in their relationship, as son helps father. Their reconciliation has an almost comical tone to it (particularly after Gloucester’s “fall”), brimming with possibility (“…Thy life’s a miracle…”) (4.5.55). In direct opposition, Lear’s gestures towards reconciliation come too late, foiled by the plots of individuals he has repeatedly wronged. When he at one point in act four announces to Gloucester, with laurels around his head, that “When we are born, we cry that we are come / To this great stage of fools” (4.5.176-177), it’s obvious to all that he feels responsible for his deeds – we could call it apologetic. He insists that his two eldest daughters had no just cause to harm him (I disagree), while he feels that Cordelia does, and admits that he remains a “very foolish, fond old man” (4.6.58). We must ask whether his admission and subsequent request, that Cordelia “forget / And forgive …” (4.6.80) him for his actions come as a cost of what he’s lost, or rather, from a true understanding of what he’s done? Can we trust that this once hasty and unpredictable monarch can change – for the better – as a result of his experiences? Doesn’t he – at the very least –represent the humanity in us all, the folly we are all capable of?

Ironically, it’s Cordelia that vindicates him, but whom also dies as a result (“For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down”) (5.3.5). Their reconciliation can only ever be imagined, for it does not last. By some twist of fate, we see Edmund himself recognize the error of his ways, and attempt to enact “some good” (5.3.217), sending someone to stop Cordelia’s murder – but the order comes too late. Reconciliation for these characters comes at too high a cost, and Lear recognizes this as he carries his daughter’s limp body down the stairs, to the middle of the stage, arranging her in such a way that we are all witness to his great sorrow. A final curse he utters to all the individuals involved in this tragedy, stating “A plague upon you murderers, traitors all. / I might have saved her; now she’s gone forever” (5.3.243-244), but I wonder if he includes himself? As the lights go down, we focus on Cordelia and Lear, their two bodies reminders of how family can both, to quote from another Shakespeare film adaptation, “move us … and consume us” (Michôd 2019).

Works Cited

Shakespeare, William. “King Lear.” The Bedford Shakespeare: Based on the New Cambridge Shakespeare Edition. Edited by
Russ McDonald and Lena Cowen Orlin, 1^st ed., Bedford/St. Martin’s, pp. 1268-1389.

The King. Directed by David Michôd, Netflix Pictures, 1^st Nov. 2019. Netflix.