Ophelia, based on a book by Lisa Klein, who is also a screenwriter here (my guess that gave her leverage to adapt her novel for cinema/television) tells the story of Shakespeare’s Hamlet from a woman’s perspective, in much the same way Tom Stoppard put centre stage other peripheral figures in the play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.
I’m not read Lisa Klein’s novel. And I’m not a great fan of Shakespeare’s plays, or theatre in general, which for some people marks me out as a bit of a thicko. And they may well be right. But I’ve speed read the play. I also watched Franco Zefferelli’s version of Hamlet, filmed largely in Scotland. Mad Max, Mel Gibson in the titular role of the Prince of Denmark. Glen Close playing his glamourous mother, with a hint of incest. Alan Bates played the murdering uncle and brother of the king, Claudius. Homer Simpson played my favourite version of Hamlet. Blue-haired Marge as Queen of Denmark.
If Ophelia was in verse such as iambic pentameter then it would have been curtain after five minutes. It starts rather with a more conventional trope, in medias res. Orphelia (Daisy Ridley) drowns herself, as she does in Hamlet. Time spools backwards to her childhood. A bit of a tomboy, she’s taken under the Queen’s wing (Naomi Watts) and made one of the Queen’s Ladies in Waiting.
She grows into a swan. So far, so conventional. She catches Hamlet’s eye (George MacKay) and they fall in love.
A secondary plot involves the Queen consulting with a witch to keep her beauty and aging at bay. The witch Mechtild (Naomi Watts with straggly hair) is also beautiful. Her backstory involves teenage pregnancy with Claudius (Clive Owen) who let her rot and burn rather than admit his own involvement and parenthood.
She might be in league with the devil with her potions, but she’s not in the league of Morgan Le Fey of Arthurian legend. Morgana Le Fey (Helen Mirren) in Excalibur. Merlin, Lancelot and King Arthur should have just given up and taken the knee in homage to such earthy beauty, as Claudius forces Hamlet, in the name of chivalric honour to bow to the new King of Denmark or commit treason.
I’m probably giving too much away, but if you’ve read Shakespeare or watched The Simpsons, you know Claudius gets his comeuppance. Ophelia? That’s for you to find out.
Preti Taneja’s We That Are Young was listed as Sunday Times Book of the Year, Guardian Book of the Year, Spectator Book of the year, all in 2017. Since I’ve just read it, it’s also my book of the year for 2020.
When I say it’s Shakespearian in scope, I mean that as a compliment. I’m not really into Shakespeare and find his plays boring. The usual response I get is along the lines of I don’t really understand his work, which is true. I also don’t really understand the Old Testament or Maths, or people that like broccoli, apart from my granddaughter, Tilly, who chews away at the green stuff merrily. He (or they, will the real Shakespeare stand up?) has been responsible for more neologisms in the English language than anybody else. I’m told if I watch his plays I’d appreciate them better. I’ve watched Kenneth Brannagh’s Twelfth Night, with Richard Briers and Caroline Langrishe; Roman Polanski’s Macbeth with Martin Shaw in the title role; Franco Zeffirelli’s Hamlet, with Mad Max, Mel Gibson as Hamlet and Glen Close as Gertrude his mother. The best version of Hamlet I saw was The Simpsons, with a renegade knight poring poison in Homer’s ear and it finished in less than ten minutes with a sword fight. Homer won. Homer always wins. I laughed at that, out loud. I’ve seen a few versions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and didn’t laugh once. Not even a chuckle, a hint of that could have been funny. I was sitting an exam and stopped writing about the Fool’s role in Shakespeare’s plays because I realized I was bored with it and didn’t have anything worthwhile to say, or regurgitate. That marks me down as not the right type of person. Not properly educated. A laggard fool.
I found Grigori Kozintsev’s King Lear tolerable mainly for its black-and-white portrayal of the suffering working classes on the bleak moors. ‘Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are, That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm’. Compare and contrast, ‘shacks become a river which rises, rises, rises. It takes only minutes before the shit flows through the [Kashmiri] hovels, bringing with it rats, big as baby monkeys’.
We all know the story, King Lear dividing his kingdom between his three daughters. The King telling his youngest and favourite daughter, Cordelia, ‘Nothing will come from nothing’. Bend of break and be cut off from parental love and the King’s legacy, which is shared between his other daughters,
Her dying at the end. Lear’s question unanswered, ‘Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life/And thou no breath at all?’ milked to the full, through the ages, by those of thespian mind.
Preti Taneji does something remarkable. She transports King Lear to modern India and makes me love Shakespeare almost as much as the truncated Simpson episode. The story is the same but it is different. If you know your Shakespeare you know what is coming. If you don’t know your Shakespeare you don’t. But the book also makes sense as critique of modern capitalism. Ideology in action. Self-justification is king. We all know that story all too well. It’s been played out in America and here in Britain.
Taneja begins with the story of Jivan or Jeet, the bastard son of Ranjit returning home from America, where he left his exiled mum and disposable white girlfriend. A first-person account:
‘It’s not about land, it’s about money.’
The United States is on the wane, China on the rise, Indian and new money means the East will overtake the West in the near future. The East is the place to be for an upcoming young man. Devraj’s Company follows the Ford maxim of industrial America. What’s good for Devraj’s company is good for India and vice-versa.
The story of King Lear is also the story of the Earl of Gloucester. Lear has three daughters and no sons. The law of primogeniture, where the people that own the land, own the people on the land is one remove away. Jivan, like Edmond the bastard son of Gloucester, is at the bottom on a heap. No money. No influence. A gerontocracy in which his brother Edgar has at least a future worth having. Worth stealing. Jeet, the son of Saranjit and his half-brother is himself a thief, but with the complicating factor that he is also gay. In Indian society that puts him lower than a dog, or even a woman.
Mrs Gargi Devraj Grover, granddaughter, daughter, wife, and sister. Her birthday is coming up soon. It’s to coincide with the opening of a new hotel complex in the politically poisonous land of Kashmir. ‘ Eldest and dutiful daughter of the Devaraj Company, custodian of the keys to her father’s office.’
‘Sin comes in many forms… doubt is one of the worst sins of all.’ Fanaticism and loyalty. Deveraj told her who to marry and when to marry. Her father’s words were law. No one would go against him. Certainly, not the beautiful Radha her sister, whom Gargi mothers, even as a school girl, having no mother of their own. Devraj, in turn, indulges his youngest daughter, his favourite daughter and sends her to England to study. We that are young is a war cry. But it is Sita, the youngest and most headstrong, that refuses to marry who Devraj tells her, refuses to bow before his mastery. Sita that refuses both the loyalty and the love test. The stage is set for conflict.
I just nipped out at lunchtime to get a bigger brain, but they were all out, the only thing left –on special offer- was a Simon Cowell brain. I said to the lassie behind the counter, ‘Do I look that fuckin’ stupid?’
‘Or a two-for-one, David Cameron and… a black hole,’ she offered.
I didn’t hang about, I’ve got better things to do with my time. Of course I don’t need a bigger brain. After all, quite simply, The Most Beautiful of Theories is Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity. Kudos, a kind of mental judo, by owning this book, it makes me instantly brainer. It’s a general thing, some of you might not understand. Albert, like me, didn’t do that well at school. In second year of St Andrew’s school I sat my first exam in Physics. Question 2 had me going. Twenty-seven years later I was still sitting in the old gym hall, pondering. Rovelli tells the reader Einstein ‘spent a year loafing aimlessly’ and he reminds us, ‘You don’t get anywhere by not wasting time’. I was off to a flier. Einstein didn’t sit any exams and neither did I – you can see where this is going?
I’m now going to explain gravity. And if it sounds like I’ve just made it up, it’s Einstein’s fault. Think back to Isaac Newton and the apple failing. That’s gravity at work, the force that draws all things together and keeps them apart, but on its day off it plays by different rules. Newton imagined space to be ‘a great big empty container’. Farraday and Maxwell had filled the box with the pulses of an electromagnetic field and a gravitational field. Einstein’s genius was in seeing that the gravitational field is not diffused through space, something added, like a prosthetic nose. The gravitational field is space (and time and motion), the dancer and the dance, the singer and the notes of a song.
‘How can we describe the curvature of space?’ such as planets circling around the sun, asks Rovelli. I stuck my hand up here and shouted, ‘as a curve, sir?’ always a smart alec, although my name wasn’t alec. And, you know, I wasn’t far wrong. Bernhard Riemann had produced a doctoral thesis that was ‘completely useless’ and made no sense. Just the thing for the job. Riemann’s curvature (R) is equivalent to the energy of matter. I’ll not write out the full equation here because I’ve only got one lifetime to understand it, but I guess, you get the drift. Light stops moving in straight lines, space bends around a star and Mars bars become increasingly smaller the closer you come to buying one.
The whole of space can expand and contract, like the exhalation and inhalation of breath. Einstein’s equation predicted ‘The Big Bang’, or at least helped explain it in Homer Simpson bites as a young god slaving over an extremely small and extremely hot universe. Oops. Butter fingers. Cosmic radiation flowing like waves from that small, fixed point in time and space were a glimpse of Einstein’s reality. I’m going to read a bit more of Riemann’s mathematics before I say more, but next up, Lesson 2, tomorrow, I’ll explain with the help of my old buddy Carlo Ravelli’s primer: Quanta. Wow that should be big.
I’m typing this on an old Underwood typewriter, but I decided to leave black and white typewritten sheets and enter into the dangerous world of the deepnet to do something a bit shady. The deepnet is the world filled with people that worship at the altar of Jimmy Saville and ping encrypted signals from online server to server in order to remain anonymous. No one that enters comes out quite the same.
Think of that episode of The Simpsons where Homer is blown by the gods onto the island of Aenea. He doesn’t know it’s an enchanted island. He just knows the nice lady (Circe) serves a mighty fine leg of pork. Yum. Yum. His men grow into porkers before his eyes, but Homer doesn’t quite catch on. Odysseus protects himself with the herb Moly and forces the enchantress to restore his men to human form. Homer isn’t quite sure. It smells so nice and one little taste won’t hurt. That’s the deepnet for you.
I’m going there to sell my book Lily Poole and to get more pledges. For those not in the know it’s a ghost story without a ghost. The kind of thing the deepnet specialises in. Follow this link if you dare. http://unbound.co.uk/books/lily-poole
The currency of the deepnet is the Bitcoin. They don’t really exist, but there are Bitcoin millionaires — usually they’re selling pharmaceutical products.
I’m trying to convert a tweet in which I get ‘favorited’ by one of my favourite writers, Alice Munro. She’s got that old-fashioned Nobel Prize for Literature to her name. I figure if I can convert and sell ‘favorited’ status that doesn’t really exist, into Bitcoins that don’t really exist, into pledges for my book that everybody’s ignoring as if doesn’t exist then I’m onto a winner. Homer did eventually get off that island. The gods were fickle but not too unkind. Yum, porkers. I’d give an arm and leg for pledges.