The Plays the Thing



Are you sure you want to do this? She was crouched next to the television, the shining disk in her hand.
Oh, why not? I responded, How much worse could my life get?
She gave me one of those beautiful, tragic smiles that already I was beginning to fear. Youre dead, Your Grace. You no longer have a life.

She had a point.

She dropped the DVD into the player, and with an armful of remote controls retreated to the sofa. I leaned back in my armchair, consciously relaxing my shoulders, my jaw, my hands, trying to quell the rising tide of anxiety.
The television flicked into life. After copyright warnings in 37 languages, the film finally started with a title screen

Laurence Olivier presents
Richard III
by
William Shakespeare


So, who are these gentlemen?
My hostess paused the DVD before embarking on a long explanation of William Shakespeare, and a rather shorter one of Lawrence Olivier. I was almost sorry Id asked.
Playback resumed with the prettiest disclaimer Ive ever read:

The story of England, like that of many another land is an interwoven pattern of history and legend. The history of the world, like letters without poetry, flowers without perfume or thought without imagination, would be a dry matter indeed without its legends, and many of those, though scorned by proof a hundred times, seem worth preserving for their own familiar sakes.

Ominous, I thought. How far from the truth is this tale?

The introduction continued with something about the Wars of the Roses: the modern name for the conflict between York and Lancaster. The first real shock came with the list of dramatis personae. There, listed amongst the Lancastrians, my beloved Anne.
My hostess must have sensed my shock. In this version, the action starts as your brother Edward has returned from his exile in Burgundy, apparently dispatched all opposition, and reclaimed his throne. Anne is newly widowed, having been lately married to the Lancastrian Prince of Wales. She gave me another of those scary smiles.

Meanwhile on the screen a coronation was being played out. In the foreground a fellow with glossy black hair turned to face the camera. His most salient feature was a long, pointed nose that crossed the line from caricature into farce. He had a smug, knowing air about him. Meanwhile in the background the gathered crowds cheered the rather bland chap who was sitting on the throne.
My hostess nodded toward the screen king. So, what do you think of their Edward?
Too old, too short, and not enough charisma, I told her. Who is Mr Bignose supposed to be?
The wench actually fluttered her eyelashes at me. That would be yourself, Your Grace. She laughed as I clutched my head in both hands. Oh, it gets worse, she chortled.

Marvellous. Back on the screen, the King Edward was talking to a boy of maybe ten or eleven years. And that would be the kings eldest son, she informed me.
But he was born while we were in Burgundy! He was still a babe at the breast when Ned got back to London!
She humphed. That bit wasnt in the original play, and its not the only deviation from the script. Old Larry wasnt averse to taking liberties with The Bard, so to speak. The true start of the play is actually this bit.

Now alone, the screen Richard was soliloquising. Now is the winter of our discontent
The gist of the speech was that the fighting was over, and that it was now time for pleasure which suited Mr Bignose not one bit. As he limped limped? across the stage, he ranted about being ill-made, with a hunched back, withered arm, and being generally unsuited for boudoirs or bowers. What on earth was he on about? I may lack in stature, but there is nothing lacking in my physique! And while - unlike my brother Ned - I may not have been precisely catnip to the ladies, I was never short of offers of female company.

My female companion smirked at my bewilderment. Its all simple logic, Your Grace. You met a sticky end; therefore you must have deserved it. Hence it is proved you must have been a wicked king and a bad, bad person. The hump, the limp, the withered arm were merely outer manifestations of your evil nature. She licked her lips before continuing. You should count yourself lucky that old Shakespeare drew on The Sainted More and his imitators for his source material. They just had you born premature unfinished and feet first. Tudor arse-kisser sorry, historian, John Rous had you two years in the womb, born with a full set of teeth and hair down to your shoulders! With a snort, she looked back to the television.

Screen Richard had changed his tone a little. Since peace held no pleasure for him, he was determined to prove a villain and get the crown for himself, regardless of how many lives stood in the way. I can smile he growled and murder whiles I smile, proclaiming himself a master dissembler.
Oh, that is too much! I found myself on my feet. My hostess regarded me with a quizzical look. Ironic, isnt it, I fumed as I paced the floor. In the North, I was admired for my plain speaking. Once I got to London I felt I was the only person who wasnt dissembling! All the rest of them would smile to my face while they plotted against me. And I, in all my naivety, took them at face value trusted the disloyal, conniving swine again and again.
I turned back to the screen to see the frozen form of Mr Bignose, one elbow on a window sill, his mouth open ready to speak. Madam, I shudder to think what will come out of that mouth next
If youll sit down, we can find out. She pressed the button to continue.

It was every bit as bad as Id anticipated. We found Anne, crying over the corpse of that vile little Lancastrian Prince to whom her overweening father had married her off. The actress playing Anne was a pretty young woman, and quite as feisty as the real thing. It was almost a pleasure to watch her bandy words with Bignose, until Anne accused him of personally murdering her first husband, and I remembered that Bignose was supposed to be me.
No, I didnt! I found myself shouting at the television. I was commanding the vanguard at Tewksbury! I had my hands full being outflanked by bloody Somerset! The so-called Prince of Wales was furlongs away.
Another killer smile was directed my way. Your Grace, the Tudor historians had it that the young man in question was captured after the battle, and when he gave the King some lip you were on hand to personally dispatch the lad.

I started to rebut this outrageous accusation, but my attention was directed back to the screen, where Bignose lurked alone. Ill have her, he mused, but I will not keep her long. An icy hand gripped at my innards. I didnt like the implications of that at all.

Ive had enough of this. I rose to my feet. How much of this have we seen? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? I gathered my coat. Is there a pub nearby?
The wench gave a vulpine smile. What? Leave now? But youve not even seen the bit where your henchmen murder your dear brother George, and upend his body in a barrel of wine, or where you poison Anne so you can marry your niece! And I shant even mention the boys in the tower! How can you drag yourself away?
I drew a deep breath to steady myself before replying. Madam, this is the vilest piece of filth I have ever been forced to witness. I can take no more of it.

Richard, she was standing too now, you asked me why so many people hated you, and why they seemed so surprised to see you in well, you know.
Paradise? I suggested
Yeah. There. Well, this plays the thing, the reason. For many, many thousands of people this is the first introduction they get to you. For some, it is the only thing they ever learn about Richard III. It just so happens that old Shakey decided to make your story into a morality play, with you as a homicidal, scenery-chewing, deformed, deceitful, charming, silver-tongued, she paused for breath, psychopath. And Henry Tudor, she spat the name, as Gods Knight, come to dispatch you to the fiery depths. She grimaced. Those Tudors had a great PR guy in Shakespeare.

I gave her my best smile. I. Am. Going. To the pub. Now. I insisted, And I intend to get quite rat-arsed. As she smiled, I pressed my advantage. I promise well watch the rest of it later. I held my hand out to her. Now, are you coming with?




Topic - "Play"
Wordcount - 1500, plus the title.
Optional challenge - a. If you can't work out who's point of view I'm writing from, you haven't been paying attention!
"Fortunately, somewhere between chance and mystery lies imagination, the only thing that protects our freedom, despite the fact that people keep trying to reduce it or kill it off altogether."
Luis Buuel