The book: Macbeth
The author: William Shakespeare
The rating: 3 stars
As I've lamented about other classic yarns, I have little unique to say about Macbeth. I suppose the strongest of my opinions is that I do not have any strong opinions one way or another.
While I'm not necessarily a Shakespeare fanatic, I do consider myself a fan of the bard, both written and performed. I count plays such as Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Much Ado About Nothing, and A Comedy of Errors amongst some of my favourites in theatre, but I wasn't really drawn in by Macbeth. Perhaps this is due to its twists being so ingrained in popular culture so as to render them unimaginative; I've heard the 'none of woman born' riddle and its answer before, not knowing its original context, and this lack of intrigue may have been the source of my apathy.
I was also ambivalent regarding the characterization. In Hamlet, for example, I found almost the entire cast compelling - Hamlet, of course, as well as Ophelia, Gertrude, Claudius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and so on and so forth. In Macbeth, the only character who engaged me in such a way was Banquo, and by prophetic necessity he was obviously not long for this world. As a tragic hero, I much prefer Hamlet to Macbeth. Hamlet's slower descent made his peripeteia far more poignant, in my opinion. Macbeth was a sympathetic protagonist for mere pages before he made his turn, far too little time for me as a reader to build up any sympathy for him and his cold-blooded wife.
While I've said rather little, I don't think I have much else to say. I'd buy a ticket to see it performed, as I would with essentially any Shakespeare play, but that aside, I don't prophesize I will be re-experiencing Macbeth again anytime soon.
Showing posts with label play. Show all posts
Showing posts with label play. Show all posts
Saturday, 19 April 2014
Saturday, 29 March 2014
15. Big Dreams
The book: Death of a Salesman
The author: Arthur Miller
The rating: 4.5 stars
Finally, some concrete evidence that I'm not just a philistine who can't appreciate literary genius. Unlike Streetcar and Master Harold, I found Salesman to be a fantastic piece of work, not just full of some esoteric literary merit, but also extremely readable, relatable, and poignant. It's always difficult to review a classic, seeing as anything one might think to say has doubtlessly been said many times before, so I'll try to be brief in describing just what makes Salesman a champion amongst heavyweights.
Salesman is a play to which I'd buy a ticket with no hesitation. Even with only stage directions as guides, the setting has a remarkable whimsy and surrealness to it; the characters walk through walls in Willy's dream sequences yet pay heed to the rules of the set in the real world, tying his character's mind to the setting itself. It would be a treat to see, to say the least. It creates an intriguing atmosphere of deception and misconception, something similarly explored in Streetcar, but I personally found Salesman to capture this mood with far greater success. And of course, such mood ties in with foreshadowing as well... everything in Salesman interconnects, set to characters to tone to theme to plot to reveal, and these interconnections create what can only be considered a literary masterpiece.
But, as I've been apt to say in reviews of classic pieces, this 'literary merit' isn't everything when it comes to a book or play being satisfying. Despite their objective merits, some are unbearably dry (I'm still looking at you, A Tale of Two Cities). That said, Salesman is also an incredibly enjoyable tale. It's not an edge-of-your-seat ride by any means, but it is gripping nonetheless, casually reversing the reader's perceptions of the lives of the story's protagonists as he or she traverses its two acts and requiem. As the smoke clears, we begin to see the truth in the lives of the Lomans, and that truth carries a powerful message. In a society that's always striving for bigger and better, it's essential that we realize that we don't have to be the best, the most powerful, the most well liked. What we consider success doesn't have to be being number one, and Salesman is the poignant account of one man's realization of this fact and two others' failure to do so.
In today's world of participation trophies, helicopter parents, and assurances we can be president someday, Salesman is uncomfortably relatable. Success isn't some objective state; we don't need to be chasing the American dream. All that counts is that we chase our own. Perhaps it is for this reason that I find Salesman to be such a remarkable book. It's message is just as relevant today - if not more - than it was in 1949, and a book that remains that powerful can't possibly be dry.
The author: Arthur Miller
The rating: 4.5 stars
Finally, some concrete evidence that I'm not just a philistine who can't appreciate literary genius. Unlike Streetcar and Master Harold, I found Salesman to be a fantastic piece of work, not just full of some esoteric literary merit, but also extremely readable, relatable, and poignant. It's always difficult to review a classic, seeing as anything one might think to say has doubtlessly been said many times before, so I'll try to be brief in describing just what makes Salesman a champion amongst heavyweights.
Salesman is a play to which I'd buy a ticket with no hesitation. Even with only stage directions as guides, the setting has a remarkable whimsy and surrealness to it; the characters walk through walls in Willy's dream sequences yet pay heed to the rules of the set in the real world, tying his character's mind to the setting itself. It would be a treat to see, to say the least. It creates an intriguing atmosphere of deception and misconception, something similarly explored in Streetcar, but I personally found Salesman to capture this mood with far greater success. And of course, such mood ties in with foreshadowing as well... everything in Salesman interconnects, set to characters to tone to theme to plot to reveal, and these interconnections create what can only be considered a literary masterpiece.
But, as I've been apt to say in reviews of classic pieces, this 'literary merit' isn't everything when it comes to a book or play being satisfying. Despite their objective merits, some are unbearably dry (I'm still looking at you, A Tale of Two Cities). That said, Salesman is also an incredibly enjoyable tale. It's not an edge-of-your-seat ride by any means, but it is gripping nonetheless, casually reversing the reader's perceptions of the lives of the story's protagonists as he or she traverses its two acts and requiem. As the smoke clears, we begin to see the truth in the lives of the Lomans, and that truth carries a powerful message. In a society that's always striving for bigger and better, it's essential that we realize that we don't have to be the best, the most powerful, the most well liked. What we consider success doesn't have to be being number one, and Salesman is the poignant account of one man's realization of this fact and two others' failure to do so.
In today's world of participation trophies, helicopter parents, and assurances we can be president someday, Salesman is uncomfortably relatable. Success isn't some objective state; we don't need to be chasing the American dream. All that counts is that we chase our own. Perhaps it is for this reason that I find Salesman to be such a remarkable book. It's message is just as relevant today - if not more - than it was in 1949, and a book that remains that powerful can't possibly be dry.
Friday, 28 February 2014
9. Short and Sour
The book: "Master Harold" ...and the Boys
The author: Athol Fugard
The rating: 2 stars
Master Harold shares a few similarities with Streetcar: it's not what I typically read; it's a play, not a novel; I was assigned to read it for English class... It's also one of those 'literary merit'-type of books, full of sophisticated themes and poignant social commentary, and unbearably dry. As I mentioned in my Streetcar review, I love a large number of works of classic fiction, but I always prefer genre pieces to literary ones. Plays like Master Harold feel more like a thinly-veiled essay than a story, and I've never been a fan of that.
While others are frequently referenced and hold great importance to the plot, only three characters appear in the 60-page play: seventeen-year-old Hally (the titular Master Harold), and older black men Willie and Sam (the boys) who work for Hally's mother at her tea house. I have noticed that one of the biggest differences between adult and YA/children's fiction is the role of the protagonist. In stories for the younger crowd, protagonist = hero, almost without exception. In works for adults, this equivalency does not exist, as is the case in Master Harold. From the beginning, Hally made me want to scratch out my eyeballs. The play may be set in 1950, but Hally was eerily like some insufferable seventeen-year-olds I know. You'd recognize the type: almost a hipster, pretentious and condescending; an atheist not because of well-considered philosophical beliefs, but because believing in things is for stupid people. The world revolves around them and their struggles are paramount; nobody could possibly understand what they are going through, and nobody has ever suffered anything worse. Add in some intense racism towards the boys and a disgust towards his father, not due to his unsavoury personality, but because he is a cripple, and suffice to say Hally's not the type of boy I'd want to ask to Senior Prom.
As I mentioned, the play often reads more like an essay than anything else. Hally and Sam debate about men of greatness; the impact of racism in South Africa is explored; Hally is a complete and utter asshat to every person in his life. And yeah. That's it. That's the play. It's definitely not my cup of tea, but for what it is--a statement about the South African apartheid--it is interesting enough.
Next week: Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
The author: Athol Fugard
The rating: 2 stars
Master Harold shares a few similarities with Streetcar: it's not what I typically read; it's a play, not a novel; I was assigned to read it for English class... It's also one of those 'literary merit'-type of books, full of sophisticated themes and poignant social commentary, and unbearably dry. As I mentioned in my Streetcar review, I love a large number of works of classic fiction, but I always prefer genre pieces to literary ones. Plays like Master Harold feel more like a thinly-veiled essay than a story, and I've never been a fan of that.
While others are frequently referenced and hold great importance to the plot, only three characters appear in the 60-page play: seventeen-year-old Hally (the titular Master Harold), and older black men Willie and Sam (the boys) who work for Hally's mother at her tea house. I have noticed that one of the biggest differences between adult and YA/children's fiction is the role of the protagonist. In stories for the younger crowd, protagonist = hero, almost without exception. In works for adults, this equivalency does not exist, as is the case in Master Harold. From the beginning, Hally made me want to scratch out my eyeballs. The play may be set in 1950, but Hally was eerily like some insufferable seventeen-year-olds I know. You'd recognize the type: almost a hipster, pretentious and condescending; an atheist not because of well-considered philosophical beliefs, but because believing in things is for stupid people. The world revolves around them and their struggles are paramount; nobody could possibly understand what they are going through, and nobody has ever suffered anything worse. Add in some intense racism towards the boys and a disgust towards his father, not due to his unsavoury personality, but because he is a cripple, and suffice to say Hally's not the type of boy I'd want to ask to Senior Prom.
As I mentioned, the play often reads more like an essay than anything else. Hally and Sam debate about men of greatness; the impact of racism in South Africa is explored; Hally is a complete and utter asshat to every person in his life. And yeah. That's it. That's the play. It's definitely not my cup of tea, but for what it is--a statement about the South African apartheid--it is interesting enough.
Next week: Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Sunday, 19 January 2014
3. Heart's Desire
The book: A Streetcar Named Desire
The author: Tennessee Williams
The rating: 3 stars
Humble reader, you might be looking at my entries and thinking, 'One of these things is not like the other.' And yes, you'd be correct: Streetcar is a play, not a book, so you've got me there.
In all seriousness, Streetcar is not my usual reading preference. I'm not a big fan of 'realistic' fiction; I don't read YA because I can't 'handle' the big-girl books, but because I sincerely like YA better. It's not even truly a comparison between YA and adult; I simply prefer genre to literary fiction, so tales like Streetcar don't usually do it for me. I love Shakespeare; I love Conan Doyle; I love Baroness Orczy; I hella-love Aldous Huxley (well, mostly just Brave New World, but that's a discussion for another day). Streetcar being an older book doesn't colour my judgement nor does it being a classic, but stories like Streetcar (see also A Tale of Two Cities) just feel dry. But, I was assigned to read the play for IB English, and if I want to make my 50 book goal, skipping out on reviews isn't the way to do it.
The highlight of Streetcar for me would have to be the characters. This probably isn't a news flash for anyone, but they're incredibly well-written and multifaceted. No one was truly our 'hero' and no one was completely sympathetic. Then again, there was no character that never had a moment that you couldn't complete relate to, even the terrifying, animalistic Stanley. People walk the line between good guys and bad guys; it's less clear cut than some works would have you believe. Looking at Streetcar in retrospect, it's fairly obvious to say Blanche was the protagonist and Stanley the antagonist, but reading it felt almost like being unable to see the forest for the trees; you didn't really know who was hiding what, and when the (metaphorical) curtains closed with whom you would be sympathizing.
However, I wasn't that big a fan of the plot. Yes, it was technically brilliant. You've get parallelism and symbolism and all that good stuff that we're sure to discuss on end in English class. You've got twists and turns and mystery and mystique. But despite all this technical prowess, I didn't feel anything as I turned the last page other than a vague churning of my stomach. The story was dark and depressing and violent, and all that darkness did not engage me. That makes it seem like I disliked Streetcar because it was a tragedy, but that is not true. I quite enjoyed Hamlet and Antigone, two other tragic plays, and maybe it is because I feel as if those two succeeded more in evoking pathos. Hamlet's mask of insanity drew me in, sympathizing with him even when he made some pretty godawful decisions. Perhaps the things I like and hate most about Streetcar are two sides of the same coin: I loved the depth and multifacetedness of the characters, but this ability to both relate and be isolated from each of them led me to not quite care about their fates.
So, Streetcar. I can definitely see your literary merit, but you're not the thing for me. Maybe I'd enjoy you more as a stage production as opposed to a transcription; you seem to be the type that would fare better on the stage. In any case, I'm eager to get out of the 'much, much more' section of this blog and back to my favourite lands of 'fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia, adventure.'
The author: Tennessee Williams
The rating: 3 stars
Humble reader, you might be looking at my entries and thinking, 'One of these things is not like the other.' And yes, you'd be correct: Streetcar is a play, not a book, so you've got me there.
In all seriousness, Streetcar is not my usual reading preference. I'm not a big fan of 'realistic' fiction; I don't read YA because I can't 'handle' the big-girl books, but because I sincerely like YA better. It's not even truly a comparison between YA and adult; I simply prefer genre to literary fiction, so tales like Streetcar don't usually do it for me. I love Shakespeare; I love Conan Doyle; I love Baroness Orczy; I hella-love Aldous Huxley (well, mostly just Brave New World, but that's a discussion for another day). Streetcar being an older book doesn't colour my judgement nor does it being a classic, but stories like Streetcar (see also A Tale of Two Cities) just feel dry. But, I was assigned to read the play for IB English, and if I want to make my 50 book goal, skipping out on reviews isn't the way to do it.
The highlight of Streetcar for me would have to be the characters. This probably isn't a news flash for anyone, but they're incredibly well-written and multifaceted. No one was truly our 'hero' and no one was completely sympathetic. Then again, there was no character that never had a moment that you couldn't complete relate to, even the terrifying, animalistic Stanley. People walk the line between good guys and bad guys; it's less clear cut than some works would have you believe. Looking at Streetcar in retrospect, it's fairly obvious to say Blanche was the protagonist and Stanley the antagonist, but reading it felt almost like being unable to see the forest for the trees; you didn't really know who was hiding what, and when the (metaphorical) curtains closed with whom you would be sympathizing.
However, I wasn't that big a fan of the plot. Yes, it was technically brilliant. You've get parallelism and symbolism and all that good stuff that we're sure to discuss on end in English class. You've got twists and turns and mystery and mystique. But despite all this technical prowess, I didn't feel anything as I turned the last page other than a vague churning of my stomach. The story was dark and depressing and violent, and all that darkness did not engage me. That makes it seem like I disliked Streetcar because it was a tragedy, but that is not true. I quite enjoyed Hamlet and Antigone, two other tragic plays, and maybe it is because I feel as if those two succeeded more in evoking pathos. Hamlet's mask of insanity drew me in, sympathizing with him even when he made some pretty godawful decisions. Perhaps the things I like and hate most about Streetcar are two sides of the same coin: I loved the depth and multifacetedness of the characters, but this ability to both relate and be isolated from each of them led me to not quite care about their fates.
So, Streetcar. I can definitely see your literary merit, but you're not the thing for me. Maybe I'd enjoy you more as a stage production as opposed to a transcription; you seem to be the type that would fare better on the stage. In any case, I'm eager to get out of the 'much, much more' section of this blog and back to my favourite lands of 'fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia, adventure.'
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