by Tim Rayborn
For all of his scandalous and satirical writings, his plays were relatively straightforward and avoided the satire and earthiness of his other works. Aretino lived large and enjoyed the benefits and freedoms that his adopted city offered. He grew very wealthy and never ceased his scathing attacks and controversial actions. Accounts of his death say that he was told a dirty joke by his sister and laughed so hard that he either couldn’t breathe or became apoplectic. He fell backwards in his chair and crashed to the floor, dying instantly.
His words have never lost their power to shock. As recently as 2007, contemporary composer Michael Nyman set some of his sonnets from I Modi to music in a work called 8 Lust Songs. At a performance at Cadogan Hall in London in 2008, the printed program containing the lyrics in English translations was withdrawn over charges that the words were obscene. When a recording of the piece was released in the United States, the compact disc carried the “Parental Advisory: Explicit Content” sticker on it, an unusual fate for a classical recording. Aretino would probably have been delighted at the controversy, and likely would have found a way to blackmail someone over it all.
Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616)
Much more than tilting windmills
Cervantes is, of course, best known for his work Don Quixote, considered by some to be the first truly “modern” novel. But Cervantes also wrote a considerable number of plays. In fact, he was so keen to be a successful playwright that it overshadowed his attention to his other works; even Don Quixote was not a work that he valued as highly as he did his dramatic output.
He was the son of a barber-surgeon (those that cut hair and also performed bleedings and bone settings among other painful practices), but his early life is a bit of a mystery. We know that at some point he journeyed to Italy, either as a student or possibly fleeing the law—perhaps for having wounded someone in a duel. But whatever the reason, he eventually found a purpose in the military in 1570, joining the Infantería de Marina (Spanish Navy) stationed at Naples. In 1571, he was on board the Marquesa, which sailed as part of the fleet against the Ottoman Turks, engaging and defeating them in the Battle of Lepanto in October of that year. This was a huge tactical and moral victory for Western Europe, which had for decades been dealing with the Eastern Mediterranean as an “Ottoman lake.” This victory showed that the Turks were not invincible.
The battle was a triumph for the Spanish and Italian forces, but not for Cervantes. He was already ill at its start, but insisted on remaining at his post, reasoning that it was better to die in battle then cower below deck. In his weakened state, he was shot three times, twice in the chest and once in the arm. Incredibly, he survived and recovered, but the arm wound made his left hand largely unusable for the rest of his life. He was philosophical about his injuries, remarking that he “lost the movement of the left hand for the glory of the right.” He also noted later:
If my wounds have no beauty to the beholder’s eye, they are, at least, honorable in the estimation of those who know where they were received; for the soldier shows to greater advantage dead in battle than alive in flight.
This was not the end of his military exploits. Determined to show that a mere three gunshots would not keep him down, he recovered and was again stationed at Naples, where he was active in naval service from 1572 to 1575. In September 1575, his ship sailed for Barcelona but was attacked by Ottoman pirates, and this time, he was not so fortunate. He was taken prisoner and sent to Algiers, where he was held captive as a slave for the next five years. He tried to escape several times but failed. Eventually, his parents paid a ransom and he was able to return home to Madrid. He would later claim that the idea for Don Quixote came to him during his captivity, and his years in slavery inspired two plays, El trato de Argel (“Life in Algiers”) and Los baños de Argel (“The Dungeons of Algiers”).
Once home, he hoped to make a splash in the world of theater, but found that, like so many other artistic types, he needed the dreaded day job to make ends meet. His plays simply weren’t successful enough to provide him an adequate income. They focused on allegorical figures as characters and often had a strong moral tone that made them less popular than, say, the works of Lope de Vega (see chapter 5). He also used the “Aristotelian unities,” so called because they derived from theater rules set down by Aristotle himself, in constructing his plays—an approach popular with conservative Spanish playwrights:
• Unity of action: there should be only one main story, with few subplots.
• Unity of time: the story should take place over twenty-four hours or less.
• Unity of place: the setting and the stage should only represent one physical place.
Obviously, this approach was very limiting (i.e., boring), and it’s easy enough to see why sticking to this structure made his work less appealing than the plays of those who broke these rules.
In the 1580s, he took on such enviable jobs as collecting taxes and helping to oversee the ill-fated Spanish Armada, but eventually fell afoul of creditors and ended up in prison twice, in 1597 and 1602. He lived until 1616, possibly dying of complications from diabetes. Interestingly, Cervantes and Shakespeare died only one day apart, Cervantes on April 22, 1616, and Shakespeare on April 23, 1616.
He was buried at the Convent of the Barefoot Trinitarians, in Madrid, but his bones disappeared after the convent was rebuilt in 1673; apparently, said bones were sent somewhere else and later brought back, but the details are sketchy. In early 2015, it was announced that some of his remains were identified, right back at the convent where he was interred, so it seems the story was true after all.
4
The Tudor and Stuart Ages: A Golden Age of English Theater
In the mid to later sixteenth century, England saw a “renaissance” in drama that changed its language and literature forever. English reached previously unseen heights of poetry and beauty in the hands of a group of master playwrights. It was a time of such importance that it deserves its own separate chapter.
Theater fairly exploded in Elizabethan England, due in no small part to the fact that Queen Elizabeth herself was very fond of plays and became a patron to playwrights and companies. What was fashionable among the nobility (i.e., enjoying plays) found its way down to the lower classes, where such productions became a welcome diversion from the drudgery of daily life.
Traveling groups of English players had long enjoyed varying degrees of popularity (or infamy) in inn yards and halls, but things changed beginning in the 1560s, as permanent theaters rose up where none had been before. Indeed, these new structures were the first such buildings dedicated solely to drama since Roman times. And don’t think that moralists didn’t notice. One of the first things that Puritans and religious conservatives did was brand these new playhouses as pagan shrines attempting to bring back the days of pre-Christian society. While this accusation was untrue, theaters did quickly become places where the less savory elements of society would congregate, as we will see. But they were also attractive to all the other classes in Elizabethan society, from peasants and workers to merchants and nobles, who eagerly paid the small cost to be entertained for a few hours, to be transported away to fantastical locations where love, adventure, laughter, and murder abounded. Once plays really caught on, no amount of condemnation could keep the crowds away.
The first of these new structures, the Red Lion, was built in 1567, financed by a wealthy grocer named John Brayne. It doesn’t seem to have been in use for long, being situated too far out in farmlands for easy access by the public. However, less than ten years later, Brayne, assisted by his brother-in-law, James Burbage, an actor under the patronage of the powerful Earl of Leicester (and one of Queen Elizabeth’s favorites), contributed to the construction of a much longer-lasting structure. This new building, called simply the Theatre, opened in 1576; it would stand the test of time, or at least for the next twenty-one years. It was built on the south bank of the Thames—just out of the jurisdiction of the City of London. This was
a wise move since many (especially of a more religious bent) within London objected to playhouses being built in the city itself and the city had its own laws regulating performances. The Theatre was subject instead only to the laws of the queen, who, as we have seen, happened to adore plays, and so it prospered and flourished. Thanks to this royal approval, other theaters started popping up with some regularity over the next few years: the Curtain in 1577, the Newington Butts theater in about 1580, the Rose in 1587, the Swan in 1595, and, of course, the legendary Globe in 1599, among others.
All of these theaters needed plays, and plays needed playwrights to write them, actors to act in them, and monarchs to behold the swelling scene. And so, despite religious protests, civic protests, closures during plague months, and a host of other obstacles, the play really was the thing for more than a half century, and English drama grew into a literary art form that has stood the test of time. But with that success came the inevitable dark side, so this chapter gleefully examines a sampling of stories that show that there was something rotten not only in the state of Denmark.
Tudor and Jacobean playhouses: dens of iniquity
With the establishment of dedicated permanent theaters, the professional lives of actors took a—wait for it—dramatic turn. Instead of consisting of traveling players—which still existed, of course, more on them below—a company could now reside, at least at certain times, at a semi-permanent home and attract repeat customers. The problem was that having fixed locations put plays into the same category as more unsavory entertainments, such as bear-baiting rings, cock-fighting dens, gambling establishments, and brothels. Concern about the potential for crime and disorder led to a law banning theaters in the city of London itself, so they tended to be built on the south side of the Thames, outside of London proper at that time. This relegated playhouses to the neighborhoods containing said brothels and animal-baiting pits, along with prisons, asylums for the insane (such as Bedlam), and smelly trades such as dyeing and tanning. The Common Council of London issued a statement in 1574 noting:
[The] great disorder rampant in the city by the inordinate haunting of great multitudes of people, especially youth, to plays, interludes, namely occasion of frays and quarrels, evil practices of incontinency in great inns having chambers and secret places adjoining to their open stages and galleries, inveigling and alluring of maids, especially of orphans and good citizens’ children under age … [The] uttering of popular, busy, and seditious matters, and many other corruptions of youth and other enormities … From henceforth no play, comedy, tragedy, interlude, not public show shall be openly played or showed within the [limits] of the City.
Plays attracted large crowds from all walks of society, which frequently meant those from the criminal underworld who had more on their minds than seeing the latest history play or tragic bloodbath. Cut-purses and petty thieves were rampant at these afternoon gatherings, and one could easily have one’s coins removed in such a crush of people. Unlike modern productions, these spectacles were not viewed in reverent silence, but were loud and boisterous. Audience members might yell out at the actors, make jokes, or otherwise be disruptive, no doubt testing the patience of those onstage. Of course, if things got too rowdy or violent, the troublemakers could be forcibly ejected, but it wasn’t uncommon to see groundlings using a portion of the stage as a makeshift table for gambling with dice and playing cards, right in front of the actors. So it’s understandable that in all of this confusion and noise, crime flourished.
Playhouses were also convenient meeting places for would-be criminal masterminds that had more ambitious plans than just relieving an unsuspecting merchant of his week’s earnings. Plots for burglary, smuggling, and even murder were hatched in the dark back spaces and some of the side rooms adjacent to the main stage.
Nevertheless, theaters became so popular that they surpassed churches in attendance. In 1586, one Maliverny Catlyn, an agent of Francis Walsingham (more on him below), noted with disgust that “the play houses are pestered when the churches are naked; at the one, it is not possible to get a place; at the other, void seats are plenty.”
Perhaps the most notorious feature of theaters, and the one which Puritans railed against incessantly, was that some were attached to brothels. Noted theater owners and producers such as Edward Alleyn and Philip Henslowe both owned houses of ill repute and made a significant amount of money from them. So, they reasoned, why not combine them with playhouses and increase the earnings?
The Curtain Theatre—where many of Shakespeare’s plays would be performed in the 1590s—opened in 1577. By 1579, satirist and playwright Stephen Gosson noted of the patrons:
To celebrate the Sabboth, flock to Theaters, and there keepe a generall Market of Bawdrie: Not that any filthynesse in deede, is committed within the compasse of that grounde, as was doone in Rome, but that euery wanton and his Parmour, euery man and his Mistresse, euery John and his Joan, euery knaue and his queane, are there first acquainted and cheapen the Merchandise in that place, which they pay for elsewhere as they can agree.
These early theaters were places for hooking up, but by the later Elizabethan period, some theaters connected directly to brothels, which only added to the already dim view that many moralizers held of them. Still, their popularity couldn’t be denied, and as long as the plays themselves were not deemed seditious or blasphemous—the government banned politics and religion as main topics in plays, fearing that they were too dangerous, given all of the religious strife that still existed in the country—they were allowed to operate. All plays still had to be licensed by a Master of Revels—what a wonderful job title—who determined if they were suitable for a public audience.
These restrictions did little to dampen the enthusiasm that the public had for plays. In spite of censorship, religious opposition, and an unsavory reputation, the theater thrived, provided that a nasty little inconvenience like plague didn’t spring up. In that case, the theaters were closed and the players went on tour. Road trip!
Traveling players: liars, vagabonds, and ne’er-do-wells
Every so often, something would cause the London playhouses to be closed. Usually it was the outbreak of some disease. At that point, the actors and companies had no choice but to pack up, leave town, and try to make some cash by presenting their latest dramas elsewhere. There was a problem, though. Being a wandering minstrel—or a wandering anything, for that matter—was technically a crime, one that could be severely punished if said wanderers did not adhere to some pretty strict guidelines. The intent was to deter beggars, thieves, and con men, but unfortunately, artists of all kinds got screwed too.
Up until the time of Henry VIII, wandering entertainers could usually be assured of a welcome (if not always warm) from the hundreds of monasteries that dotted the English countryside; monastic houses were generally open to travelers that obeyed their rules and respected their wishes. When Henry did away with those and confiscated their wealth in the 1530s, however, it cut off a valuable source of hospitality, rather like having a major hotel chain shut down. The new Church of England was not as generous (or at least as tolerant) toward secular entertainers. By 1572, the Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds was put into effect, basically banning the activities of all traveling entertainers who were not either under someone’s patronage or servants in a lord’s household. This meant that players were scrambling to obtain such patronage and identifying marks (such as clothing in specific colors or livery) that would associate them with a given noble, which allowed them to carry on their work. Of course, they were not always honest about this.
One report about the splendidly named highwayman Gamaliel Ratsey (who was hanged in 1605) noted that he once met a group of traveling players who said they were attached to a certain noble. A week later, he encountered them again in a different location; he was wearing a disguise, so they didn’t recognize him. At this point, they claimed to be associated with a different noble patron, one who was better known in that particular area; this s
witch would no doubt improve their takings. Ratsey asked them for a private performance, paid them handsomely, and robbed them the following day, presumably with weapons drawn, while giving them a stern lecture about their lack of honesty!
Despite these hardships, traveling players left London during times of plague and took to the countryside, plying their entertainments in whatever towns would have them. They still had to operate under government censorship, but comedies, tragedies, and histories all proved popular with regional audiences. It’s probable that the young William Shakespeare saw such groups in his youth in Stratford and was inspired by their seemingly romantic lives to take up acting and penning his own works. Without the bubonic plague, the greatest playwright in English might never have found his own voice!
Thomas Kyd (1558–1594)
I deny everything
Kyd was arguably the first of the great Elizabethan dramatists, writing in the 1580s, nearly a full decade before Shakespeare was active. During that time (probably in 1586–1587), he wrote a splendidly named play, The Spanish Tragedie containing the Lamentable End of Don Horatio and Bel-imperia; with the Pitiful Death of Old Hieronimo; nothing like spoiling the plot in the main title! Actually, the name was usually shortened to Hieronimo, which was obviously way more suited to playbills. This work was destined to be among the most popular plays of the Elizabethan era, eclipsing many other works now far better known—Romeo and Juliet, anyone? The play was a bloody revenge tale that drew on the style of the Roman writer Seneca, and it influenced a number of other prominent works such as Shakespeare’s delightfully appalling Titus Andronicus and that little-known drama Hamlet. Kyd’s play led the way in making these gory tales popular in Elizabethan and Jacobean playhouses.
