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Kenneth Cavander on The Tempest

THE TEMPEST  

At the start of my writing career, first in theatre, then in screenwriting, I learnt by trial and error,  from actors, directors and audiences, to be mindful of structure; to underpin plot developments  in character; to maintain and time suspense; to plan for and spring surprises; to be, in short, a  careful architect. The lessons became habits and, in time, second nature. 

THE TEMPEST is thought by many scholars to be Shakespeare’s last play, at least as sole  author. When, seven years after his death, two of his friends and fellow company members  arranged for a complete edition of his dramatic works to be published, it was given pride of  place in the First Folio. It received special attention from the printers. Ever since, it has been  beloved, a store of memorable lines – ‘The past is prologue’, ‘O brave new world’, ‘We are such  stuff as dreams are made on’ – embedded in our collective memories. As I went about  conveying its blend of fantasy and tenderness, dread and foolery, raw ambition and other worldly detachment, I trod gingerly through the story; all I could think of was, stay faithful.  Structure, architecture, never entered my mind. 

Then came the first reading, actors’ questions, a second reading, revisions, and eventually a  sumptuously mounted production at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival, where the play  worked its familiar charms. But something else happened. Clarified, the text shone a bright  light on the play’s darker shadows – the serpentine ingenuity of Antonio’s seduction of  Sebastian, brother of the King of Naples, to commit regicide, the plot only foiled at the last  minute by quick thinking on the part of Ariel. The all-too-human pools of bitterness and cruelty  in Prospero, loving father, sly promoter of his daughter’s marriage to a suitable member of a  rival dynasty, but also tormentor of his servants, pushing both the guilty and the innocent  survivors of his storm alike to the point of madness. 

As I listened, not just to the lines, but to the comments and questions that followed in their  wake, the old habits returned. I found myself wishing I could sit the author down and ask him  ‘What were you thinking here? Or here? Were you so filled with ideas and images that you  rushed to get it all down and in the hands of the actors and, in rushing, you cut corners? 

Impertinent questions. But they kept coming. They nagged at me. 

Here’s one: the play begins as a revenge drama. As it unfolds, two separate murder plots are  hatched, one of them against the hero, Prospero, himself. But Prospero has such god-like and  unchallengeable powers that nothing and no one can resist him. So where is the suspense? 

And then there’s the villain, Prospero’s brother, Antonio, the main target of Prospero’s revenge.  Like Claudius in HAMLET, he usurped his brother’s power. Then he launched him out to sea in  a leaky vessel to almost certain death. You’d expect Antonio to be clearly identified when he  first enters. But no. When the castaways from the storm that begins the action show up, and  talk about their predicament, Antonio is among them, of course. For the audience, though, he  is just one of several voluble courtiers, unidentified until so far into the scene that his name,  when it comes, barely registers. 

One more: Prospero uses his magical powers to bring a young prince, Ferdinand, son of his  mortal enemy, together with his beloved daughter, Miranda. That done, these same powers are  suddenly turned on Ferdinand to reduce him to a menial servant. We know, because Prospero  tells us, that this humiliating spell is just a ‘test’. But Ferdinand and Miranda are left in the dark,  their hopes frustrated. Then the lovers disappear from the story. When they return, late in the  play, we discover that in the interim, the cruel spell has been lifted, Ferdinand is now betrothed  to Miranda, and Prospero is stage managing an elaborate spectacle to celebrate the event. Did  the author think to give us the moment, so important for each of them, when Prospero’s true 

intentions are revealed, the torment explained, the emotions of the young lovers to this news  allowed to play out? 

In the end, though, the answer is always the same. Shakespeare stays one step ahead,  inventing, adapting, the expert conjurer distracting us with a new twist, a single word turning a  conventional moment into a heart-stopping emotional insight, charming his way out of a tight  spot with a smile and a smooth tap dance, staging a magic show while the clock ticks down to  the fatal instant when enemies will strike – the whole edifice a hall of mirrors, images, echoes  echoing other echoes, shifting perspectives until, dazed and helpless, there’s nothing left for  the audience to do but applaud. 

And the structure? The architecture? Sometimes the lesson to be learnt is not to think about it  too much, just sit back and enjoy the show. 

KENNETH CAVANDER 

April 27th. 2020