Richard III and Those gOsh DaNG Lascivious Lutes

Salt.

The active ingredient in any Shakespearean play. The word “Shakespearean” alone envisions a brand of stewing, squinty-eyed elocutionists hurling insults in lofty Elizabethan. Much salt, such drama, so the story goes for any Shakespearean protagonist.

Fitting then that I should start this series with perhaps the saltiest protag in Shakespeare “Histories*” who is, in fact, no protagonist at all: the bumpback toad himself, Richard III.

Now, out of all the Shakespearean villains, Richard is perhaps one of the sneakiest. He specializes in throwing salt subtly, and for that, I...love him.

But, don’t love vicariously. If you’re unfamiliar with this maniacal man, Ian McKellen’s take on him in Richard Loncraine’s 1995 film adaptation is exceptional. I mean, as is Ian Mckellen just in general, but you’ll get my point if you watch this snippet (and I do highly recommend watching as Shakespeare is MUCH more digestible when consumed as a performance (as it was purposed) rather than just words on a page):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjJEXkbeL-o

Right off the bat, we are introduced to Richard as a performer, his carefully crafted charm evident in the monologue alone, though Loncraine’s translation of this into an actual speech seems an apt representation of his dual nature. Here’s the original text for us to follow along - let’s start with the first two lines:

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

Sir Ian McKellen does a fantastic job analyzing these opening lines himself in a video on a once website that is now only watchable here it seems - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_WJSHy_szE (please let me know if anyone knows where the original video has vanished to!).

Essentially, what McKellen solidifies in his own explanation is the importance of contextualizing these lines as a pair. Too often, this speech is quoted as a one-liner - “Now is the winter of our discontent,” which, on its own, portends a sense of enveloping gloom. However, the following line departs us from this meaning significantly - “made glorious summer by this sun of York.” With this second line, it is clarified (quite theatrically) that “now” is no longer referring to a distressing low, but a “glorious summer.”

In other words, the subject/verb organization of the line switches from “now is winter” to “winter made summer” when we continue listening. By proceeding his speech with sentences that cliffhang in this way, Richard emphasizes the stark contrast between the past and present in a tone that would certainly rouse an audience celebrating the change. Before was the “winter” of their “discontent” - the war against the House of Lancaster - but now, having won the battle (by killing King Henry and his son), they have all arrived in “summer,” a change brought on by “this sun of York,” a clever word play for son of the House of York, meaning Richard’s older brother, Edward, who is now sitting the throne for their family again.

And Richard continues to paint an elegant picture of this contrast for quite some time:

And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums chang’d to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

It’s a mimicking of the bravado you might find in Greek or Roman epics: the clouds looming above the House of York are deep beneath the ocean now, victory wreaths are worn upon their heads, battered swords are now not weapons, but decorations, what was stern and dreadful is now merry and delightful. At this point, none of Richard’s speech sounds particularly scathing. But, then we get to the final comparison:

Grim-visag’d war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;

And now,–instead of mounting barbed steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,–

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

And there’s the rub. In one final, sweeping juxtaposition of opposites, Richard illustrates how his nation has gone from soldiers mounting armed horses, striking fear into the very souls of their enemies…to capering - the horror! - in the hopes of mounting...well, something else.

In Richard’s words, these once noble men of arms have now taken up lutes, with which they now perform silly sexy time dances in ladies’ chambers. Note, Richard never directly implies that they actually accomplish copulation either, only that they are fully invested in jumping about trying in this ridiculous manner, like court jesters gyrating for a lady’s approval.

In the grander scheme of Richard’s cliffhanging prose pattern, this final contrast sheds a disgusted, critical light back on the “then” and “now” shift as a whole. Richard is no fan of this glorious summer - an emasculating, cringingly sexual turn of events - and he is very candid about his reasonings, too:

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature,

Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them--

Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to see my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity.

He’s ugly. No one wants to have sex with him. Due to physical disadvantage, he must sit this “sport” out. In more lines than the first half of his monologue, Richard elaborates on this point.

So here’s what’s up in brief: Richard is deformed, perhaps born prematurely and therefore “unfinished.” This deformity disables him from having ThE sEx either in a literal dick-ain’t-workin kinda way, or in a no “wanton ambling nymph” could possibly be attracted to him (or his potentially-also-deformed D) kinda way.

He’s so ugly dogs bark at him. He’s so ugly he can’t even “court” a mirror. He’s so ugly that while everyone else is dancing to lascivious lutes all he can do to pass the time is look at his ugly shadow and sing - yes, sing - about how ugly he is.

Self-deprecating humor at its finest, folks. And in lieu of all of it, Richard comes to a conclusion:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

I am determined to prove a villain

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

“Well, guys, since I’m more of a soldier than a seductress, I’ll just be a villain during this lazy, slutty time of peace.”

And there you have it: Richard the salty, sex-less Duke of Gloucester. A man turned villain because everyone else was getting it on, and he couldn’t.

Such salt, much drama. Right from the start of the play.

Now please imagine Richard singing about his deformed dick as we exeunt from this scene.

Until next time, my pretty cousins.

* Richard III is also sometimes categorized as a tragedy, though the play is based on historic events.