FINALLY, this week, we get to see old William bust out the big guns and showcase his florabundant language skills. His strength of style and seemingly limitless aptitude for poetic verse is displayed so emphatically in Love’s Labour’s Lost that it appears scholars invented the word “florabundance” just for the purposes of describing the text of this play. I mean, LLL contains the longest word in all his works (honorificabilitudinitatibus), the longest scene (Act V, Sc. II), and even has one of the lengthiest speeches (Berowne’s 77-line address, ACT IV, Sc. III). You try googling “florabundance.” Go ahead; I dare you to find a straight-forward definition. Apparently, only Shakespeare is florabundant. Headcannon accepted.
Word on the street is that Billy wrote this one to deflate the very overinflated ego and pretense surrounding courtly ideals in France at the time, specifically, Henry of Navarre and all his buddies, after whom he named all the principal characters. It was de rigeur for a self-respecting court to at least nominally declare a collective endeavour to elevate their intellectual prowess and strive to go down in history as an “academe” of erudition. This led to inevitable snobbishness that our man must have witnessed himself firsthand during performances at grand manses and he decided that the situation was just too easy to parody NOT to make a whole play about it.
The writing style of LLL is ineluctably elaborate. Like, vast tracts of it consist of flowing, repeating ABAB, AAAA, or AABBAB rhyme schemes and numerous couplets. It’s also liberally peppered with trendy references and sophisticated literary allusions that make absolutely no sense to modern readers. It’s a joy to read out loud, because it’s quick and mellifluous. But oh man, when the pedants start in on their complaints, I finally see why people hate us grammar nazis. It’s even more obnoxious when argued in Latin.
I suppose excising the most opaque speeches and replacing them with 1930s Broadway tunes was Sir Kenneth Branagh’s appealing, if ultimately awkward, concept behind filming this oddball play. The movie, while unevenly cast (Nathan Lane as Costard=YES; Alicia Silverstone as The Princess=HARD PASS), is still winsome and enjoyable. I have a huge soft spot for Fred & Ginger routines, but I do miss some of the best pieces of dialogue that get chucked for songs. It’s a delightful fluffy bit of meringue pie that does nothing for your figure. Sir Ken’s Much Ado About Nothing is a far heartier dish, if not a smorgasbord of awesomeness, but we’ll get there eventually.
This week, we open with the King of Navarre announcing that he and his three besties (Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine) are going to sign a contract to spend three years in near-hermitic study, and they have to vow not to even glance at a woman. Berowne scoffs most poetically and points out the irony that the Princess of France is due to arrive any day now, so there goes that vow already. They all sign the pledge anyway, but agree that the braggadocious Spaniard Don Armado and the clown Costard will keep them entertained while they’re not buried in books. And speak of the devil, a letter arrives from Armado, reporting that Costard has already broken the rule about women (which applies to everyone within a mile of the court, unfortunately). Costard does not deny this, having been caught in a certain “manner and form following” with the milkmaid Jaquenetta. He is sentenced to go on the latest fad fasting diet: bran and water for a week while being guarded by Armado.
Meanwhile, Armado has a deep discussion on melancholy with his surprisingly witty page, Moth. Armado says he’s in love with Jaquenetta even though she is totally below him. Constable Dull brings in Costard for his sentencing and Armado sends Moth to lock him up while he gets to work on a love letter to Jaquenetta.
The Princess and her three ladies-in-waiting enter Navarre’s park with their handler, Lord Boyet, who is there to make sure she acts in her capacity as an ambassador for the King and not a trollop. The ladies gossip about how each of them have met one of Navarre’s men at some party or another in the past while Boyet goes to announce their arrival to Navarre. Boyet soon returns and says that due to Navarre’s vows, the ladies will have to sleep outside. Navarre meets the Princess and he argues with her over never receiving that Venmo payment for Aquitaine but she insists the money was sent. More diplomatic papers are due the next day, so Navarre leaves her to the hospitality of the forest while each of his men in turn asks Boyet about each of the ladies.
Armado and Moth have a long conversation about random shit until Costard shows up and they discuss poetry for a bit. Armado pays Costard to deliver a letter to Jaquenetta, then Berowne pays Costard even more to deliver a letter to the Princess’ lady-in-waiting, Rosaline. Berowne waxes philosophical about how ironic it is that he--the ultimate bastard bachelor--is falling in love.
While out hunting in Navarre’s forest, the Princess and her ladies are accosted by Costard, who accidentally hands over Armado’s letter to Jaquenetta. They all have a good belly laugh at Armado’s atrocious writing style and continue hunting.
Holofernes and Nathaniel, the schoolmaster and curate, respectively, stroll around the grounds waxing philosophical about language like the prigs they are. Jaquenetta and Costard run up to them, for she is illiterate and requests Holofernes to read her the love letter Costard just gave her, which is, of course, the one from Berowne, meant for Rosaline. Holofernes is deeply offended at Berowne’s writing and tells the clown and the girl to bring it to the King so Berowne gets the whooping he deserves.
While walking in the park, Berowne is floating on a cloud, thinking out loud about how in love he is and reading his latest feeble love letter to Rosaline. He hides when he sees the King, and eavesdrops as the King pronounces his flimsy love letter to the Princess. Then he hides when Longaville shows up to expound his flaccid letter. He hides when Dumaine arrives, also reciting a limp poem to his lady love. Longaville jumps out, pointing at Dumaine accusingly, then the King jumps out, pointing at both of them, and finally Berowne steps out, acting all smug for discovering his friends’ sin of breaking their vows.
Costard and Jaquenetta bring Berowne’s love letter to the King, so Berowne tries to tear it up to hide his own weakness, but they read it anyway and give him shit for falling for a “dark lady.” Berowne takes umbrage, then launches into the most lengthy speech in Shakespeare, full of enough sweet poetic verve and flowery turns-of-phrase to give everyone diabetes and allergies, thus convincing his friends that falling in love is the point of life, and that one learns best from “women’s eyes” and not dry old books (“eyes” are so essential that the word appears over 70 times in the text). They all run off to plan a party so they can schmooze their ladies.
Holofernes is still ranting with Nathaniel about pronunciation of English and Latin and whatnot, and Armado, Costard, and Moth join them. Moth outwits Holofernes, so Holofernes turns to Armado, whose verbosity he actually admires. Armado takes a long walk around the block to get to the point of informing them that the King has asked him to arrange some grand event for the Princess and her gal squad. Holofernes suggests a pageant of the Nine Worthies, and he calls shotgun on playing Judas Maccabeaus as if he’s already been cosplaying him on the weekends and this is his chance to show off his costume to the court. Constable Dull, who has been standing on the sidelines this entire time, finally comments that he has no fucking clue what the fuck is going on.
The Princess and her ladies show off the gifts sent to them from their suitors. The King sent the Princess a diamond necklace, Berowne sent Rosaline poetry and a drawing of herself, Katharine got a glove from Dumaine, and Maria got pearls from Longaville. Each gift is accompanied by schmaltzy love letters. Boyet enters and warns them that the men are stumbling on their way to court them, and they’re dressed as Russians. Apparently, they will find their ladies based on the favours they had sent. The Princess orders everyone to exchange gifts and put on their masks so the guys pursue the wrong gals.
In a bit of what reads like a transcript of a scene from a classic Hollywood screwball comedy, Moth enters to announce that the men (as Muscovites) have arrived and because the ladies are turning their backs on them, he tries to improvise the lines he was given and Berowne keeps nagging him to stay on script until Berowne gets snippy and slaps him away. Each man walks up to the woman they believe is the object of their love, and each couple, in turn, go off to chat in a corner. Once the men leave, the ladies giggle over how the King made promises to Rosaline and Berowne confessed his undying love to the Princess, etc. They take off their masks and re-exchange gifts for when the men return. The ladies act dumb and say a bunch of Russians showed up just then and said they loved them. The guys take a few minutes to catch up and realize that the ladies made fools out of them.
Costard announces that the pageant of the Nine Worthies will be performed with only five performers. The King immediately protests, insisting it will be a disaster, but the Princess says it is bound to be campy and hysterical, given the circumstances. And poor Costard, Nathaniel, Moth, Holofernes, and Armado try their damndest to present as various chivalrous heroes in history--Pompey, Alexander the Great, Hercules, Judas Maccabeaus, and Hector--and all are unmercifully mocked offstage by the “gentlemen” in the audience. Holofernes even turns to them and very stoically shames them with “This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.” As soon as Armado enters as Hector, Costard re-enters and says that Jaquenetta is knocked up by Armado, and a fight is about to break out between them.
The fun all comes crashing to a halt when a messenger runs in to tell the Princess that her father has died, and she is now Queen of France. Deeply struck by grief, she is ready to drop everything and leave. The men are distraught and insist that their newfound friendship and love can help during this tragic time. The Queen admits that she and the ladies all played along with this game, believing the men’s wooing to be an act of pleasantry and nothing more. Of course, the guys insist it’s real love and she dismisses them as moving too fast for such “world-without-end” promises. The Queen and the other ladies ask them to wait a year and if they all feel the same feels after twelvemonth, then they’ll think about it. Armado comes in and says “Well, I’m marrying Jaquenetta!” while the rest of the dudes walk off blue-balled. They sing a few pretty songs about summer and winter and go home.
I feel that the lost labours of this play are easily adumbrated in two of Berowne’s most notable speeches. Being so damned clever, he should have noticed his faulty logic about love and learning, but Berowne is no Benedick (Much Ado), as much as scholars like to say he is the proto-Ben (BTW, in his two films, Sir Ken plays Berowne and Benedick with aplomb).
Early in Act I, Sc.I, Berowne recites some inception-inducing lines:
Light seeking light doth light of light beguile:
So, ere you find where light in darkness lies,
Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.
Wherein, “light” means zero to four different things, depending on how deeply you want to dive. Is he just a shallow wordsmith, spitting rhymes so fast he confuses everyone within earshot? Or is he bullshitting people with an Olympic-sized pool of truthiness by asserting that “the eye” seeking “truth” is “deprived of vision” because it’s stuck in the shadowy pages of books? He’s a young dashing lord, ready to say anything to get out of denying himself the company of women for three years. This is all lust-driven at this point. But it sounds great!
Later, he is confused that he feels a warmth somewhere other than his loins, and “sees the light” when he spouts off even more reasoning against book learning:
For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,
Have found the ground of study's excellence
Without the beauty of a woman's face?
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:
They are the ground, the books, the academes,
From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire….
Then fools you were these women to forswear;
Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.
For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love;
Or for Love's sake, a word that loves all men;
Or for men's sake, the authors of these women;
Or women's sake, by whom we men are men-
Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,
Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.
This is just proof that Berowne admits to the egocentricism inherent in men’s love of women. Without women, they cannot hope to learn a single thing in this world! It’s not “love” that teaches them. Conversely, love blinds them, because they couldn’t tell one woman from the other outside their own favours, which is all they see--the gifts are territory markers; the piss on a tree. It’s all “for men’s sake” so they don’t lose themselves. I know, I know #notallmen, but I thank Billy for pointing out that many men are guilty of this puerile behavior.
Of course, the Princess and her squad knew better; they had met each man previously, and knew their superficial characters. Having nothing to lose, they decided to have some fun, and fun they had. They went hunting by themselves and camped out in the forest by themselves (OK, Boyet was there, but he’s no brave knight). They were just fine on their own. Those dudes, for all their grandiloquent phrasings, were randy sage grouse, gular sacs inflating and bopping all day long.
I’m so happy to be on the threshold of Liam’s truly unforgettable plays (although King John is up next and who the fuck cares I just want to get to Richard II already). R&J, Midsummer, Merchant, the Henriad (HAL IS A BAD BOYFRIEND BUT I LOVE HIM)--all on the horizon. I am excite.
P.S. Here is my favorite snippet from Sir Ken's film, in which, in an act of simple genius, he demonstrates iambic pentameter with some soft-shoe (my heart melts just thinking about it):
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