Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

They had their informed opinions about how the characters could have conducted their affairs better. So dumb to let Mark Antony speak at Caesar’s funeral, because it gave him an opening, and then look what! Richard went too far, he shouldn’t have assassinated just about everyone, it meant nobody helped him out with his battle when the time came. You want to be the kingpin, you need allies: no-brainer! As for Macbeth, he shouldn’t have trusted those witches because it made him overconfident and that was a big No. A guy needed to keep an eye on his weak points, rule number one, because anything that can go wrong will go wrong. We know that, right? Nods all round.

Felix wisely assigned those opinions as writing topics.

He avoided the romantic comedies: too frivolous for this bunch and not a good idea to get into questions of sex, which could lead to uproar. And Hamlet and Lear were off the table too, for another reason: they were too depressing. There were enough attempted suicides at Fletcher as it was, and some of them had succeeded. The three plays he’d done so far were acceptable, because although each one ended with a clutch of deaths, each also provided a new beginning in the shape of whoever it was who won. Bad behavior and even stupid behavior were punished and virtue was rewarded, more or less. With Shakespeare it was always more or less, as he took pains to point out.

His teaching method was the same for each play. First, everyone read the text in advance, a text shortened by him. He also provided a summary of the plot and a set of notes, and a crib sheet for the archaic words. Those who couldn’t make it through at that point would usually drop out.

Then, once he could meet with the class, he would outline the keynotes: what was the play about? There were always at least three keynotes, sometimes more, because, as he told them, Shakespeare was tricky. He had a lot of layers. He liked to hide things behind curtains, until — presto! — he’d surprise you.

His next move was important to his method: he’d limit the curse words permitted in the class. The students were allowed to choose a list of swear words, but only from the play itself. They liked that feature; also it ensured that they read the text very thoroughly. Then he’d set up a competition: points off for using the wrong swear words. You could only say “The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon” if the play was Macbeth . Transgressors lost points. At the end there was a valuable reward consisting of cigarettes, which Felix smuggled in. That aspect was very popular.

Next in the curriculum came an in-depth study of the main characters, explored in class one by one. What made them tick? What did they want? Why did they do what they did? Hot debates would take place, alternate versions would be proposed. Was Macbeth a psycho, or what? Was Lady Macbeth always bonkers, or did she go that way out of guilt? Was Richard III a stone-cold killer by nature, or was he a product of his times and his totally depraved extended family, where you had to kill or be killed?

Very interesting , Felix would say. Good point . The thing about Shakespeare, he would add, is that there’s never just one answer.

Next he would cast the play, assigning a backup team for each main character: prompters, understudies, costume designers. The teams could rewrite the character’s parts in their own words to make them more contemporary, but they couldn’t change the plot. That was the rule.

Their last assignment, the one they completed once the play had been performed, was the creation of an afterlife for their character, supposing that character was still alive. If not, then a piece about how the other characters viewed the dead person once he or she was underground and the play was over.

Having tweaked the text, they’d rehearse, work on the soundtrack, and finalize the props and costumes, which Felix would gather together for them outside and trundle into Fletcher. There were limits, of course: nothing sharp, nothing explosive, nothing you could smoke or inject. Potato guns were not allowed. Nor, he discovered, was fake blood: it might be mistaken for real blood, went the official reasoning, and act as an incitement.

Then they’d perform the play, scene by scene. They couldn’t present it to a live audience: administration was leery of gathering the whole prison population in one place for fear of riots, and anyway there was no auditorium that was big enough. So they’d video each scene and then edit it digitally, allowing Felix to check off “acquired marketable skill” on the numerous forms where checking-off was required. Also, making a video meant that no actor need be embarrassed in case he fluffed a line: they could do retakes.

When the video was finished, complete with special effects and music, it was shown to everyone in Fletcher on the closed-circuit TVs in the cells. Felix — sitting in the Warden’s office during the screening, along with the Warden and several higher-ups — was heartened by the cheers and applause and the comments he could hear coming from the cells over the surveillance intercom. The prisoners loved the fight scenes. Why not? Everyone loved the fight scenes: that’s why Shakespeare put them in.

The performances were a little rough, maybe, but they were heartfelt. Felix wished he could have squeezed half that much emotion out of his professionals, back in the day. The limelight shone briefly and in an obscure corner, but it shone.

After the screening there would be a cast party, as in the real theatre — Felix insisted on that — with potato chips and ginger ale, and Felix would distribute the cigarettes, and there would be high-fives and fist bumps, and they might watch the last part of the video again, where the credits rolled. Everyone in the class — even the bit parts, even the understudies — got to see his stage name in lights. And, without prompting, they did what real actors did: they propped up one another’s egos. “Hey Brutus — brutal!” “You aced it, Ritchie boy!” “Give us an eye of newt!” Grins, nods of thanks, shy smiles.

Watching the many faces watching their own faces as they pretended to be someone else — Felix found that strangely moving. For once in their lives, they loved themselves.

The course was offered from January to March, and during those months Felix ran on high octane. But in the summer and fall when he was back in his hovel full-time, he reverted to despondency. After a stellar career like his, what a descent — doing Shakespeare in the clink with a bunch of thieves, drug dealers, embezzlers, man-slaughterers, fraudsters, and con men. Was that how he would end his days, petering out in a backwater?

“Felix, Felix,” he would say to himself. “Who are you fooling?” “It’s a means to an end,” he would reply. “There’s a goal in sight. And at least it’s theatre.” “What goal?” he would respond.

Surely there was one. An unopened box, hidden somewhere under a rock, marked V for Vengeance. He didn’t see clearly where he was going, but he had to trust that he was going somewhere.

Monday, January 7, 2013.

It’s now Year Four of the Fletcher Correctional Players. Today is the first class of the season. As always on first days, Felix is slightly nervous. He’s done well with the program so far, but there could always be an accident, a slip-up, a rebellion. Something unforeseen. Tip of the tongue. Seashells. No slush , he admonishes his reflection. Be prepared .