ACT III

Critics (Bradley was the most influential) have sometimes argued that to do the storm well in the theater is impossible. But with contemporary sound and light equipment that is not really so. Or at least, the sound of thunder (“this dreadful pudder o’er our heads”) and rain, along with the appearance of lightning is certainly achievable. Even without wind machines (fog is more easily generated mechanically) the actors can also mime the effect of wind. The wetness itself is trickier. Actors can be drenched in the wings, but actual rain\water might distract. And this, of course, is the real issue if the storm is too well-done unto itself, the audience will not be concentrating on the words (aside from the meaning, the texture of sharp, w’s, and constant k’s, b’s and t’s in Lear’s fiery speeches replicate that of the storm, for instance). Some Lears might be capable of competing with the storm, but this King Canute aim is often just too much (see, for instance, the almost absurd portrayal of the storm in the film, The Dresser).

This is why some productions have emphasized the “tempest in the mind” angle, and have maintained absolute silence (Charles Laughton’s Lear spoke with no sound effects) although have retained some visual accompaniment (mime, choreography, etc.). The internal nature of the storm has also generated attempts to use abstract, atonal music to represent the confusion and chaos, although this does not escape the problem of Lear (and the others) speaking over sound. These sort of strategies, however, tend to emphasize the mental storm at the expense of the literal one, and to do so is to eliminate the dialectical tension between the two which is clearly Shakespeare’s point. (In fact, the impossibility of pinning down this or that in this scene is part and parcel of the danger of eliminating either extreme if any aspect of this play : once the swings are gone, so is the tension which holds the audience, and keeps the play hurtling forward). The only conclusion can be the pragmatic one: any strategy for evoking the internal\external, human\natural storm is justified as long as it works. No doubt the possibilities have not been exhausted.

This question is not really just nit-picking, with an answer consisting merely on defining one’s terms in a particular way. Madness, to be sure, is not a very precise term, and Lear’s condition is a complex of mental and physical variables. The evidence points to the conclusion that he has still not slept, has not eaten for hours and hours; and, in combination with the weather, this certainly makes him susceptible to the ravages of his emotions and thoughts. Until this act, however, there is at least the possibility that with “a little rest” he would regain his “normal” outlook ... which is still “disturbed,” but not mad. Notice that in scene ii he still comes out of his states : “My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy” he says to Fool, and leads him of f to the hovel; at the beginning of scene iv, even, he is still aware of the difference between “this contentious storm” which “invades us to the skin” and “the malady” in his head. Perhaps this awareness of moving in and out of the state is crucial to determining he is not yet, irrevocably, mad?

After the emergence of Edgar\Tom from the hovel, however, he never regains nor reveals a shred of sanity (until he has been nursed by Cordelia much later, of course.) Granville-Barker claims the appearance of Tom marks the moment of snapping and this has much to recommend it. After all, given all the other variables operating in Lear’s system, the appearance out of nowhere of this “person” who must appear mad (to save his life) can easily be seen as the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Lear, moreover, immediately fixes on him as the embodiment of filial ingratitude -- “has his daughters brought him to this pass?" -- and then never breaks out of his obsession with his daughters guilt, revenge and punishment. The climax of this obsession is the trial and prosecution of his daughters in scene vi: look there at the constant hallucinations; animals, inanimate objects, even food - everything, he sees as Goneril and Regan. The sounds, and each visual aspect of the room Lear occupies must now combine to generate the appearance of a madhouse, a lunatic asylum. Perhaps another sign of this is Lear’s transfer of attention on Tom and away from Fool. For Fool’s foolishness was always directed to Lear’s sense, his potential to see through his madness, whereas now he is beyond the help of Fool.

On the surface, Gloucester’s fate might just be explained as straightforward, Machiavellian policy ; Regan and Cornwall needed to know something (the location of Lear) and they needed, therefore, to torture the info out of Gloucester. Yet Gloucester gave up what he knew without giving up his eyes, and the two probably had surmised the situation anyway. Moreover, even though Gloucester had betrayed them, his action certainly was not a despicable turnaround. If Regan and Cornwall were thinking as practical politicians, they would have (as Regan recognizes later) killed him instantly and without unseemly bloodiness, and got on with business.

Everything seems to point toward their action being a stupid, rash action. In fact, looking at how they treat Gloucester in this scene, step-by-step, it is hard not to see the two as sadists. Is that going too far? Of course a lot depends upon how the actors play this scene, but sadism requires receiving pleasure from the act, and though that can be portrayed, things seem to rush along too quickly for the relish of sadism. Or do they? Note that the immediate cause of the eye-plucking is Gloucester’s claim that he shall “see the winged vengeance overtake” his attackers. So Cornwall is, on one level, vindictively preventing that, literally, from happening. (Previously he has been called “fiery” by Gloucester himself). Recall the old idea that evil cannot stand being looked at -  recognized for what it is. What does that mean, and why does it make Cornwall’s punishment seems grotesquely appropriate?

Regan’s response, however, is pure cruelty -- the black delight of “one side shall mock another. Th’ other too.” Would Cornwall have plucked out the other without that more deliberate, cold retort and the intervening action of the servant which retrieves his original motivation once more? Nevertheless, Regan’s response goes beyond any clear motivation, or dictate of policy or necessity; it remains the pure cruelty which we put down to “her nature.” Note that from the first “love test” on, Regan always seems to be engaged in one-up-manship. Of course, to say “that’s just the way she is” merely rephrases rather than answers the original question ... but maybe that’s all that can be done?

It can be difficult to understand Shakespeare’s dramatic purpose here, and it is not irrelevant that, depending on how graphic the action, many members of Lear audiences have had to leave the theater in revulsion. Certain reasons for the dramatic necessity of the scene have already been implied in discussing the foregoing questions : the whole motif of stripping human beings down to “the thing itself” obviously recurs here. Could there be a much crueler scene? Could a person strip away any more decency or inhibitions than Regan and her husband here? With this act they have nothing left to hide about their moral character. The motif of non-recognition also reaches a peak here. It’s hard to focus the inability of someone (Gloucester) to see, more explicitly than in having him blinded. Is that too heavy-handed though? Do many people drift into the implication that Gloucester somehow deserved to be blinded because he was “blind”? Surely that is outrageous moralism? But if it is, how different is it from Shakespeare’s purpose?

The obvious difference between this violence and most media violence today is that here the violence is real. In other words, contemporary violence is often truncated, hidden or divested of consequences. Even in representations of actual war (the Gulf War, for instance) the twisted, dead bodies appear well after the fact, distanced by the original gloss of computer simulations, views from the sky, etc. Alternatively, blood and guts often comes in titillating glossiness. One good exception to this, is in the film Reservoir Dogs where a “good” guy is shot, and remains on screen, suffering painfully for almost the whole running time; his presence frames, realizes and deepens the meaning of the action (even if the meaning is a kind of “meaninglessness”). In the same sort of way, Shakespeare pulls no punches in the fact, and depiction of the torture, and then has Gloucester on stage (dragged around) for much of the remaining time, only to die ignominiously off-stage.