July, 2009

With all this selfish dishonesty, it's odd that Edgar lies to his father to save him. Disguised as poor Tom, Edgar leads Gloucester to what he thinks is the top of a cliff so he can commit suicide. After Gloucester faints, Edgar tells him a devil led him the cliff, and he survived a horrible fall, a miracle.

That lie is enough to convince Gloucester to live, but what are the morals surrounding this? Did Edgar do the right thing? What other options did he have, and would any of them been more decent?

The problem with aligning oneself with rats is that they'll eventually do to you what they're doing to your common enemy.

The war hasn't even begun, and already Regan and Goneril are starting their own furtive battle over Edmund. Meanwhile, white knight Cordelia is back with an army and a doctor, hoping to fix all of her father's problems.

The play is getting more difficult to put down. The acts are shorter, packed with action as the multiple conflicts come to a head. What more could we ask?

Edgar has finally reunited with Gloucester, who is now suicidal because of his cruel treatment toward his son. Goneril is making a play for Edmund, but her sister may be in a better position now that her husband, Cornwall, was killed by his servant trying to prevent the cruel treatment of Gloucester.

Albany returns home to find that Goneril is mixed up in all this treachery, and he is disgusted.

The betrayal by family plays a dominant role in King Lear, and it seems to overwhelm another, related issue: The inability of parents to judge their children's motives.

After being tortured and blinded by Cornwall and Regan, Gloucester calls for Edmund, only to find out that his bastard son has betrayed him. Much like Lear, Gloucester took Edmund's word as an opportunity to turn on his other son. It would be easy to justify these actions as a parent's undying love, but why did they both so willingly turn on their other child?

We just witnessed a meeting of evil minds as Cornwall bestowed on Edmund Earl of Gloucester. Terrible, but I wanted to spend some time remarking on the play's lack of scenery.

Shakespeare's non-existent scene descriptions create an austere setting, which I love in this play. The drama is so high, the action so quick, that it is enough to have nothing but the actors on stage. Who needs a dramatic stage when the words are so powerful and vile and exciting?

Seeking shelter from the storm, Lear sends his fool into a cave and discovers Edmund, who is disguised as a lunatic. Great costume, except the king who finds him has a more first-hand experience with the role.

Lear not only finds nothing wrong with Edmund's claim that he's being chased by the devil, he also strips naked as does Edmund.

Will the invasion begin before Lear completely loses his mind? This is some high drama.

The king is obviously starting to go mad. He's wandering in the rain, railing against his daughters, barely able to keep his thoughts straight.

Meanwhile, loyal Gloucester is aware of the French invasion and plans to help Lear and Cordelia. The only problem is he is confiding in the wrong son. The moment Edmund learns of the plot, he practically leaps with joy to rat out his father, with hopes of a quick execution for treason, leading to his fat inheritance.

The odds are against Lear, but Kent, with admirable loyalty, keeps his ear to the ground, scoping the best possible outcome.

There are spies in the kingdom and beef between Albany and Cornwall. Although the odds are still stacked against Lear, with the help of the right people (Cordelia and Kent), he might be able to fix the horrible mistake that began this play.

"You should be ruled, and led

By some discretion that discerns your state

Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you

That to our sister you do make return;

Say you have wronged her," (II, iv, 146-150) Regan says at the beginning of her brutal manipulation of her father.

Edgar, being hunted, believes he can find cover (and maybe happiness) by throwing away his fine clothes and worldly possessions to live a simple life as a beggar.

How monk-like.

Well, I know who I'd want on my team in this battle.

Still holding a grudge against Oswald for slighting Lear, Kent leaps at his chance for revenge when the two of them are alone. He draws his sword, but Oswald refuses to fight, leading to some wonderfully insulting language.

"Thou whoreson zed, thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the wall of a jakes with him." (II, ii, 61-64).

Evil seems to always win because it's always calculating how to win.

When Edmund hears that Cornwall and Regan are coming to visit, he immediately figures how he can use it to eliminate his brother. Trusting Edgar doesn't understand Edmund's claim about Cornwall, but still flees when Edmund tells him that their father has found his hiding place.

Already Lear's prideful decisions have come back to haunt him. Before he has much time to unpack his bags, Goneril is making plans to get rid of him.

Again, we see the contagious cruelty of greed. Much like Edmund, Goneril can think only of the material fortunes ahead of her, not the family that blocks the way. Lear seems equally guilty for demanding that silly loyalty oath, but this punishment already seems excessive.

The conniving brilliance caused by desire is remarkable, even in fiction.

Scene ii plays out much like the first, filled with family strife and diabolical plots. Sure, it's rough being the youngest child, shut out from the family fortune, and being a bastard makes it only worse, but Edmund's plan to set up his brother seems extreme. Even worse is the cold calculation with which he puts his plan into play.

One of the best aspects of Shakespeare's tragedies is that they don't conform to what eventually became the traditional drama formula. In scene I act i, we already know who the good guys are, who the bad guys are and who will realize the errors of his ways. Still, I don't think repentance will be enough in the end (just a hunch).

"Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave/ My heart into my mouth," Cordelia says (I, i, 91-92) when her father demands a loyalty oath, providing a refreshing statement following the sycophantic speeches of her older sisters.

Now that we're done with the odd, disturbing and criminal lovefest of the famed Greek philosophers, it's time to get back to our steady diet of murder, betrayal and extreme family dysfunction.

King Lear is one of only a few books that has remained on the Lit Hum syllabus since the creation of the class. There are enough killings to make a Cyclops uncomfortable, and while there's no incest, there's a chance of some patricide (don't want to give it away to those who slept through class) and plenty of fighting between family members.