A Beginning

In my overly articulate life I find I rarely have any type of organization. At school all day I talk about literature, philosophy, and history. College is funny like that. One can spend hours upon hours in class talking, and never complete a thought. My goal here is to maintain a medium to share whatever I feel the urge to, with or without readers. I will post ongoing projects, up and coming ideas, recipes, and rants. I hope to enjoy every moment.

To begin, I have a real problem with some of Shakespeare's later work. Where Othello and Makcers (The Scottish play. You know. The cursed one.) show a mastery of characterization, plot, dialogue, and manipulation of poetic faith, others fall completely short. Now, as there are no surviving manuscripts written in good ol' Billy's own hand, and he left us no journal to explain some of his incompletes, thus certain plays may be forgiven. Cymbeline, for instance, was pieced together from many varied sources such as actors accounts, and the journals of various men who chronicled their experience in the theater. Its fragmented and choppy production may be excused.
After James I took the throne, Shakespeare certainly had mastered his trade. His devices are demonstrably deliberate, even when they were meant almost entirely to brown-nose the seated monarch. Mackers, for instance. The Scottish play was written as the reign of James I began. Act 4, scene 1, shows the Scot encountering a procession of eight kings, beginning with the ghost of Banquo, to whom (after about eight generations) James I traced his lineage back to. The eighth apparition carried a mirror, and as this procession of his ancestors crossed the stage, the eighth would reflect good ol' king Jamie's face back to him. (M4.1.112-123)
This act shows beautiful mastery of his craft. Perhaps a nose of a darker hue after the production of this play, but still. With writing this effective, the man had no excuse to inflict certain things on history.

So why, oh why, Billy, did you write Antony and Cleopatra?! This schoolboy buggery of a play drags the audience through hours of will he? Won't she? Why? What? No, damnit Cleo! Antony, pull your head out of your ass! No, dont put her dress on...
Rather than acting as a narrative, or even a cautionary tale, we see once noble Tony as the rope acting out the tug of war between a monochrome Rome and opulent Egypt. Hours of manipulation, constant back and fourth, then everyone dies. The end.
The only moment where even Shakespeare's famous mastery of words shows through lies in act 2, scene two, at Enobarbus' description of Cleo's barge. Her burnished throne burning on the water and the smiling Cupids flanking the infamous queen.
One play cannot ride on fifteen lines in the second act. (A&C2.2.200-215) After this point the poor audience has two options. To leave with the dissatisfaction of the story unfinished, or the entropy which overtakes the limbs and mind as the action drags on and on to its disappointing finale.
And this came from the mind that created the Moor of Venice, the Wives of Windsor, and the lionhearted Henry V. Lucky for Caesar Sr. that he was turned to swiss cheese on the Ides of March. He didn't have to deal with Egypt after she passed her prime. Carpet rolled wench.