Shakespeare's Tempest and Capitalism: The Storm of History 9781409407263, 9781315608792

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Shakespeare’s Tempest and Capitalism

In this forceful study, Helen C. Scott situates The Tempest within Marxist analyses of the ‘primitive accumulation’ of capital, which she suggests help explain the play’s continued and particular resonance. The ‘storm’ of the title refers both to Shakespeare’s Tempest hurtling through time and to Walter Benjamin’s concept of history as a succession of violent catastrophes. Scott begins with an account of the global processes of dispossession—of the peasantry and indigenous populations—accompanying the emergence of capitalism, which generated new class relationships, new understandings of human subjectivity, and new forms of oppression around race, gender, and disability. Developing a detailed reading of the play at its moment of production in the business of theatre in 1611, Scott then moves gracefully through the global reception history, showing how its central thematic concerns and figurative patterns bespeak the upheavals and dispossessions of successive stages of capitalist development. Paying particular attention to moments of social crisis, and unearthing a radical political tradition, Scott follows the play from its hostile takeover in the Restoration, through its revival by the Romantics, and consolidation and contestation in the nineteenth century. In the twentieth century, transatlantic modernism generated an acutely dystopic Tempest; then during the global transformations of the 1960s, postcolonial writers permanently associated it with decolonization. At century’s end, the play became a vehicle for exploring intersectional oppression, and the remarkable ‘Sycorax school’ featured iconoclastic readings by writers such as Abena Busia, May Joseph, and Sylvia Wynter. Turning to both popular culture and high-profile stage productions in the twenty-first century, Scott explores the ramifications and figurative potential of Shakespeare’s Tempest for global social and ecological crises today. Sensitive to the play’s original concerns and informed by recent scholarship on performance and reception history as well as disability studies, Scott’s moving analysis impels readers toward a fresh understanding of sea-change and metamorphosis as potent symbols for the literal and figurative tempests of capitalism’s old age now threatening ‘the great globe itself.’ Originally from Britain, Helen C. Scott received the BA from the University of Essex and the PhD from Brown University before joining the faculty at

the University of Vermont, where her primary area of teaching is global Anglophone literature. Her research contributes to the materialist presence within postcolonial studies, developing historically informed readings of literary works; her particular areas of specialization are the contemporary transnational novel, Caribbean literature, global appropriations of Shakespeare’s Tempest, and the life and works of Rosa Luxemburg. This work has been published in journals such as Callaloo, Journal of Haitian Studies, New Formations, New Politics, Postcolonial Text, Socialist Studies, and Works and Days, and in several edited collections. She is author of Caribbean Women Writers and Globalization: Fictions of Independence (Ashgate, 2006); editor of The Essential Rosa Luxemburg (Haymarket Books, 2008); and co-editor, with Paul Le Blanc, of an anthology of Luxemburg’s writings, Socialism or Barbarism (Pluto Press, 2010).

Shakespeare’s Tempest and Capitalism The Storm of History

Helen C. Scott

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 Helen C. Scott The right of Helen C. Scott to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-4094-0726-3 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-60879-2 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by codeMantra

Contents

Preface: a four-hundred-year culture war Acknowledgments

vii xxix

Introduction: primitive accumulation 1 1 The storm of history 20 2 Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization 50 3 Crisis, war, revolution 80 4 Independence 114 5 Overproduction 139 6 Deregulation 164 Afterword: state of emergency Bibliography Index

191 201 237

Preface A four-hundred-year culture war

…the lifework is both preserved and sublated in the work, the era in the lifework and the entire course of history in the era. Walter Benjamin Thesis XVII

Meaning by Tempests Over a period of more than a decade at the start of the twenty-first century, I taught Shakespeare’s Tempest and its reception history as a case study in ‘Critical Approaches to Literature,’ a gateway course for English majors at the University of Vermont. Each time I taught the course most students typically came in with the assumptions, which continue to be common sense in a broader culture prone to bardolatry, that Shakespeare is the nonpareil of high art and that his plays transcend time and place and are universally accessible and meaningful.1 This account was, needless to say, in tension with their personal experience: most students also reported at least some encounters, often in school, where they were unable to understand or derive any value from reading one of the plays, including The Tempest, or were bored and/or befuddled by a performance. This contradiction between reputation and reality was exposed early on, and the notion of universality took many blows along the way. It was a revelation to most students that Shakespeare’s Tempest has not always been revered, staged, or canonized even in England, that in the United States as recently as 1960 it was possible to say that it was ‘seldom performed,’ and while it can be found today in the languages and curricula of countries across the globe, this is a recent phenomenon, and even now it is absent in as many. 2 It was hard to digest this checkered record because The Tempest seemed ubiquitous. Selecting only works based on the original play, I could introduce the major genres and regions of Anglophone literature. Most semesters I was able to take classes to a live performance of The Tempest within traveling distance of the university campus in Burlington, Vermont. I routinely asked students to look out for any mention of the play in their daily lives, and without fail over a semester they collectively produced something in the range of forty to fifty references and allusions, gleaned from literature, television shows, film, music, theater, and the news media, invariably including several that were new to me.

viii Preface In the process of paying attention to when and how the play was evoked in the surrounding culture and in the canon of English literature, certain patterns emerged. Romantic poets seemed most interested in Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech; modernists shared a fascination with Ariel’s ‘Full Fathom Five’ song and Ferdinand’s lines about his supposedly dead father; postcolonial authors were drawn to Caliban’s lines, particularly his ‘This island’s mine’ and ‘You taught me language’ speeches. More recently Sycorax was gaining increasing attention. In contemporary popular culture, similar allusions would be repeated both within and across forms and genres in clusters, for example in television shows: episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and Heroes titled ‘Brave New World’; a clip of Forbidden Planet appearing in the background of a scene in Fringe; and references to Prospero, Sycorax, and Caliban in Lost. Often, the same quotations or allusions would appear in very different contexts at the same time or within a few years of each other: a collection of poetry and an environmental article both titled ‘Sea Change’; a left-wing comedy routine and right-wing blogger respectively celebrating and denouncing a Caliban reimagined as anti-capitalist protestor; economic journalists and a death metal band quoting Ariel’s lines (paraphrasing Ferdinand) from the second scene: ‘“Hell is empty,/And all the devils are here”’ (I.ii.214–5).3 In the surrounding world presented to myself and my students at the University of Vermont in the first decade of the twenty-first century, The Tempest was frequently associated with social crisis and radical politics, something that was heightened around the financial crisis of 2007–08. This intriguing recognition provided a clear illustration of the way that each generation rewrites Shakespeare’s plays according to its own concerns: in the words of Terence Hawkes, ‘Shakespeare doesn’t mean; we mean by Shakespeare.’4 A more systematic scouring of the changing fortunes of the play, however, reveals that the association was not strictly a contemporary phenomenon. There is, in fact, a long-standing —though uneven and ­sporadic—tradition of works that both find in the play an expression of the transformative power of early modern capitalism, and use it to implicitly or explicitly offer a critique of contemporary capitalism.

The Tempest as monad As my repertoire of examples grew, I increasingly came to conceptualize The Tempest as a crystallization of its particular historical conditions of production—both the creative revolutionary energy unleashed by the collapse of feudal certainties and the brutal dispossessions associated with the primitive accumulation of capital—that becomes a rich point of cultural reference especially during successive moments of revolutionary upheaval and capitalist crises. 5 The play is then subject to political contestation, as successive generations battle over not only the play-text itself but the entire history of struggle condensed therein. In these ways, The Tempest can be seen as a monad in the distinctive dialectical sense

Preface  ix given by Walter Benjamin.6 While the more familiar definition, such as that associated with Leibniz, understands the monad as ‘a reflection of the entire universe,’ Benjamin placed the concept squarely in the history of class struggle and connected it to his understanding of the ‘constellation’ (Löwy Fire Alarm 100). In the ‘Theses on the Concept of History,’ Benjamin describes how a historical materialist encounters exceptional moments when history seems to halt: Where thinking suddenly comes to a stop in a constellation saturated with tensions, it gives that constellation a shock, by which thinking is crystallized as a monad. The historical materialist … takes cognizance of it in order to blast a specific era out of the homogenous course of history … the lifework is both preserved and sublated in the work, the era in the lifework and the entire course of history in the era. The nourishing fruit of what is historically understood contains time in its interior as a precious but tasteless seed. (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 95)7 Benjamin approaches Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal in this way, as Michael Löwy explains: [T]he aim is to discover in Les Fleurs du mal a monad, a crystallized ensemble of tensions that contains a historical totality. In that text, wrested from the homogeneous course of history, is preserved and gathered the whole of the poet’s work, in that work the French nineteenth century, and, in this latter, the ‘entire course of history’. Within Baudelaire’s ‘accursed’ work, time lies hidden like a precious seed. Must that seed fructify in the terrain of the current class struggle to acquire its full savour? (Fire Alarm 96) The perplexing image of the ‘precious but tasteless seed,’ suggestive of forces that seem to offer little of substance, but nonetheless can be germinated to produce fruit of great nourishment, evokes Hegel’s illustration of the dialectic: the acorn that is simultaneously just an acorn and at the same time a potential oak tree. So too does it resonate with Langston Hughes’ poem ‘Dream Deferred,’ offering the image of unrealized aspirations as dried up or overripe fruit that may either rot or explode.8 This concept has resonance for The Tempest: within the play can be found the kernel of Shakespeare’s work, of the English Renaissance, and of the historical moment that saw the emergence of capitalism. It speaks to us because that system has traveled across history and now not only dominates the globe, but threatens its annihilation through ecological catastrophe. Successive responses to those dynamics, animated by moments of struggle, offer illuminating glimpses of the play’s shifting location in heterogeneous time, which, in contrast to a concept of the past as homogeneous and fixed, is understood as plural, fluid, and radically impacted by future (present) developments.

x Preface My book’s title, then, refers both to Shakespeare’s Tempest hurtling through time and also to Benjamin’s ‘Theses on the Concept of History.’ In this extraordinary work—initially unpublished fragments written shortly before his death—Benjamin rejects linear, homogeneous, quantitative conservative historicism, anchored in the ‘ideology of progress,’ and offers in its place a dynamic, heterogeneous, qualitative historical materialism, approaching the past as a succession of catastrophes punctuated by revolutionary struggle, and existing in dialectical tension with Jetztzeit (‘now time’). At the heart of this vision is class struggle: ‘the life and death struggle between oppressors and oppressed, exploiters and exploited, dominators and dominated’ (Löwy Fire Alarm 38). In the sixth thesis, Benjamin offers a vision of ongoing contestation over the past. While successive ruling classes use the idea of tradition to maintain their rule, the goal of the historical materialist is not to see the past ‘the way it really was’ but rather to ‘hold fast that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to the historical subject in a moment of danger’: Every age must strive anew to wrest tradition away from the conformism that is working to overpower it. The Messiah comes not only as the redeemer; he comes as the victor over the Antichrist. The only historian capable of fanning the spark of hope in the past is the one who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he is victorious. And this enemy has never ceased to be victorious. (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 42) Often, as here, using Messianic imagery, Benjamin presents history as a battle between those using ‘tradition’ in ways that obscure, naturalize, and shore up class society, and those looking to the revolutionary struggles of the past in order to oppose domination and oppression in the present. In Thesis VII, Benjamin explains why the ‘cultural treasures’—the great and celebrated artistic achievements of class society—are to be viewed ‘with cautious detachment’ by the historical materialist: They owe their existence not only to the efforts of the great geniuses who created them, but also to the anonymous toil of others who lived in the same period. There is no document of culture which is not at the same time a document of barbarism. And just as such a document is never free of barbarism, so barbarism taints the manner in which it was transmitted from one hand to another. (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 47) While works of art—the quintessence of civilization—are offered up as commodities for enjoyment and appreciation, the exploitation and oppression that made them possible, and the brutality that enabled their possession by history’s victors, are obscured and mystified. In contrast, the historical materialist aims to ‘brush history against the grain’ by identifying not with the victors, those who own the culture and write the histories,

Preface  xi but with the ‘anonymous toilers’ and the invisible victims (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 47). Benjamin here is engaged in ‘de-reification,’ and what his friend Bertolt Brecht called verfremdungseffekt or the effect of making strange: he defamiliarizes the dominant version of cultural history while exposing the concealed labor and the violence—the barbarism—behind the cultural product. This acknowledgment, however, does not lead him to condemn or reduce the value of art. Löwy writes of Benjamin: ‘far from rejecting the works of “high culture” as reactionary, he was of the opinion that many of them were overtly or covertly hostile to capitalist society. The point was, then, to recover the utopian or subversive moments hidden in the “cultural” heritage’ (Fire Alarm 55). This means both consciously practicing cultural ‘history from below’ while acknowledging and grappling with the political battles surrounding continued cultural production and reception. Benjamin’s interest was not restricted to ‘High Art’ but ranged broadly over diverse areas of culture. He can be considered an early practitioner of cultural studies in that he ‘opened up entirely new areas for Marxist analysis in relation to folk, popular, and mass cultures’ (Davidson ‘Walter Benjamin’ 212). Benjamin’s most famous passage, in Thesis IX, provides the searing image of the ‘Angel of History’ which begins as a response to Paul Klee’s 1920 painting ‘Angelus Novus’: Where a chain of events appears before us, he sees one single catastrophe, which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it at its feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise and has got caught in his wings; it is so strong that the angel can no longer close them. This storm drives him irresistibly into the future, to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows towards the sky. What we call progress is this storm. (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 62) History, documented by the victors as a steady march of progress, is refigured as a succession of violent catastrophes leaving a trail of victims in its wake. This has particular resonance for our century, as Michael Löwy notes: Quite clearly, it has seized the imagination of our age—doubtless because it touches upon something profound in the crisis of modern culture. But also because it has a prophetic dimension: its tragic warning seems to prefigure Auschwitz and Hiroshima, the two greatest catastrophes of human history… (Fire Alarm 62) The ideology of progress has been displaced in our age by the doctrine of inevitability: the commonplace truism repeated with wearying monotony that this capitalism we inhabit is, if not the ‘best,’ certainly the ‘only’ system imaginable or possible because, in the indelible words of Margaret Thatcher, ‘there is no alternative.’ The relentless pessimism of Benjamin’s

xii Preface vision, in contrast, is tempered by his insistence that none of the outcomes of history were inevitable, and alternatives remain as objective possibilities. Benjamin’s method ‘recovers the hidden explosive energies that are to be found in a precise moment of history. These energies, which are those of the Jetztzeit, are like the spark produced by a short circuit, enabling the continuum of history to be “blasted apart”’ (Löwy Fire Alarm 94). This is not a purely academic exercise, but always in the service of praxis. Characterizing Benjamin’s project as one of ‘opening up’ history, Löwy writes: ‘open history means … taking into account the possibility—though not the inevitability—of catastrophes on the one hand and great emancipatory movements on the other’ (Fire Alarm 110). This resonates with the perspective captured by Italian Marxist Antonio Gramsci (1891–1937) in his famous dictum ‘pessimism of the intellect; optimism of the will.’ Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks, written during his imprisonment by Mussolini’s fascists from 1926 to shortly before his death in 1937, represents an equally stunning contribution to emancipatory thought produced in catastrophic circumstances. Benjamin’s own life was brutally cut short in 1940, at what Victor Serge called the ‘“midnight in the century”’ (qtd. in Löwy Fire Alarm 18, 45). With many other Jews and other targets of fascism, he was forced into exile from Germany. Attempting to flee Vichy France, Benjamin was apprehended as an ‘illegal refugee’ trying to cross the border with Spain, and, facing a worse fate, took his own life. This harrowing tale, tragic in itself, inevitably now also evokes the overwhelming crises faced by today’s ‘illegal refugees’ seeking to cross borders in unprecedented numbers, escaping the devastation of war and destitution only to find not sanctuary but persecution and criminalization. Not far from the celebrated theaters of the Shakespeare industry, whether of North America or Europe, desperate refugees are denied entry across borders, detained, deported, and hounded to premature deaths. The Storm of History explores The Tempest through these Benjaminian lenses: the barbarism behind the cultural treasure; history as a succession of catastrophes; the disruptive and generative power of the traditions of the oppressed; and contestation surrounding the transmission of culture, as Shakespeare is used both to reinforce barbarism and to preserve emancipatory potential. My argument is threefold. First, The Tempest is a unique artistic expression of the upheaval and metamorphoses provoked by the transition to capitalism—in the broader society, in the theater, and in Shakespeare’s work—readable in its thematic preoccupations, remarkable mutability, and openness to radically divergent meanings. The violence of the primitive accumulation of capitalism is both the precondition for the play, and deeply embedded in its thematic and figurative patterns. Second, some of these distinctive qualities—preoccupation with storm and sea-change, usurpation and dispossession; the habit of looking backward and forward; disquieting apprehension of dissolution and simultaneous hope for restoration—not only emerge from a world turning upside down, but also take on particular significance at future moments when capitalism

Preface  xiii sharply experiences social upheavals. Third, as artists and commentators take up, rework, incorporate, and sometimes disavow the play over the ages in clusters of parallel cultural developments impacted by commonly experienced sociopolitical forces, their creative visions become attached to it, so that subsequent generations are not only ‘meaning by’ The Tempest, but also by the myriad artistic creations floating in its wake: the creative work of T.S. Eliot, James Joyce, Sylvia Plath, George Lamming, Kamau Brathwaite, Sylvia Wynter, and countless others responding to the play are now part of the associative web that surrounds it. My historical investigation is thus reciprocal—exploring both how the changing fortunes of capitalism impact the play and, in turn, what cultural and artistic forms tell us about those conditions—while remaining cognizant of The Tempest and subsequent cultural responses as unique works in their own right. Shakespeare is a commodity to be consumed—whether as a performance or as a text—in the Renaissance as much as today. The Shakespeare industry is not innocent of the conditions of violence that made and make it possible: the ‘cultural treasure’ owes its existence to the ‘invisible toil’ of those laboring behind the scenes. The play is not reducible to those conditions, however: it remains distinct as a dramatic work with specific aesthetic and formal qualities that speak to successive historical moments in particular ways.

Sea-change One of the play’s most significant qualities can be found in the term quoted more than any other in contemporary culture in the United States: ‘seachange.’9 In a beautiful formalist reading of 1951 that is characteristic of the era of the New Criticism, literary critic Reuben Brower takes up ‘seachange’ as the play’s ‘central metaphor.’ Meticulously tracing figurative patterns, he identifies the main connected ‘continuities’ (he tells us there are six, but actually gives us seven): ‘“strange-wondrous,” “sleep-and-dream,” “sea-tempest,” “music-and-noise,” “earth-air,” “slavery-freedom,” and “sovereignty-conspiracy”’ (Brower 185). Exploring how these patterns emerge in the themes, dramatic action, imagery, tropes, and also the meter, rhythms, and rhymes, with a breathtaking attention to detail, Brower distinguishes how the language works on us at an emotional, even visceral, level, independent of, but in tension with, the explicit plot or subject matter. New Criticism was itself a product of a cold war conservatism that dis-embedded culture from history: its orthodoxy held that it is both possible and desirable to insulate literary exegeses from history or politics. Disregarding the play’s origins in the new business of theater, Brower treats The Tempest as a disembodied text to be unlocked, unpacking its rich layers of signification through close reading, revealing its magical qualities, and explaining its special features. He points to Ariel’s ‘Full fathom five’ song and Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech as moments where the dense layers of analogies converge. Of Ariel’s song he writes:

xiv Preface In addition to the more obvious references to the deep sea and its powers and to the ‘strangeness’ of this drowning, there are indirect anticipations of other analogies. ‘Fade’ prefigures the ‘dissolving cloud’ metaphor and the theme of tempest changes, outer and inner. ‘Rich,’ along with ‘coral’ and ‘pearls,’ anticipates the opulent imagery of the dream-world passages and scenes, the ‘riches ready to drop’ on Caliban and the expressions of wealth and plenty in the masque. The song closes with the nymphs tolling the bell, the transformation and the ‘sea sorrow’ are expressed through sea music. (Brower 195) These same patterns are intensified in Prospero’s speech: The language evokes nearly every continuity that we have traced. ‘Melted into air,’ ‘dissolve,’ ‘cloud,’ and rack’ bring us immediately to Ariel and tempest changes, while ‘vision,’ ‘dream,’ and ‘sleep’ recall other familiar continuities. ‘Revels,’ ‘gorgeous palaces,’ and ‘pageant’ … are echoes of the kingly theme; and ‘solemn’ is associated particularly with the soft music of change. The ‘stuff’ of dreams is at once cloud-stuff (air) and cloth, both images being finely compressed in ‘baseless fabric.’ … Within the metaphor of tempest-clearing and of cloudlike transformation, Shakespeare has included allusions to every important analogy of change in the play. (Brower 196) While his choice of the key ‘continuities’ is somewhat selective—I would want to emphasize at least ‘deformity/beauty,’ ‘reason/madness,’ ‘birth/ death,’ ‘exploitation/empathy,’ ‘fertility/sterility,’ and ‘youth/age’—Brower gets to the heart of The Tempest’s preoccupation, at every level, with change and contradiction, and captures much of the play’s haunting, disconcerting, and emotionally powerful properties. Also, true to New Critical practice, Brower moves from rigorous and specific textual analysis toward highly abstract and formulaic conclusions that are banal even while they claim ‘universalist’ credentials: the play is concerned with ‘moral and psychological transformations’ (200); it is a ‘metaphysical poem of metamorphosis’ (202); its message is that ‘like the actors and scenery of the vision, earth’s glories and man shall vanish into nothingness’ (196). None of these conclusions are, in fact, politically neutral or ‘objective’: the play is absorbed into a particular conservative worldview, and certainly much gets left out in the process. If, instead, we map these specific qualities on to an equally particularized historical framework, we can understand the rich tapestry of ‘sea-change’ as one of the singular ways that the play speaks to the instability of the moment. Even more so than for the other plays, transition and upheaval are everywhere in The Tempest’s open-ended, ambiguous, fluid, and densely associative figurative language: more than anything else, the play artistically embodies contradiction. While Brower sees the ultimate expression of harmony, it can equally be said that running threads of dichotomy and

Preface  xv transformation produce discordance, the antithesis of harmony. The central image of solidity melting into thin air also provides a key link in the chain of connections between the play then and the play now. The image is famously echoed in Marx’s description of capitalism: Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real conditions of life and his relations with his kind. (Communist Manifesto 44) ‘All that is solid melts into air,’ in turn, provided the title to Marxist philosopher Marshall Berman’s (1940–2013) landmark statement on modernity, and the image is at the heart of his argument: To be modern … is to experience personal and social life as a maelstrom, to find one’s world and oneself in perpetual disintegration and renewal, trouble and anguish, ambiguity and contradiction: to be part of a universe in which all that is solid melts into air. (345) Berman takes Goethe’s Faust, which ‘universally regarded as a prime expression of the modern spiritual quest, reaches its fulfillment—but also its tragic catastrophe—in the transformation of modern material life,’ as the work of art that best represents Romanticism and anticipates modernity (Berman 88). Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, predecessor to Goethe’s Faust, is an important partner text for Shakespeare’s Tempest, with which it shares maelstrom, sorcery, and ‘melting vision,’ all of which find their way into Marx and Berman. The Tempest’s reiterative interest in transmutation emerges in its swings between the dichotomies of harmony and disharmony, forgiveness and punishment, freedom and imprisonment, closure and rupture. In marking the shift from medieval to early modern concepts of subjectivity, the play also registers emergent notions of human identity around race, gender, and disability. In these ways, as the Russian Marxist and critic Anatoly Lunacharsky (1875–1933) found, The Tempest embodies the dialectic between being ‘thankful for mutability’ and ‘discovering therein cause for melancholy’ (242).10

The storm of history These particular attributes allow The Tempest to become a bellwether for the changing dynamics of global capitalism over time. My study is chronological, traveling from the play’s origins to the present. My goal, however, is not to provide a historical survey of its reception history but rather to

xvi Preface identify and trace particular episodes when the play has been associated with capitalist crisis, revolutionary upheaval, and social change, and in so doing unearth a dynamic strand that links ‘then’ and ‘now.’11 I consider performance, adaptation, appropriation, criticism, and allusions and references in culture ‘high’ and ‘low,’ while striving to recognize what is distinct in each form and genre. Rejecting the notion of inherent, unchanging aesthetic value, and recognizing that works move from ‘popular’ to ‘canonical’ and back again, I nonetheless where possible (given the breadth of materials) consider each work according to the specific criteria of its genre— which is essential to the project of appreciating art on its own terms. Although the examples I consider are for the most part restricted to the Anglophone sphere (this is due to my own linguistic limitations as much as the need to place some boundaries on a potentially inexhaustible field of inquiry), and primarily transatlantic (my life has been divided between England and the United States), my scope is inescapably global. In this, I am influenced by recent interdisciplinary scholarship that foregrounds capitalism and class antagonisms while interrogating the ubiquitous division of world culture into that of ‘the West’ and ‘the Rest.’12 Such an approach leads to a recognition, for example, not only of the influence of the Ottoman empire on the London of The Tempest in 1611, but also the centrality of workers in Honduras and Haiti to contemporary productions: souvenir ‘Brave New World’ T-shirts from theater gift shops in Stratford Ontario, for one illustration of many, bear the label ‘Gildan,’ a multinational company that subcontracts to sweatshops in the global assembly line. It is a central premise of this book that cultural production in ‘the West’ is and always has been deeply implicated in global forces. Such a reading is a countermodel to a static treatment of the past as an undynamic artifact, holding instead that past events are not ‘dead’— fixed and isolated—but in a sense living, implicated in subsequent moments including the present. ‘Then’ is constantly refigured and renegotiated by ‘now,’ and is not a static monolith waiting to be discovered. In my work, I strive to hold this principle together with an appreciation that ‘then’ was unlike ‘now,’ remaining open to the diverse interpretive possibilities of discrete historical and local contexts that are at variance with the ‘commonsense’ assumptions of my own time and place. This entails resisting the tendency toward presentism—imposing contemporary concerns and assumptions on to periods prior to their inception in ways that naturalize social forces and ideologies. The dangers of presentism were recognized in a particularly sharp way by scholar of African-American history Lerone Bennett (1928–2018). In his influential 1975 study of early American history, The Shaping of Black America, Bennett registered the importance of thinking beyond one’s own moment for the ongoing struggle against racism: ‘most important, if hardest for us to understand, race did not have the same meaning in 1619 that it has today. The first white settlers were organized around concepts of class, religion, and nationality, and they apparently had little or no understanding of the concepts of race and slavery’

Preface  xvii (10). This truth—that many concepts familiar to oneself may be utterly foreign to earlier generations, and indeed to various communities today— has been a central principle as I have sought to grasp the play in its early seventeenth-century contexts and across time and place, and to understand why it has generated such fascination and dichotomous readings in the current age. The world of theater in 1611 represented a ‘golden age’ of artistic innovation and achievement: a new generation of playwrights and players were drawn from a hitherto unimaginable diversity of class backgrounds; shockingly new commercial amphitheaters, drawing audiences from even more differentiated social strata, proliferated on the outskirts of the city that was at the heart of innovation. While most of the plays produced in this period have not survived, and we have no way of knowing what other ‘treasures’ were lost, we have this body of Shakespeare’s work because it was preserved in the Folios. The plays represent a stunning display of imaginative and linguistic creativity and remain one of the great gifts to humanity from the Renaissance. This trove has also been fully ‘possessed’ by subsequent ruling classes and yoked into the service of oppressive practices and ideologies. The rendering of Shakespeare’s plays as national heritage, epitome of ‘universal’ values and ‘human nature,’ extracts them from their dynamic history, disguising the historical atrocities behind the artistic achievements of the European Renaissance. Dispossession and genocide were the preconditions for the Renaissance—and for The Tempest in many very concrete ways. Shakespeare’s company at the time, The King’s Men, was connected to the old order, the English monarchy: they had the sponsorship of the reigning monarch and performed more than three dozen times at court in 1610 and 1611, and to do so they would have had to comply with the Royal censors. The English monarchy were the beneficiaries of a patriarchal feudal order resting on centuries of brutal exploitation, and, especially at times of revolt, suppression of the peasantry. This included the particular subjection of women, as evidenced most gruesomely by the practices of torturing and executing elderly women without means who were accused of witchcraft, and more broadly the association of bodily ‘deformity’ with moral lack. At the same time, the play is embroiled in the emergent order made possible by the ‘primitive accumulation’ of capital: the processes of enclosure and land appropriation that dispossessed the peasantry and turned them into wage laborers. Shakespeare was a shareholder in his own theater, and was close to the Virginia Company, in which his sometime patron Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, and others of his acquaintance were investors. The playwright was thus a participant in the emergent market economy. Sources for the play further indicate the proximity of this world to the drama: they include several documents associated with the early colonial expansion that was central to mercantilism, particularly narratives describing the wreck of the Sea Venture—the flagship of a fleet traveling to the struggling Virginia Company—in the Bermudas. The English

xviii Preface geographer and promoter of the colonization of the Americas Richard Hakluyt (c1552–1616) summarized the case for expansion in his 1585 essay ‘Reasons for Colonization’: 1 To plant Christian religion. 2 To traffic. 3 To conquer. (Hakluyt 129).

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Or, to do all three.

England’s direct participation in the project was in its early stages, but the ‘conquest of the Americas,’ representing genocide on a scale never before seen, had already profoundly impacted the entire global system and England’s place in it. The play itself foregrounds the master/slave relationship, and evokes capital punishment, torture, incarceration, criminalization of recalcitrant servants and insubordinate women, discrimination against alterity and disfigurement, and persecution of ‘witches.’ A tremendous sleight of hand is required to remove these violent historical realities. Conversely, the play lends itself to allegory, conjuring characters who seem to be prototypes for these broader social forces and emblematic of relationships of oppression and exploitation. As historian Sylvia Federici writes in her account of primitive accumulation, Caliban and the Witch, ‘Caliban represents not only the anti-colonial rebel whose struggle still resonates in contemporary Caribbean literature, but is a symbol for the world proletariat’ and Sycorax becomes symbolic ‘as the embodiment of a world of female subjects that capitalism had to destroy: the heretic, the healer, the disobedient wife, the woman who dared to live alone, the obeah woman who poisoned the master’s food and inspired the slaves to revolt’ (11). A ‘salvage and deformed slave’ and an Algerian ‘witch’ are at the center of the action, and their symbolic potency has been taken up by conservatives, racists, and misogynists as well as socialists, anti-colonialists, and feminists with such frequency that they have become metonymic for oppression and resistance. This recognition is at the heart of a powerful 2002 essay on The Tempest by global studies scholar and founder of the Harmattan Theater in New York City, May Joseph. Joseph identifies dispossession of indigenous women as central both to the play and to the primitive accumulation that set in motion the rise of capitalism in Europe. Sycorax, the demonized Algerian witch who is the precondition for the plot, is figured as ‘both cannibal and cannibalized,’ and remains a stubborn presence despite a long history of attempts to silence and erase her. Joseph traces the deep connections between the history of colonial violence, persecution of witches, the rise of systemic racism, and the early development of capitalism, which in the twenty-first century engulfs the entire globe: ‘Through the deployment of cannibalistic logic, of devouring and being devoured, a colonial, pre-­ industrial and yet very contemporary theory of use/exchange value can be read in the play’ (212). These historical forces are structurally crucial to

Preface  xix the drama in its original moment and subsequent reception: to omit them from discussion of the play is to obscure the barbarism behind and in the cultural treasure. The contradictory historical forces surrounding Shakespearean theater more broadly thus condense in an acute way around The Tempest, leading generations of critics to argue over whether the drama endorses or challenges the established order, whether it is ‘radical’ or ‘conservative.’ The fact that profoundly dichotomous judgments coexist in itself speaks volumes about the play’s vocalization of the troubled legitimacy of the old and rising ruling classes during the transition to capitalism. The era presented complex and shifting alliances and emerging areas of influence that make it impossible to identify a stable singular dominant ideology; the feudal absolutism of the Tudor and Stuart state oversaw the precarious balance between existing and emergent classes.13 Moreover, the theater itself was in a contradictory relationship to this shifting balance of forces. The court both sponsored and censored the theater companies, and periodically closed them down at times of heightened social conflict. City officials and Puritans frequently denounced the theater as ungodly and immoral, and many of those engaged in new world colonization were in the same camp: the Virginia Company was officially hostile to the theater, and defensive about representation of its activities on the stage. One of The Tempest’s particular achievements, in addition to marvelously evocative language and imaginative power, is that it holds together the contradictions of an era that saw the temporary balance of old and new orders, in a society hurtling toward one of the earliest bourgeois revolutions. Thus, the play looks back to older frameworks—those of magic and divine right—even as it reaches toward the new—the language of exploration, discovery, and shipping. Scholar of early modern culture Crystal Bartolovich draws out the implications of these dynamics in her persuasive 2000 essay ‘“Baseless Fabric”: London as a “World City”’: ‘Shakespeare’s play turns to a familiar and soon-to-be-anachronistic discourse—magic— to work through a novel crisis in the social order, as is typical at moments of radical disruption’ (25). In keeping with these formative ties to both old and new, the play also borrows freely from the classics, particularly Virgil’s Aeneid and Ovid’s Metamorphoses, while drawing on ‘ripped from the headlines’ sources, like William Strachey’s yet-to-be-published letter.14 The play’s political ambivalence ultimately derives from its status not as a political treatise, but as a work of art. Not, as it was subsequently to become, High Art, a canonized literary text, but an example of ‘common’ popular culture, a live performance coming from the diverse experiences and allegiances of the theater company, and directed to the heterogeneous audiences of the Court, Globe, and Blackfriars theaters. Its polyvocality is surely bound up with the imperative to be successful—and thus make a profit—by entertaining as large a number of people as possible: audiences for the plays would have included royalty, nobility, merchants, yeomen,

xx Preface agricultural and urban laborers, and the ambiguous plebeians known as the ‘penny stinkers’ who paid the cheapest entry price to watch plays standing in the theater yard. Finally, our understanding of this period that saw the emergence of capitalism is inevitably shaped by the subsequent history: the most challenging reality of all for us to grasp is that today’s rulers were yesterday’s rebels. Neil Davidson articulates this conundrum in an essay on Walter Benjamin: ‘The peasants who revolted against the English monarchy in 1382 and their yeoman descendants of the New Model Army who overthrew it in 1639 … are the ancestors—in some cases quite distant ancestors—of the present capitalist class, of “the current rulers”’ (Holding 223). This means that while we may recognize the achievements of the agents of the early bourgeois revolutions, we inhabit a world now ruled by their beneficiaries, while the ‘invisible toilers’ who made capitalism’s triumph possible are the antecedents of the global working class, representatives of a long battle over the commons. All of this not only obviates the attempt to ideologically fix Renaissance cultural forms as either ‘radical’ or ‘conservative’ but also demonstrates the continuing political contestation over the ‘cultural treasures’ of class society.

A four-hundred-year culture war This book takes up the play as a monad that captures the dizzying contradictions of the early transition to capitalism and thus becomes the font of a four-hundred-year culture war, as successive generations battle over its soul. The Introduction, ‘Primitive Accumulation,’ maps out the forces shaping The Tempest at its moment of production in 1611. Global processes of dispossession accompanied the primitive accumulation of capital, while shifts in the global balance of forces paved the way for England’s emergence as world power. The tumultuous changes transforming England fashioned the new institution of the theater in the rapidly growing city of London, while the conflict between old and new shaped Shakespeare’s career in general, and in particular ways the plays of the ‘late period.’ Chapter 1, ‘The Storm of History,’ seeks to understand the play against these 1611 contexts while also asking why it has exerted such fascination in our own era: why it is, as scholar of early modern culture Peter Hulme wrote in 2000, that the play ‘has been re-read and re-written more radically, perhaps, than any other play’ and has ‘emerged as one of the most contested texts in the critical sphere’ (xi). The remaining chapters trace the play’s reception at various points in the subsequent four centuries, paying especial attention to moments when it is associated with capitalist crisis and political challenges from the oppressed. The chronology of the central chapters is informed by the periodization used by Eric Hobsbawm in his monumental histories—The Age of Revolution 1789–1848, The Age of Capital 1848–1875, The Age of Empire 1875–1914, and The Age of Extremes 1914–1991—although

Preface  xxi my book starts earlier, in 1611, and continues up to 2011, marking the 400th anniversary of the play. Chapter 2, ‘Hostile Takeover, Consolidation, and Destabilization,’ considers the long stretch of time from the closing of the theaters in 1640 through to the end of the nineteenth century. In the Restoration, when Shakespeare’s plays were found wanting, The Tempest fell out of favor. John Dryden and William Davenant’s revised version, The Enchanted Island, which retained less than a third of the original, was considered by contemporaries to be an improvement and supplanted Shakespeare’s play on the stage through the eighteenth century across the Anglophone world. But with the great wave of revolutions in Europe, North America, and Haiti, Shakespeare’s Tempest took on heightened significance. The Romantic poets, among whom were some of the ‘first critics of modern bourgeois society, of the capitalist civilization created by the Industrial Revolution,’ associated the play with opposition to conventional mores and the subjection of artistic creation to the market, and established a set of debates that we have inherited (Löwy and Sayre 891). Building on the Romantics, during the Victorian era the anti-capitalist tradition erupted periodically in the working-class ‘radical bardolatry’ which contested patriotic and imperialist claims on the play from the establishment. Chapter 3, ‘Crisis, War, Revolution,’ considers the transformation of The Tempest in the century witnessing the world’s only successful (albeit briefly) socialist revolution and two cataclysmic world wars. Socialist writers championed Caliban as the universal symbol of the exploited proletariat while conservatives dismissed him as a brainless revolutionary. Transatlantic modernism generated a newly dystopic Tempest, from Eliot’s allusions in The Wasteland to Huxley’s ironic and iconic Brave New World. In the wake of World War Two, many of the century’s most famous transatlantic poets, including H.D., Sylvia Plath, and W.H. Auden, found in the play intimations of both creative inspiration and apocalyptic crisis. And in the century that furthered the globalization of capitalism and of English literature, through processes associated with war and empire, The Tempest was connected with opposition to capitalism and imperialism not only within the transatlantic world but also increasingly within parts of Africa, the Caribbean, and Asia. The fourth chapter, ‘Independence,’ looks at the impact of the global revolts of the 1960s. A generation of writers who grew up under colonialism and came of age in the era of national liberation, including Aimé Césaire, George Lamming, Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong’o, and Edward Brathwaite, rejected imperialist uses of the play and claimed Ariel and Caliban as anti-imperialist freedom fighters.15 Marxist critics interpreted the play as an expression of the transition from feudalism to capitalism, and radical writers and dramatists moored it to a critique of contemporary capitalist structures and inequalities: the play came to symbolize the international ‘tempest of dissent.’ Chapter 5, ‘Overproduction,’ begins in 1980 and looks at the fate of the play in the contradictory climate of neoliberal backlash: in academic literary criticism a new ‘political Shakespeare’ came to the fore, even while the

xxii Preface longer history of political contestation was often forgotten, and the play got caught up in both the ‘linguistic turn’ and the ‘culture wars.’ While the period was marked by a conservative restoration that rolled back the gains of the movements of the previous decades, in performance there emerged a Tempest counterpoised to Thatcherism and Reagonomics, while a wave of feminist and womanist readings drew attention to first Miranda and then Sycorax and the intersections of class inequality, patriarchy, and racism. As Ania Loomba argued in her groundbreaking book, Gender, Race, Renaissance Drama, the play came to signify ‘[t]he connections between witches and transgressive women, between witch-trials with the process of capital accumulation, and between the economic, ideological and sexual subordination of native women by colonial rule’ (152). Shakespearean drama’s deep imbrication in historical and continuing structures of social inequality was exposed in new ways, even while such ‘politicization’ of the bard was denounced in some quarters. The final chapter, ‘Deregulation,’ traces the fortunes of the play in the first decade of the twenty-first century. Far from becoming less relevant at the end of the twentieth century, as some had anticipated in the wake of decolonization, the play’s timbre only intensified. The full globalization of capitalism drew attention to the play’s international dynamics, revealing, as Crystal Bartolovich wrote in 2000, that ‘even at the moment of the emergence of capital, the world was “in” London and London in the world in novel ways in the seventeenth century’ (‘Baseless Fabric’ 20). The play was positively and negatively associated with the global justice movement, which placed anti-capitalist critique at the forefront of political and cultural debates. As the decade advanced, it became symptomatic of acute anxieties about permanent war, indigenous dispossession, and ecological destruction. The Great Recession provided the crucial context for a cluster of critical and creative responses associating the play with the convulsions and dispossessions of capitalism’s youth and old age. In the Afterword, ‘State of Emergency,’ I explore the proliferation of deeply contradictory Tempests that surrounded the play’s 400th birthday. It was claimed not only by conservatives objecting to the by-now long-standing radical tradition of appropriation, but also by a new generation of anti-capitalists that sprang from the mass wave of rebellion from the Arab Spring to Occupy and the Indignados. The era also consolidated a neoliberal multiculturalism that co-opted the radical reading for the age of austerity, as exemplified by the play’s location in the London Olympics and Paralympics. In the period marking the emergence of Shakespeare Disability studies, the play now also became emblematic of the ‘sea change in attitudes toward disability’ in the early modern period (Hobgood and Wood 15). This was when my students registered more contemporary allusions and references than ever before and I identified the pattern of association with capitalist crisis. In this historical account, I distinguish three overarching categories which I refer to as ‘integrative,’ ‘disintegrative,’ and ‘liberatory.’ The first

Preface  xxiii two terms are taken from Ernest Mandel’s Delightful Murder: A Social History of the Crime History, which sketches a Marxist analysis of the crime genre as social form.16 Mandel distinguishes between ‘integrative’ crime fiction that solves the murder and restores the social order, and ‘disintegrative’ examples that instead problematize the notion of justice, ending on a discordant note that implicitly critiques the dominant social order. While evoking an analysis of murder mysteries in this context may be unorthodox, Mandel’s paradigm is pertinent on many levels. Walter Benjamin, who embraced both ‘high art’ and ‘popular culture’ as subjects for critique, took a perennial interest in the mystery genre, even harboring long-term plans to write a detective novel himself.17 My own study considers a broad range of ‘high’ and ‘popular’ culture, while recognizing that Shakespeare’s plays were at their inception popular culture, arguably closer to genre fiction than to other areas of modern literature. Mandel’s categories readily lend themselves to the reception history that is at the center of my book. The overwhelmingly dominant Tempest—­ repeated in the playbills of innumerable performances—is ‘integrative,’ affirming the conservatism of the plot (the restoration of the ‘rightful’ duke, the thwarting of attempted usurpation, and the disciplining of rebellion from the lower orders) and emphasizing themes of reconciliation, resolution, and harmony. The resultant play is a magical fairy tale with a happy ending, its central power residing in ‘universal’ questions of human nature and art, its primary note one of forgiveness.18 While presenting itself as apolitical, common sense or transparent, this version is only possible through significant omissions and distortions: it erases the ‘barbarism’ behind the ‘cultural treasure,’ to use Benjamin’s terms, and in the process it typically affirms the dominant social order past and present. The integrative has long been the default mode, especially in performance, but it has coexisted with two dissident versions. The primary alternative is the ‘disintegrative’ Tempest: this countervailing variety emphasizes the violence and conflict that are central to the plot and language, and highlights irreconcilable contradiction, resistance to closure, and dissonance. The resultant Tempest is a disturbing play that addresses slavery, incarceration, social power and powerlessness; its unsatisfying ending cannot quell the jarring dynamics that supply its emotional force. While the overarching opposition between the harmonious and discordant Tempests tends to correspond to worldviews that respectively endorse or question the prevailing social order, as in Mandel’s account, disintegrative Tempests are not necessarily politically radical or progressive. There is, however, another dissident Tempest—the ‘liberatory’ version—that not only lays bare the ‘barbarism,’ but also seeks to preserve the emancipatory potential within and around the artwork. While the liberatory Tempest emerges as a major force in the 1960s in the era of the great global liberation movements, its longer lineage can be traced back to the eighteenth century, when the Romantics associated the play with revolutionary politics, and forward to the present.

xxiv Preface The more extreme integrative readings have to rewrite the play, sometimes literally, as in the prototypical example, Restoration playwrights William Davenant and John Dryden’s 1670 The Tempest; or, The Enchanted Island (discussed in Chapter 2), or sometimes through omission. Similarly, the fully liberatory Tempests have to overhaul Shakespeare’s play, either in pure form such as the Martinican revolutionary poet Aimé Césaire’s 1969 Une Tempête (A Tempest—discussed in Chapter 4), or again through selectively removing aspects of the plot or downplaying them in performance. The play’s contradictory, discordant, and open-ended qualities lend themselves more organically to the disintegrative mode.

The personal is political In the long process of working on this project, it became very clear to me that the patterns I was unearthing have profoundly influenced my own relationship to The Tempest, and, in turn, mediated my reading of the play in ways that illustrate the reciprocity of social and personal forces as they coalesce around cultural texts. In England in the mid-1980s when the play was receiving renewed attention, The Tempest was the first live performance I attended by the Royal Shakespeare Company, as part of a school trip to Stratford-upon-Avon organized by the English department at Gordano Comprehensive School in Portishead, the small town in South West England where I grew up. The unremarkable and integrative performance was to my eyes—having recently been introduced to the ­exciting worlds of Marxist theory in History classes and Brechtian drama in Theater Studies—­disappointingly conventional and old school. But one of my brothers, living in London, recounted a decidedly liberatory version he had seen that featured a heroic black Caliban, vicious white racist Prospero, and an ­anti-imperialist aesthetic; he also introduced me to Derek Jarman’s recently released iconoclastic and deeply disintegrative film of The Tempest which convinced me that Shakespeare in performance could pack some serious shock value. Soon after, reading English at Essex University, I studied with Peter Hulme and Francis Barker, and was introduced to their landmark disintegrative interpretations of The Tempest that drew attention to the primacy of the Caribbean, colonial discourse, and England’s ‘masterless men.’ Radicalized by the epic battle represented by the Great Miners’ Strike, and the struggle against the anti-gay legislation known as Clause 28, I saw a production of Gay Sweatshop Theater Company’s This Island’s Mine, a liberatory reimagining of The Tempest through the lens of oppression and solidarity in contemporary Britain, in London in 1988. In face of the bleak realities and diminished funding opportunities of Thatcher’s England, I was advised to pursue postgraduate studies abroad, which led me (and countless others of my generation who were part of the British ‘brain drain’) to the United States and in due course a teaching assistantship and PhD in literature at Brown University. There I was able to work closely with Caribbean scholar Paget Henry, postcolonial literary

Preface  xxv critic Neil Lazarus, and Romanticist William Keach, who collectively gave me new perspectives on Marxist theory, while exposing me to many great anti-imperialist writers of the era of decolonization, all of whom, it turned out, had engaged with The Tempest.19 In these years, I was also introduced to Ania Loomba’s 1989 Gender, Race, Renaissance Drama, Kim Hall’s 1994 Things of Darkness, and Marina Warner’s 1992 novel Indigo, which variously located the play in the context of the development of capitalism, colonial dispossession, women’s subordination, and the rise of racism, while elaborating some liberatory conclusions. I took up my position at UVM as a specialist in postcolonial Anglophone literature in 1999, where I designed my course on The Tempest. At the verge of my career, after presenting a range of debilitating physical symptoms, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, which profoundly changed my life. I now had specific impairments that restricted what I was able to do and caused varying levels of pain and discomfort. Exacerbating this was a culture that does not recognize the full subjectivity, autonomy, or voices of disabled people. In the broader society, my MS was disabling and for some time it seemed unlikely that I would be able to continue with the academic career for which I had long been training. However, while the condition did place new parameters on my activities, with support and resources over time I developed a regimen that enabled me to continue an active public life. In my workplace a supportive department, backed up by a strong union contract with provisions for health care and paid medical leave, provided me with reasonable accommodations that fostered my continuing ability to contribute as a teacher, scholar, and socialist activist. None of this was inevitable: at many points MS exacerbations could have led me to lose my job, and, in turn, access to crucial enabling resources and systems of support, as routinely happens to people with this and many more conditions that should not, but often do, serve as obstacles to full social participation. The experience changed me in many other ways. I became more attuned to questions of alterity and the lived experience of oppression. I was forced to slow down, and while for a long time I saw this as a weakness, I eventually developed a sharp critique of the capitalist treadmill that demands ­ever-increasing levels of ‘productivity’ and defines personal worth in terms of externally driven markers of ‘success.’ I learned about the ‘social theory of disability,’ that crucially distinguishes between impairment, something experienced by individuals, and disability, which is largely determined by social forces. 20 Even while understanding at a theoretical level that disability is a social, not only an individual, question, and that ‘our world is a place of compulsory able-bodied-ness that insidiously excludes, stigmatizes, and devalues difference’ (Hobgood and Wood 3), I had hitherto cordoned off the experience of disability from my professional persona. The decision to discuss this personal history in a book about Shakespeare’s Tempest was sparked by the recent consolidation of disability studies within literary scholarship, a development that challenges the long-standing dictate that academics should present themselves as disembodied minds removed from

xxvi Preface social forces and corporeal experiences. Furthermore, my own encounter with the politics of disability drew my attention to the play’s remarkable and disturbing pattern of representation around the body: the central portrait of the ‘deformed’ Caliban and the trope of physical difference as monstrosity; the contrast between the visual appearances of Sycorax and Miranda, and pursuant association of ‘ugliness’ with moral turpitude and ‘beauty’ with virtue; and the overarching mind/body dualism that structures the entire play. These patterns intersect with unfixed residual and emergent notions of identity around race and gender in the play’s economy of representation. As this indicates, my work, at every step, has been kindled and sustained by contemporary intellectual, political, and cultural currents—mediated by institutions and individuals whose lives touched mine—that gave The Tempest an oversized role in my own Erziehungsroman.21 As should also by now be clear, The Storm of History is a book about ‘The Tempest and its travels,’ but it is also intended more broadly as a contribution to Marxist cultural analysis.22 While I certainly hope that Tempest scholars will find it worthwhile, the book is designed for nonspecialists: literature and theater studies students engaging with the play; dramatists staging performances; socialists and others interested in exploring the dialectical reciprocity between culture and history as part of a broader emancipatory project. I am not attempting an exhaustive survey, but a focused and selective exploration of those moments when The Tempest gets caught up in and speaks to capitalist crisis and episodes of emancipatory struggle and is transformed in the process. I draw attention to points in history when struggles of the oppressed ‘get into’ responses to the play, and, whether the immediate battle is victorious or goes down to defeat, new forms of thought and expression find their way into the broader culture. Such moments include epochal revolutions, such as those in Haiti in 1804 and Russia in 1917; mass movements, such as the Labor wars of the 1930s, Black, Latinx, Women’s and Gay Liberation movements of the 1960s and 1970s, the campaign against South African Apartheid in the 1980s; regional revolts combining economic and political aspirations, such as the Arab Spring of the early twenty-first century; and ongoing struggles against imperialist wars and colonial occupations, for LGBTQ equality, and around labor, environmental, migrant, indigenous, and disability rights. This is not a ‘disinterested’ or academic project, but one that believes that ‘Marxism has no meaning if it is not, also, the heir to—and executor of— many centuries of emancipatory dreams and struggles’ (Löwy 36).

Notes 1 Bardolatry, the excessive worship of Shakespeare—dubbed the ‘Bard of Avon’—first developed in the nineteenth century. The origin of the word is usually dated at 1903 and attributed to George Bernard Shaw, who admired Shakespeare’s plays but loathed the practice of idolizing the playwright.

Preface  xxvii 2 The quotation is from the cover blurb for William Shakespeare’s The Tempest, produced for television by George Schaefer in 1960. Laura Bohannan’s 1961 ‘Shakespeare in the Bush,’ an English anthropologist’s story about her attempt to retell the story of Hamlet while living in a small village of the Tiv in Nigeria, suggests some of the countless ways that very specific cultural assumptions are deeply embedded in the plays, and do not automatically translate to different locations. As is typical, her reading of the play reveals as much about the author’s cultural location and ideological compass as it does about either the play text or research subjects. 3 These examples are discussed further in Chapter 6. American poet Jorie Graham’s 2008 Sea Change and a 2008 Canadian Wildlife Federation essay called ‘Climate Change; Sea Change.’ British comedian Rob Newman’s comedy routine, ‘From Caliban to the Taliban.’ The blog: ‘Unoccupied Territory: The rage of Caliban.’ Posted by Mark Gullick. McLean and Nocera’s book, All the Devils are Here and Anaal Nathrakh’s album, Hell is Empty and All the Devils are Here. 4 Hawkes elaborates this position in his 1992 book, Meaning by Shakespeare, and the term has been taken up by many others in subsequent years. 5 In the monumental work, The Accumulation of Capital, first published as Die Akkumulation des Kapitals in 1913, Rosa Luxemburg builds on Marx’s Capital to develop an account of the mechanisms by which capitalism expands, emphasizing the centrality of imperialist conquest and militarism to the economic process. 6 Walter Benjamin (1892–1940) was a German Jewish literary critic, writer, Marxist, and cultural theorist, whose life was cut short by the rise of fascism. His primary attention to cultural critique and his heterodox frame of reference have led diverse figures to question his Marxist credentials, and he has often been placed outside of the Classical Marxist tradition by those both friendly and hostile to this pantheon. This judgment, however, rests on an overly restrictive understanding both of Benjamin and of Marxism: the innovations of the former are better understood as enhancing rather than undermining the latter. In his ‘Walter Benjamin and the Classical Marxist Tradition,’ Neil Davidson concludes: ‘we need to see Benjamin’s work, not in opposition to the classical tradition, but as a contribution that enriches it, by deepening our understanding of some key themes and addressing others that had hitherto been absent’ (227). 7 The text of Benjamin’s ‘On the Concept of History’ I am using is that given by Michael Löwy in his book, Fire Alarm, which also supplies detailed explanatory context and line-by-line explication. 8 ‘What happens to a dream deferred? // Does it dry up / Like a raisin in the sun? // Or fester like a sore— / And then run? // Does it stink like rotten meat? / Or crust and sugar over— / like a syrupy sweet? // Maybe it just sags / like a heavy load. // Or does it explode?’ 9 The term’s entry into common parlance in the English lexicon is a recent development, dated by linguists to the 1970s. 10 Lunacharsky was part of the second international—the global socialist movement that had mass membership in the first decade of the twentieth century— and mixed with such figures as the Polish revolutionary Rosa Luxemburg and Russian author Maxim Gorky. He joined the Bolsheviks after the outbreak of World War One, and was a major figure in education and culture after the revolution. He was, like most of the leading Bolsheviks, ousted by Stalin in the late 1920s.

xxviii Preface 11 Many others have contributed to the wealth of available information about the play’s reception history. The impressive body of scholarship contributed by Alden T. and Virginia Mason Vaughan warrants particular recognition, and is frequently referenced throughout this book. 12 How the West Came to Rule by Alexander Anievas and Kerem Nişancioğlu; Vasant Kaiwar’s Postcolonial Orient. See Pranav Jani’s review of Vivek Chibber’s Postcolonial Theory and the Specter of Capital: ‘Marxism and the future of postcolonial theory’ in International Socialist Review 92. 13 The Court supported and financed the development of a naval and merchant fleet that could expand Britain’s trading power and combat the strength of Spain. During this period the alliance between Parliament, representing the interests of merchants, and the Court, representing landowners, held. But as the bourgeoisie increasingly escaped dependence on the monarchy, they were seen as a threat to the crown, and conflicts built in the decades leading to the English revolution. 14 William Strachey’s letter to his ‘Excellent lady,’ subsequently published as ‘A True Reportory of the Wreck and Redemption of Sir Thomas Gates, Knight, upon and from the Islands of the Bermudas.’ This was Strachey’s eye witness account of the wreck of the Sea Venture, published in 1625 but available to Shakespeare before 1611. 15 While for the most part this study focuses on Anglophone works, I do include Césaire’s Tempest due to its wide availability in English translation and its oversize influence on Anglophone postcolonial appropriations. 16 Ernest Mandel (1923–95) was a German-born Marxist economist, survivor of the Nazi concentration camps, influential Trotskyist journalist, theorist, and critic. Others have used the distinction between ‘integrative’ and ­‘dis-integrative’ in discussions of The Tempest (Coursen, ‘Review’ 219). A related opposition is between ‘spangled’ and ‘plain’ productions (Greenwald quoting Trewin 113). 17 See Sam Dolbear, Esther Leslie, and Sebastian Truskolaski’s ‘Introduction: Walter Benjamin and the Magnetic Play of Words’ for a fascinating discussion of Benjamin’s creative fiction and its relation to his theoretical and critical works. 18 This resonates with what Stephen Orgel refers to as the critically normative ‘sentimental’ reading, which he defines through a quotation from Madeleine Doran: ‘“the action of the play is Prospero’s discovery to his enemies, their discovery of themselves, the lovers’ discovery of a world of wonder, Prospero’s own discovery of an ethic of forgiveness, and the renunciation of his magical power”’ (Introduction 13). 19 Paget Henry would go on to write a significant work with The Tempest at its core: Caliban’s Reason. 20 The Union of the Physically Impaired Against Segregation (UPIAS), ‘a tiny group of disabled socialists,’ published the groundbreaking Fundamental Principles of Disability in 1975 that defined disabled people as an oppressed group, and asserted the ‘pioneering distinction between impairment and disability’ (Slorach 19). While elements of the social theory have subsequently been adapted and critiqued, its central assertion that disability is both personally experienced and socially determined remains invaluable. Marta Russell (1951– 2013) is a particularly important figure within Marxist disability theory and activism. See Rosenthal, ed. 21 The Erziehungsroman is a variant of the Bildungsroman, or novel of development, specifically concerned with the process of education. 22 The quoted term comes from the 2000 collection edited by Peter Hulme, The Tempest and its Travels.

Acknowledgments

It all began in the classroom, and the process of watching, reading, and analyzing The Tempest with my students. Thank you to all who have been in these classes at the University of Vermont, and especially those who continue to send me Tempest ‘sightings’ years after graduating. Ann Donahue encouraged and supported the original book proposal. Anthony Arnove and Chris Scott both gave me crucial feedback on the preface; William Keach, Nagesh Rao, and Ashley Smith generously supplied insightful and detailed responses to complete drafts of the manuscript. Kaitlin Chase provided much-needed assistance with the bibliography. Pranav Jani, Deepa Kumar, Gill Scott, and Nancy Welch clarified my thinking and shored up my confidence in countless conversations. Thanks to all my colleagues, family, and friends for watching and discussing The Tempest with me, and for humoring my obsession. Deepest love and appreciation to Ashley Smith for accompanying me to dozens of performances (now we can see other plays!), for invariably giving me new ways of understanding The Tempest and the world, and for being my beacon in the storm.

Introduction Primitive accumulation

These are not natural events, they strengthen From strange to stranger. Alonso V.i

The world turned upside down Emerging from a unique moment of innovative theatrical production, The Tempest was one among thousands of contemporaneous dramatic works, many of which did not survive in print form. It is a vestige of an exceptional era of mass entertainment that staged the questions being raised in the broader society and left a precious cultural legacy. Paul O’Flinn, author of a delightful short work of Marxist literary criticism of 1975, wrote of the play: ‘Prospero literally waves a magic wand and freezes for the moment all the life-denying forces in violently emerging capitalist society’ (Chapter 11). The implication here is that behind this ‘cultural treasure’ lie the devastating processes of the primitive accumulation of capital, including genocide, dispossession, and forced labor. While at the level of plot these ‘life-denying forces’ are kept at bay, they remain as a looming presence. With its formal and thematic preoccupation with usurpation and restoration, enslavement and insurrection, old worlds and new, dissolution and metamorphosis, The Tempest was a singular distillation of the spirit of the age. Its distinctive voice has spoken to successive generations in the modern era meditating on their own times of capitalist crisis and change. The phrase coined by Antonio, ‘what’s past is prologue’ (II.i.253), suggests the dual sense of nostalgia and futurity that characterized early modern theater. Looking back to the classical era and forward to modernity, the Renaissance was a product of the long transition from feudalism to capitalism. This was precipitated by the Protestant Reformation—an assault on the Catholic Church, the foundation block of feudalism—and by the European mercantilism that carved out colonial empires, paved the way for the triangular slave trade, and provided the building blocks for the development of capitalism. The century of change and revolution saw England transform from a second-class power into the world’s dominant empire. In the words of the broadside ballad of 1646, this was when the world turned upside down.1

2 Introduction The Tudor and Stuart state balanced between the old feudal lords and the rising capitalists: it had its base in those rulers committed to maintaining the old order, but it also enabled the development of capitalism through state-sponsored enclosures of land, which offered some yeoman farmers and landlords the opportunity to develop agricultural capitalism. The state also facilitated the colonial expansion that enabled the rise of the new merchant capitalists and by 1649 a coalition of rising capitalist farmers, lords, new merchants, and urban ‘middling sorts’ who were able to overthrow the old state and replace it with a new one—consolidated in 1688—that removed remaining impediments to capitalist development. 2 The new capitalist class hailed from sections of the landed aristocracy who turned to agricultural capitalism, and from the artisanal and mercantile capitalists who made their money through the wool and cloth industries and world trade. These developments were made possible by the ‘primitive accumulation’ of capital—laborers were separated from the land and the products of their work and compelled to enter the wage labor market—­described by Marx in Capital (‘Part Eight: So-Called Primitive Accumulation’ ­871–940). By the end of the sixteenth century, enclosure—the appropriation of common land and expropriation of the peasant proprietors—along with deforestation and urbanization, had already dramatically altered the demographic as well as the geographic landscape of England: ‘A mass of “free” and unattached proletarians was hurled onto the labour-market by the dissolution of the bands of feudal retainers,’ writes Marx in Capital (878). He goes on to quote an account from Harrison’s Description of England, which was prefixed to one of Shakespeare’s perennial sources, Holinshed’s Chronicle: ‘“cities and townes either utterly decaied or more than a quarter or half diminished”’ (qtd. in Capital 878–9). By the end of the seventeenth century, a quarter of England had been enclosed, dramatically increasing the number of people without land, feudal ties, or property: these ‘masterless’ men and women were, in turn, criminalized by successive laws against ‘vagrancy’ and ‘vagabondage’ in acts passed by Elizabeth I and James I: ‘Thus were the agricultural folk first forcibly expropriated from the soil, driven from their homes, turned into vagabonds, and then whipped, branded and tortured by grotesquely terroristic laws into accepting the discipline necessary for the system of wage-labour’ (Marx Capital 899). The rise of the capitalist system generated entirely new world views reflected in the scientific and philosophical thought of the Enlightenment. Over the course of capitalism’s early development, the very notion of humanity, previously understood in terms of social groups and the larger communal whole, was redefined to signify autonomous individuals driven by a competitive ‘human nature’ and disconnected from a now abstracted entity, ‘society.’ Cartesian subjectivity and possessive individualism were to be codified in the near future, and the early modern period was on the cusp of the emergence of a new normative model of selfhood. While bourgeois ideology rests on the notion of ‘individual freedom,’ Marx pointed out that laborers were ‘freed’ from their property but bound to the invisible chains

Introduction  3 of the market system where they were forced to sell their only remaining possession—their labor power—in order to survive: ‘the bourgeoisie endowed the individual with an unprecedented importance, but at the same time that same individuality was annihilated by the economic conditions to which it was subjected, by the reification created by commodity production’ (Lukács History 62). As a corollary, the new triangular trade literally enslaved entire populations, denying them possession of even their own labor power. Marx famously captured the intimate relationship between the two sides of capitalist development, as well as its profound brutality, in Capital: In fact the veiled slavery of the wage labourers in Europe needed the unqualified slavery of the New World as its pedestal. Tantae molis erat to unleash the ‘eternal natural laws’ of the capitalist mode of production, to complete the process of separation between the workers and the conditions of their labour, to transform, at one pole, the social means of production and subsistence into capital, and at the opposite pole, the mass of the population into wage-labourers, into the free ‘labouring poor,’ the artificial product of modern history. If money, according to Augier, ‘comes into the world with a congenital blood-stain on one cheek,’ capital comes dripping from head to toe, from every pore, with blood and dirt. (Capital 925–6)3 The implications were immense. The naked contradiction between the ideology of bourgeois individualism and the fact of slavery was justified by the development of systemic racism, which denied the enslaved human status. Possessive individualism led to a notion of ‘productive’ personhood against which impairments were refigured as ‘difference’ and ‘lack.’ In marked contrast to the feudal model of collective labor in which a broader spectrum of ‘abilities’ could be accommodated and was understood on communal rather than individual bases, this paved the way for the modern category of ‘disabled’ persons.4 The dispossession of the peasantry and the creation of the modern proletariat were processes that took hundreds of years and tremendous class struggle. Peasant revolts periodically erupted in the late sixteenth century and into the seventeenth. The famous Kett’s Rebellion of 1549 espoused the idea that ‘“all bond-men may be made free, for god made all free with his precious blood sheddying”’ (qtd. in Federici 73). Similar revolts had broken out closer to the time of The Tempest’s composition, such as the Enslow Hill Rebellion of 1596 and the spectacular 1607 Midlands Revolt. Each case was met with harsh suppression: In 1611, the year The Tempest was first performed, in Middlesex alone (which county already contained the most populous parishes of London) roughly 130 people were sentenced to the gallows and ninety-eight were actually hanged, considerably more than the annual average of about seventy. (Linebaugh and Rediker 31)

4 Introduction The revolts and their suppression suggest the volatility of the period, which also saw increased social fluidity, as new social forces emerged from the decay of feudal estates and the disequilibrium stemming from land transfers. Francis Bacon, a figure often associated with Prospero, was among those who noted these developments and warned of the potential for further social upheavals.5 An indication of how these changes were disrupting the English social hierarchy can be found in legislation around appropriate clothing. Sumptuary laws, which dictated class specific dress, dated back through the middle ages, but attempts to strengthen and enforce them under Elizabeth I suggest that the era was subject to increasing violations. A proclamation of 1574 betrays official anxieties surrounding dress and upward mobility: the greater availability of foreign goods—‘such superfluities of silks, cloths of gold, silver and other most vain devices’—presented dangers to the realm, particularly in the form of ‘young gentlemen, otherwise serviceable, and others seeking by show of apparel to be esteemed as gentlemen.’ Such men may bankrupt themselves, or turn to ‘unlawful acts’ to achieve their goals (Aughterson 164). The sumptuary laws, always difficult to enforce, were repealed by parliament in 1604, but clothing and class mobility continued to be contentious issues throughout the period. The broader upheavals were accompanied by hitherto unparalleled urbanization. While other towns developed in this period, London was the urban heart of England’s early capitalism, and boasted conditions that stood in sharp contrast to the circumscribed environment of the previous era and to rural regions. The population of London is reckoned to have increased eightfold from the beginning of the sixteenth to the middle of the seventeenth century (Hill World 40). Stephen Greenblatt describes it as a ‘city of newcomers’ which was home to an ‘unprecedented concentration of bodies’ (Will 163, 169). The fixtures of the medieval world were being buffeted by ‘the new forces of capitalism, the merging relations of economic and cultural exchange, the volatile and increasingly placeless institution of the market’ (Weimann ‘Representation’ 508). Greenblatt’s observation that London ‘escaped the local’ (Will 166) echoes Crystal Bartolovich’s commentary on the significance of the term ‘baseless fabric’ in The Tempest: ‘at the moment of the emergence of capital, the world was “in” London and London in the world in novel ways … as labour and trade practices transformed, rendering it “baseless”, in the sense of dislocated’ (‘“Baseless Fabric”’ 20).

Global production and reproduction All of these developments were both precipitated by and fueled global dynamics.6 Feudal Europe was shaped by the Mongol Empire and the Ottoman Empire, and these interactions fed into the conquest of the Americas, the triangular slave trade between Europe, Africa, and the Caribbean, and

Introduction  5 the colonization of Asia. Capitalism developed first in (what would become) Europe not due to the mythic superiority of the West, but rather due to its ‘privilege of backwardness’ relative to the extant regional powers. Over the course of the sixteenth century, the Ottoman Empire ‘actively and directly brought about a structural shift away from Mediterranean trade and the concomitant ascendancy of Italian city-states, toward the Atlantic powers that would eventually come to dominate the world through colonialism’ (Anievas and Nişancioğlu 120). The importance of the Ottoman empire for Renaissance England and the plays of Shakespeare can hardly be overstated, as Matthew Dimmock, among others, has pointed out.7 Nor should we underplay the significance of the ‘discovery’ and ‘conquest’ of the Americas, referred to by Tzvetan Todorov as ‘the greatest genocide in human history,’ that marked the start of modernity (5). Spain’s leading role prepared the way for the latecomer, England, facilitating its rapid capitalist development and ascendance as a global power. More broadly plunder and genocide in the New World generated ideological paradigms—starting with notions of Amerindians as ‘other’—that formed the building blocks of modern racism and Eurocentrism (Anievas and Nişancioğlu Chapter 5). English domestic enclosure and dispossession were thus inextricable from global processes. The primitive accumulation that dispossessed the English peasantry took place in the context of shifting relationships on the world stage that allowed mercantilism to develop, created new international fault lines of oppression, and led to the development of Atlantic slavery and racism. The second phase of European incursion into the Americas was beginning at the opening of the seventeenth century. Portugal, Holland, France, and England all launched commercial cultivation of sugar and tobacco in their own colonies, relying first on European indentured servants and then increasingly on enslaved Africans: ‘In 1500, Africans or persons of African descent were a clear minority of the world’s slave population; but by 1700, the majority’ (Manning, 30). Britain’s East India and Levant Companies had already advanced England’s maritime power and commercial expansion overseas: [England] was able to concentrate the great part of its expenditures, both royal and private, on overseas expansion and the fleets with which to pursue it: from 1545 to 1625 the Royal Navy increased in both numbers and tonnage twofold, the merchant marine fivefold, and England was prepared to say, with Ralegh, ‘whosever commands the sea commands the trade, whosoever commands the trade of the world commands the riches of the world, and consequently the world itself.’ (Sale 266) The Jamestown Colony was established in 1607 in the region of the Powhatan tribes, who by 1609 were actively resisting their colonizers. The Virginia Company was established as a joint stock venture by charters in 1609

6 Introduction and 1612, and although its life was brief, it established a permanent colony and paved the way for a new generation of independent entrepreneurs to develop the immense plantation economy and triangular trade that would reshape the world. The period was thus a key moment in the transformations that would lead to European global dominance, the emergence of England as the preeminent imperialist power, and the establishment of racial slavery. These social changes were accompanied by the growth of ideologies—possessive individualism, Eurocentrism, modern racism—that have persisted, albeit constantly shaped and reshaped, into our own era. In 1611, ‘Black’ and ‘white’ identities were not the seemingly secure and definitive categories that they were to become, and slavery was not yet racialized. As Eric Williams famously argued in his influential history, Capitalism and Slavery, ‘[u]nfree labor in the New World was brown, white, black and yellow’ (7). Barbara Fields elaborates this argument in a landmark 1990 essay, arguing that the early colonial development in North America ‘rested primarily on the backs of English indentured servants, not African slaves’ and this did not change until late in the seventeenth century (101–2). The era of formal European colonialism deepened and schematized racist thought. Michelle Alexander reminds us of this: The concept of race is a relatively recent development. Only in the past few centuries owing largely to European imperialism have the world’s people been classified along racial lines. Here, in America, the idea of race emerged as a means of reconciling chattel slavery—as well as the extermination of American Indians—with the ideals of freedom preached by whites in the new colonies. (23) Racism initially reconciled the fact of mass enslavement with the ideology of individual freedom and proceeded to function also as a central lynchpin in the maintenance of class inequality. Of Renaissance England, then, it is true to say both that ‘race did not have the same meaning … that it has today’ (Bennett 10) and that processes were underway that would lead to entirely new structures and ideologies of class and race that define our own age. As Ronald Takaki argued in an influential 1992 essay, The Tempest ‘invites us to view English expansion not only as imperialism but also as a defining moment in the making of an English-American identity based on race’ (892).8 As the broader social system was convulsing, the role of women, in particular, was subject to dramatic and contradictory transformations as not only the conditions of production but also of social reproduction changed. While patriarchy and women’s subordination were central to feudalism, women’s domestic work had included productive labor that was socially valued. The processes of separating public and private realms, removing productive work from the extended family, and dismantling practices and

Introduction  7 rights that had been secured by the peasantry under feudalism, all contributed to a devaluation of women’s reproductive and domestic roles. In his account of the impact of European conquest of the Americas, Kirkpatrick Sale spends some time describing gender egalitarianism in many of the ­Native American tribes, and draws the contrast with the predominant patriarchy in Europe. Women’s full participation in economic life and autonomy in personal relationships were incomprehensible to the early European travelers in the new (to them) world: Since this contrasted so sharply with the position of women in contemporary European society, where women’s economic and social power, already constricted by a patriarchal culture, was further undercut by the new capitalist economies stressing production by men and outside the home, it is hardly surprising that the men who wrote about it were generally confounded about what they saw. (Sale 300) Sale here emphasizes the corrosive impact on women’s status precipitated by early capitalism. In Caliban and the Witch, Silvia Federici identifies the violent suppression of disobedient women—including the witch-hunts that escalated in the mid-sixteenth century when witchcraft was legally encoded as a capital crime punishable by death—as a crucial feature of primitive accumulation. She also documents women’s participation in the era’s rebellions: she cites for example, one case in Warwickshire (‘Shakespeare’s county,’ as the county road sign declares today) in 1609: ‘“fifteen women, including wives, widows, spinsters, unmarried daughters, and servants, took it upon themselves to assemble at night to dig up the hedges and level the ditches”’ (qtd. in Federici 73). The government soon ‘started arresting and imprisoning women involved in anti-enclosure riots’ (Federici 73). The emergence of capitalism, paradoxically, included challenges to women’s subordinate role in the patriarchal order, as part of the revolutionary questioning of all aspects of feudal society: the Levellers, Diggers, and Ranters variously interrogated aspects of women’s oppression, and women played an increasing role in the dissenting movements throughout the century, which also saw challenges to the system of primogeniture that rested on the subordination of women.9 This illustrates the many ways that the period of global transformation was characterized both by immense creative energy that blasted open the bedrock of feudalism, and also by violent dispossession and exploitation. These shifts in racialized and gendered realities and ideologies are inseparable, despite the common practice of studying the histories of the early modern Atlantic, slavery, and women’s oppression in isolation from one another. Jennifer L. Morgan’s Laboring Women: Reproduction and Gender in New World Slavery explores the centrality of Black women’s productive and reproductive labor to racial slavery and thus the entire

8 Introduction Atlantic world. Given that this was ‘a coercive labor system predicated upon a fictive biological marker conveyed by the mother,’ the entire system pivoted upon enslaved women’s reproductive capacity (Morgan 3–4). While ‘[a] concept of “race” rooted firmly in biology is primarily a late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century phenomenon,’ ideological and social shifts were taking place earlier and the processes that generated these concepts were underway in the seventeenth century (Morgan 13). Morgan’s analysis of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century European travel narratives confirms this: By the mid-seventeenth century, what had initially marked African women as unfamiliar—their sexually and reproductively bound s­ avagery—had become familiar. To invoke it was to conjure a gendered and racialized figure that marked the boundaries of English civility even as she naturalized the subjugation of Africans and their descendants in the Americas. (49) The early emergent period of capitalist development as much as its subsequent history rested on the violent appropriation of Black women’s bodies.10

Theaters of court and commerce Renaissance theater as an institution was a microcosm of these broader social contradictions, conflicts, and transformations. On the one hand, the theater had strong connections with the past, in particular, the Medieval Morality Plays and Mystery Cycles, which continued into the 1570s and were likely familiar to Shakespeare in his childhood. On the other, it was a radically new institution. Thomas Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy (c1588) heralded a breathtaking and prolific outpouring of dramatic works in the coming decades: more than 1,500 plays are known to have been written between 1590 and 1642, and many more left no record.11 The first freestanding theater, the Red Lion, was opened in 1567. The first public amphitheater—a purpose-built permanent venue for open-air ­performance—was constructed in 1576 (The Theater), and by 1603 there were a dozen in London.12 The period gave rise to a new generation of playwrights, including Robert Greene, Thomas Lodge, Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Nashe, George Peele, and Thomas Watson, whose exceptional qualities are identified by Stephen Greenblatt: They were an extraordinary group, of the kind that emerges all at once in charmed moments, as when a dozen or more brilliant painters all seemed to converge at the same time on Florence or when for years at a time New Orleans or Chicago seemed to have a seemingly limitless supply of stupendous jazz and blues musicians. (Will 199)

Introduction  9 The context for this golden age of theater included ‘the phenomenal growth of the urban population, the emergence of the public theaters, and the existence of a competitive market for new plays’ (Will 199). The class backgrounds of these so-called ‘university wits’ were mixed to an extent unthinkable in earlier generations: they included the sons of old and new wealth, and some were scholarship recipients from financially humble families, beneficiaries of the grammar schools established in the sixteenth century. These educated men, for whom society as yet had no obvious productive role, were also often in an antagonistic relationship to the status quo. Christopher Hill describes the tremendous opening up of possibilities that helped forge the ‘great themes of late Elizabethan and Jacobean drama’: The boundless individualism of Marlowe’s heroes, or of Macbeth, their unlimited desires and ambitions for power beyond power, set them in conflict with the standards of existing society. Yet their world itself has lost stability. Authority has gone, nothing can be taken for granted … we could tell simply by reading the literature of the time that two sets of standards were in conflict. (Century 96) The theater thus registers the upheavals, contradictions, conflicts, and immense energy associated with the broader period. The theater companies were tied to the court and nobility. Players, named in the 1572 Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds, were required to have patronage under threat of criminal penalty, hence The Earl of Leicester’s Men, the Admiral’s Men, The Queen’s Men, the Earl of Pembroke’s Men, and so on. The ‘boy companies’ were recruited from the chapels of the royal household.13 Under both Elizabeth and James, royal performances took place in the Whitehall Palace Theater, the Cockpit-in-Court. The Master of the Revels, established under Henry VIII to oversee court entertainment, took on the broader role of court censor under Elizabeth. The theater companies were in these ways connected to the old society, but they were equally a product of the new: ‘the public playhouses and their professional acting companies were phenomena so turbulently new to London that no comfortable conceptual models had yet accommodated them’ (Barroll 8). Noble patronage notwithstanding, they established commercial joint stock companies with the central goal of making a profit; the term ‘box office’ stems from this time. Shakespeare’s company under the reign of Elizabeth, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, established the Globe theater in 1599: its capacity is estimated to be as much as 3,000, and standing room in the yard, which was exposed to the elements, cost a penny; the first and second galleries, both covered, cost two and three pennies respectively. This proved a profitable enterprise: the shareholders made significant money, which allowed them to purchase land, and in some cases noble titles. Under James, they became the King’s Men, and after 1608 they took over the

10 Introduction indoor Blackfriars hall theater, and this too was lucrative. Although the capacity was smaller and the audience more select, the seats were more expensive: the cheapest cost sixpence, the most prestigious double that amount. The company continued to play in both locations as well as at the court, so the audience for The Tempest was socioeconomically diverse: the public and democratic amphitheaters; the private and restricted royal court; and the public but more elite commercial indoor theater. There is evidence that other changes accompanied the opening up of Blackfriars, such as increased use of music, song, and dance in performance, and new stage technology that enabled special effects such as actors flying and disappearing. Like those of the university wits, the status and social backgrounds of the practical men of the theater—women did not have a major presence on the stage until after the Restoration—are richly illustrative of shifting class dynamics.14 John Brayne, the figure behind the Red Lion, was a successful London Grocer; James Burbage, leading player in the Queen’s Men, was a carpenter. Of the six shareholders of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, William Kempe had been a jester with the Earl of Leicester, and Thomas Pope was also part of the Earl’s retinue; John Heminges was a wealthy London grocer and became the company bookkeeper (he was later famous as the co-editor of the 1623 First Folio of Shakespeare’s plays, with fellow actor Henry Condell); Cuthbert and Richard were sons of James Burbage. The temporal dualism suggested by these biographies defined the institution of the theater: Situated on the cusp of residual and emergent modes of production, they retained aspects of the guild and patronage systems, while in other respects assuming the innovative form of joint-stock, proto capitalist ventures. As such, they were open to attack by civic and religious authorities. (Dowd and Korda 3) Consequently, the companies had a structurally ambivalent relationship to the various sites of power in the broader society. The push and pull of old and new played out in particular ways on Shakespeare’s biography, as far as it can be reconstructed.15 His parents were from old rural Warwickshire families whose world was already transformed by the Reformation and changes in land use; the Shakespeares lived in a town and were part of the rising middle class. In the early part of William’s childhood, the family’s fortunes steadily rose and John Shakespeare became a respected alderman. But while his rise illustrates the new potential of social mobility, the subsequent precipitous drop in the family’s position demonstrates the precarity of the age. John was in the guild protected gloving trade; he was also a brogger, an illegal wool trader, and some research suggests that his sudden financial reversal was precipitated by the crackdown on this practice, as the established wool merchants attempted to exert control over the trade and exclude new

Introduction  11 competition on the heels of economic crisis in the 1570s.16 While William Shakespeare would have attended the Grammar school, he famously did not go on to university. In 1582, he married Anne Hathaway, who was of a long-established f­ amily of substantial farmers and householders. But just a few years later, he joined the tide of humanity making its way to London. This conspicuous equilibrium between the contradictory forces of the old and the new is a common theme in early twenty-first century biographies. For Michael Wood, Shakespeare ‘was lucky to be born on the cusp of history’ and was ‘the first modern man … also the last great product of the Gothic Christian West’ (13); Greenblatt notes that his family history gave him ‘the sense of what it means to go up and down’ (79), and that he became ‘master of double consciousness’ (142); Peter Ackroyd argues that Shakespeare ‘saw what was happening’ in the ‘change from medieval to early modern England’ and, further, he ‘was perhaps the last English dramatist to reconcile the two cultures’ (17). Despite the immense body of historical scholarship investigating Shakespeare’s biography, ultimately any coherent narrative relies heavily on speculation and imagination. The modern notion of authorship would have been unrecognizable in a theatrical mode that was fundamentally collaborative and public rather than individual and private.17 As James Shapiro has argued, the very concept of literary biography was unknown during Shakespeare’s lifetime (Contested 18). Recent scholarship has confirmed the extent to which collaboration was part of playwriting as much as performance; many of Shakespeare’s works, especially in the Jacobean period, were co-authored, and at least three of his late plays were written in collaboration with John Fletcher. It is nonetheless possible to map key circumstantial parameters. The Russian revolutionary and cultural critic Anatoly Lunacharsky identifies the ‘social type’ represented by Shakespeare, which he sees condensed in Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech: It goes without saying that such a mood is neither the ‘beginning’ nor the ‘end’ of human wisdom. It is the distinctive mood of a class. The great mouthpiece of a déclassé, changing aristocracy in the process of transition into a class of bourgeois magnates and himself the representative of the class of bettered craftsmen who provided the nobility with their cultural distractions, Shakespeare, in that epoch when the middle classes as a whole were developing into the incarnation of avarice, ­hypocrisy and puritanism, could see no bright rifts in the massing clouds ahead. No such rifts were promised by the monarchy which was being built up from these confused social relationships. There was no way out. The alternatives were to kill oneself, or to grumble on endlessly about the unfortunate way the world had been made, or to be thankful for mutability, instead of discovering therein cause for melancholy. (242)

12 Introduction Understanding Shakespeare in this framework—as a particular embodiment of a contradictory and emergent class for whom the only given certainty was mutability—makes it possible to imagine a living breathing human being while avoiding an anachronistic notion of bourgeois subjectivity that was barely embryonic during Shakespeare’s lifetime. The sources: looking backward and forward The Tempest, then, emerges during an intensification of the broader nexus of transition, transformation, and movement between the old and the new. These forces are also at the thematic and formal heart of this play, which is both ‘about’ transformation, and signifies transience through the extended metaphors of sea-change and tempest. In addition, it explicitly registers global issues: the major themes are travel, discovery, shipwreck, new worlds and old. Atypically lacking a single original source play, The Tempest also looks to both past and present for inspiration. The principal of the classical sources are Virgil’s Aeneid and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The Aeneid is echoed in the plot, through themes of usurpation and exile, sea voyage, Mediterranean shipwreck, a father planning a political match for his daughter, romantic love, punishing harpies, and more. It is also quoted in Ferdinand’s lines when he first sees Miranda (I.ii.422-3), which recall Aeneas’ words to his disguised mother (Aeneid Book 1 lines 328–34). It is explicitly foregrounded in the (otherwise inexplicable and frequently cut in performances) comical exchange about Widow Dido between the nobles in the third scene (II.i.77-102). The overarching leitmotifs of the play, transformation and impermanence resonate too with Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which is also alluded to, most famously in Prospero’s renunciation speech at the start of the final act. This connection further accentuates change, the passage of time, creation, and destruction. The key classical sources thus themselves represent a split between integrative and disintegrative modes. The Aeneid can be understood as a piece of poetic propaganda, presenting the triumph of order over chaos in celebration of the rule of Augustus. Metamorphoses, on the other hand, is an anti-epic, subversive and demythologizing. These dual sources contribute to the structural tension between these two modes. While thus evoking classical sources of long-established and rich cultural association, The Tempest simultaneously draws on the utterly contemporary, notably Michel de Montaigne’s essay ‘Of the Canniballes,’ paraphrased in Gonzalo’s Commonwealth speech, and new world travel narratives available in London in 1610: John Smith’s True Relation of Such Occurrences and Accidents of Noate (a Jamestown narrative published before the wreck); Richard Rich’s Newes From Virginia: the Lost Flocke Triumphant; Silvester Jourdain’s Discovery of the Barmudas, Otherwise Called the Ile of Divels; and the Virginia Company of London’s True Declaration of the Estate of the Colonie in Virginia. These last three describe the story of the

Introduction  13 Sea Venture; the company published both Jourdain’s and its own official account. Another significant contemporary source is William Strachey’s Letter to his ‘Excellent lady,’ subsequently published as ‘A True Reportory of the Wreck and Redemption of Sir Thomas Gates, Knight, upon and from the Islands of the Bermudas.’18 This was Strachey’s eye witness account of the incident, published in 1625 but available to Shakespeare before 1611. Strachey was a figure with marked resemblance to Shakespeare in background and circumstances. Cambridge educated (unlike Shakespeare), Strachey failed to achieve fame and fortune as a poet, and so was on board the Sea Venture as a prospective planter and chronicler of life in the new world. His lengthy account of the shipwreck, sojourn in the Bermudas, late arrival in Virginia, and return to London was available in 1611 although not formally published. Hobson Woodward, the author of a history of the Sea Venture incident, underscores the story’s contemporary resonance: ‘The presses of the city were dominated by publications about the New World’ and ‘[since] the first Jamestown fleet departed England in 1607, exploration of the New World had been the talk of London’ (150, 152). Woodward’s account imagines William Strachey attending a ­performance of The Tempest and recognizing in Gonzalo a figure akin to George Somers, admiral of the fleet and later founder of the English colony in Bermuda. Woodward argues that Gonzalo’s Commonwealth speech (2.i.144-161) is, a virtual recapitulation of the Virginia Company pamphlets that depicted Jamestown as a paradise awaiting the establishment of an ideal commonwealth. Gonzalo’s imagined plantation was Shakespeare’s distillation of the arguments of the colonialists at their wildly optimist peak. (173–4) In contrast, Alden Vaughan has found that Strachey’s report exposed the rebellion in the Bermudas and was critical of the Virginia colony: ‘Strachey’s exposé would have threatened the company’s pressing need to raise the funds and recruit competent colonists’ (‘William Strachey’s “True Reportory”’ 247). Virginia Company propaganda is also challenged by Montaigne’s doctrine of primitivism that posited the ‘noble savages’ of the Americas as morally superior to ‘civilized man.’ Gonzalo’s speech borrows heavily from and paraphrases Montaigne’s ‘Of the Canniballes’ ‘which is one of the great anti-colonial texts of literature’ (Hendrick 39).19 The particular details of the Sea Venture story crystallize the larger issues of the transition to capitalism while anticipating historical developments that would become far more significant than anyone at the time could possibly have predicted. First, like the acting companies and amphitheaters, the crown-chartered commercial operations of the turn of the century were finely balanced between old and new worlds, and they also had a fleeting existence. The Virginia Company (chartered in 1609 and 1612) was dissolved

14 Introduction in 1624. Unlike the theaters, though, these were not in themselves profitable ventures. Some of the most powerful merchants in London took part in this first systematic commercial enterprise in the new world, but most were unsuccessful and the established merchants quickly withdrew. This left the field open to new, independent entrepreneurs who would go on to build the triangular slave trade and plantation economies that were to be central to Britain’s economic and colonial ascendancy. Aptly enough, the only one of the colonial companies to last longer (until 1684) was the Somers Island company, named for the admiral of the fleet who successfully took Sea Venture to ground and went on to become the founder of the colony of Bermuda (Robert Brenner 92–7). Punctuating the symbolic significance of this moment in the history of English expansionism, memorials to Somers exist both in his home-town of Lyme Regis on the South coast of England and in the town of St George’s, Bermuda, first settled by the English colonizers in 1612. There, rather grotesquely, his heart and bowels were buried. Although the Sea Venture story is unusual, it is paradoxically emblematic of the contradictions of the moment. Those who worked and sailed on the ship constituted a remarkable demographic mix: Africans were among those who loaded the ship at Plymouth; at least two Native Americans, Powhatans, were on board. Among the crew were mercenary soldiers newly unemployed since the peace treaty between Spain and the Netherlands in 1609, in addition to the usual mariners and ‘masterless men.’ The elite of the Virginia Company included Gentlemen, such as Sir Thomas Gates, who would become Governor of Jamestown—the aforementioned Sir George Somers, mayor of Lyme Regis—and Christopher Newport, captain of Sea Venture. John Rolfe, of Pocahontas legend, was also on board. The company had campaigned to recruit professionals who would be of use in the new colony, but the perils of the enterprise made it likely that many of those who signed up ‘were on the margins of their professions’ (Woodward 20). The bulk of the 153 people aboard were commoners, largely hailing from the evicted peasantry and urban laborers who had been dispossessed by the social upheavals described above. These ‘masterless men and women,’ symbolically registered as ‘a hydra-headed monster’ by the English ruling class, included ‘entertainers of the day—the jugglers, fencers, minstrels’ (Linebaugh and Rediker 19). In ‘The Wreck of the Sea-Venture,’ the first chapter of their expansive sociocultural history, The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic, Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker understand the story as a microcosm of the changes accompanying the early development of capitalism: …the shift in agriculture from arable subsistence to commercial pasturage; the increase of wage labor; the growth of urban populations; the expansion of the domestic system of handicraft or putting-out; the growth of world trade; the institutionalization of markets; and the

Introduction  15 establishment of a colonial system. These developments were made possible by a profound and far-reaching cause: the enclosure of land and the removal of thousands of people from the commons, who were then redeployed to the country, town, and sea. Expropriation was the source of the original accumulation of capital, and the force that transformed land and labor into commodities. This is how some of the workers aboard the Sea-Venture had become ‘hands.’ (16) Although the colonies depended on these laborers, the Colonial elite used vicious class invective against them, especially as tales of the hardships facing indentured servants in the new world circulated in London, making it harder to recruit volunteers. Woodward cites a sermon given by one Reverend William Crashaw prior to another voyage to Jamestown in 1610, when the fate of the Sea Venture was still unknown: The ‘loose, lewd, licentious, riotous, and disordered men’ of the earlier expeditions were ‘the very excrements of a full and swelling state.’ Yet, Crashaw said, ‘such fellows as these that be the scum and scouring of the streets and raked up out of the kennels are like to be the founders of a worthy state.’ All that was needed was discipline imposed by a robust commander. (Woodward 113–4) This ‘discipline’ translated into marshal law both in the temporary settlement in Bermuda, and the colony in Jamestown. Despite a ferocious storm that lasted several days and wrenched the ship off course, remarkably no one was killed or seriously injured in the shipwreck. Narrowly avoiding two lethal rock formations (inevitably evoking Scylla and Charybdis), Sea Venture navigated into the only point on the coast of sufficient depth to prevent the vessel from capsizing. Conditions on the island were such that it was possible to survive and even thrive, in contrast to the Jamestown colony beset by famine and war. While the Company officials were eager to construct a ship and forge ahead to Virginia, dissent broke out among the passengers and crew, leading to mutiny and desertion, followed by harsh repression. Many of the commoners wanted to stay on the island, which Linebaugh and Rediker interpret as an attempt to construct an alternative way of life: When the commoners of the Sea-Venture decided that they wished to settle in Bermuda rather than go on to Virginia, they explained to the Virginia Company officials that they wanted the ease, pleasure, and freedom of the commons rather than the wretchedness, labor, and slavery awaiting them in Virginia. (21) The Virginia Company responded to the Bermuda rebels with capital punishment and martial law (as would happen in the Virginia colony): thus,

16 Introduction ‘[w]ithin the story of the Sea-Venture and its people lies a larger story about the rise of capitalism and the beginning of a new epoch in human history’ (Linebaugh and Rediker 15). Silvia Federici builds on the analysis, seeing in this sequence of events a crystallization of both the violent processes of primitive accumulation in old and new worlds, and embryonic anti-­ capitalist resistance.

‘Between things ended and things begun’20 The distinctive features of The Tempest condense characteristics that are prominent in those works produced in the latter part of Shakespeare’s life. While the periodization of a distinct ‘late Shakespeare’ is questioned by some, many have identified shared qualities in the later works. Russ McDonald notes their marked stylistic ‘doubleness’ and ‘unusual mixture of elements, the modish and the outmoded, and particularly the complex tone, with its combination of artlessness and sophistication.’ He attributes all these to ‘the divergent tastes of this double audience’ in the Globe and Blackfriars (‘Fashion’ 170). McDonald also observes a shift in Shakespeare’s language, the development of ‘a new dramatic mode’ and ‘a new style of poetry’ ‘like nothing he (or anybody else) had composed before: it is audacious, irregular, ostentatious, playful, and difficult’ (‘You speak’ 91). James Shapiro acknowledges the distinct quality of the Jacobean plays: ‘It was a period style as much as a personal one’ (Contested 253). In his analysis of genre and theatrical forms, John G. Demaray finds that ‘The Tempest emerges as a unique amalgam of Renaissance theatrical and literary forms in transition’ (43). Music is exceptionally important: The Tempest has a distinctive ‘sound track’ featuring ‘the orchestrated concord of music and the discordant confusion of mere “noise”’ (Neill 53–4). While there is considerable difference of opinion regarding the categorization of Shakespeare’s oeuvre, many otherwise disparate critics agree that the works after 1607 share a heightened sense of looking backward and forward. Gordon McMullan, who rejects the category ‘late plays,’ argues that if we instead group by chronology, we have ten works with the important shared thematic concern with ‘return’: ‘their habit of looking back in order to look forward, of rehearsing, reshaping and reinventing past concerns in new contexts’ (McMullan ‘What Is?’ 16).21 This affirms McDonald’s judgment that ‘[t]he late plays feel almost obsessively reiterative. A conspicuous source of this impression is the reappearance of many of the stories, character types and ideas that had occupied Shakespeare’s imagination from the early 1590s’ (McDonald ‘You Speak’ 97). Charles Moseley remarks that ‘interest in metamorphosis, change, and the creative as well as destructive effects of time and nature … seem to lie at the heart of these late plays. Five of them look explicitly to the relation between past suffering and crime and future reconciliation and regeneration’ (49). And Michael Wood tellingly quotes from The Winter’s Tale to make a more general point about

Introduction  17 Shakespeare’s late drama: ‘[t]he world was poised between old and new, between no longer and not yet; or, as [Shakespeare] would put it, between “things dying and things newborn”’ (13). When looking at the period that produced the plays now celebrated as a high point of artistic achievement, one of the most arresting facts is the brevity of its duration. The public amphitheaters that grew with such rapidity and dizzying commercial success existed for around seventy years; the theaters were closed in 1642, and when they reopened were utterly changed. The player companies that proliferated in the 1570s declined rapidly. Following the plague outbreak that shut the theaters in 1594, only two companies survived: The Lord Admiral’s Men, led by Philip Henslowe, housed in the Rose Theater, and Shakespeare’s The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Others sprang up again during the recovery from this crisis, and Shakespeare’s company was hurtled into preeminence by King James’ patronage in 1603, making them the King’s Men. But the overall existence of this model of the theatrical company was nonetheless ephemeral. The King’s Men were struck a blow in 1613 when the Globe Theater burned down—a disaster that Greenblatt speculates led Shakespeare to sell his shares—and would have confirmed the ‘sense of the insubstantiality of things’ vocalized in The Tempest’s ‘our revels now are ended’ speech (Will 381). Shakespeare was seemingly retiring from the life when he was only in his 40s, though it is unlikely he would have anticipated his death in 1616. 22 The ‘charmed moment’ that produced the university wits was also brief: most of that group died young, and the golden age of Jacobean drama ended well before 1642. The King’s Men faced increasingly difficult financial and social challenges in the 1620s. In her history of the theater business, Global Economics, Melissa D. Aaron argues that the system would not have survived long: ‘If the theaters had not been closed in 1642, the companies, especially the King’s Men, would not have been able to continue their current mode of doing business. Shakespeare’s company essentially went out of business, taking their texts with them’ (19). This was thus a brief but intense and exceptional moment of dramatic production. It was produced by and bore the marks of a period of historical change that was both emancipatory and catastrophic. As Lunacharsky maintained, Shakespeare was ‘the great mouthpiece’ of the key social type at the heart of this transitioning world, and his plays capture the brutal dispossessions of capitalism’s primitive accumulation as much as the revolutionary energies of a world turning upside down. As we shall see, The Tempest, produced during a phase of reiterative preoccupation with doubleness, metamorphoses, and insubstantiality, is the epitome of these contradictions: its response to mutability is both melancholic and thankful. In crystallizing the paradoxes of emergent capitalism, the play retrospectively presents itself as a prologue for our own age. It can be seen, in the sense given by Benjamin, as a monad, the political significance of which has been fiercely contested by successive generations.

18 Introduction

Notes 1 Christopher Hill used this as the title of his Marxist classic of 1972: The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas during the English Revolution. Leon Rosselson wrote lyrics based on the ballad in 1975 which were made famous by Billy Bragg in 1985, and have been covered also by Chumbawamba and Cold Play. 2 Christopher Morris in 1965 argued that The Tempest engages contemporary debates about ‘the responsibility of rulers … an argument which, historically speaking, was not in fact concluded until 1649’ (301). 3 Marx is quoting that central Tempest source, Virgil’s Aeneid: ‘Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem’: ‘So great was the effort required to found the Roman race.’ 4 The categorization of people as ‘disabled’ does not emerge until the ­mid-eighteenth century. In the early modern period, ‘deformity’ was a more familiar concept ­(Lennard J. Davis 50–2). See Oliver and Barnes ‘The Rise of Disabling Capitalism’ for a materialist history of disability (The New Politics of Disablement 52–73). 5 Neil Davidson summarizes and quotes from Bacon’s History of the Reign of King Henry VII: ‘For Bacon ..., these ... changes ... had the potential for causing a social crisis, in the form of “the civil wars which seem to me about to spread through many countries—because of ways of life not long since introduced.” In the same passage Bacon identifies the two antipodal enemies of the E ­ lizabethan compromise, external absolute rivals (“the Spanish Empire”) and internal puritan radicalism (“the malignity of sects”)’ (How Revolutionary Were the Bourgeois Revolutions? 19). 6 The global contexts and implications of English early modern culture have received increasing attention in recent decades. See Dobranski’s review 214–20 for an overview of some key works of twenty-first century scholarship. 7 See Dimmock and Hadfield, The Religions of the Book. 8 Leslie Fiedler’s landmark 1972 work, The Stranger in Shakespeare, similarly suggests that The Tempest is prophetic of modern racism and imperialism. 9 The Levellers, Diggers, and Ranters were all groupings within the English Revolution that emerged in the 1640s. In his Milton and the English Revolution, Christopher Hill explores the influence of these radicals on Milton’s work. 10 For milestone explorations of early modern culture through the lenses of race and gender oppression, see Hendricks and Parker, Kim Hall. 11 Andrew Gurr holds that ‘far fewer than one in ten of the total number of plays staged have come down to us in print or manuscript’ (14). 12 While the distinction is often made between ‘public’ and ‘private’ theaters, ­A ndrew Gurr, among others, uses the more specific distinction between two kinds of public theaters: the ‘amphitheaters’ such as the Globe, and the indoor ‘hall theaters’ such as Blackfriars. 13 In ‘Performing boys in Renaissance England,’ an analysis of the boy theaters, Shehzana Mamujee includes a useful overview of previous scholarship on the ‘transvestite theater.’ The article foregrounds exploitation of child labor, emphasizing ‘the economic and social capital generated by children in this period’ (730). 14 Some research has challenged the long-held assumption that women were entirely absent from the stage during this period. See, for example, Clare ­McManus, ‘Women and English Renaissance Drama: Making and Unmaking the “All-Male” Stage.’ 15 In his critical exploration of the authorship debates, Contested Will, James Shapiro convincingly shows the perils of efforts to know Shakespeare, the individual. The attempt to produce a coherent biography is prone to projection and presentism given the extremely different world he inhabited, where ‘[E]ven the

Introduction  19

16 17

18 19

0 2

21 2 2

meaning of key concepts, such as what constitutes an “individual,” weren’t the same’ (Shapiro 272). But as Shapiro demonstrates, it is possible to reach a better understanding of the historical conditions that produced the playwright, and, in turn, of why the plays exert such a fascination for our age. Some hold that the family suffered from the campaign against Catholicism in the same period, though others reject this theory. See Michael Wood. Stephen Orgel makes this point in his introduction to the Oxford edition, and elaborates in The Authentic Shakespeare and Other Problems of the Early Modern Stage. Drawing on seminal works by Honigmann and Bentley, he argues that ‘the creation of a play was a collaborative process, with the author by no means at the center of the collaboration’ (1). Strachey’s account (along with Silvester Jourdain’s) is available in Louis B. Wright, ed. A Voyage to Virginia in 1609. Florio’s translation of the Essays was a much-used source for Shakespeare. However, Hendrick surmises that the force of the original is blunted by the colonial assumptions of Florio. Gonzalo’s ‘commonwealth’ speech, which glosses Montaigne, is often read as ironic, but Gonzalo is the moral center of the play, and his vocal critics in this scene are the villains Antonio and Sebastian. The phrase comes from Walt Whitman via Daniel Singer: ‘We are at the moment, to borrow Whitman’s words, when society “is for a while between things ended and things begun,” not because of some symbolic date on the calendar marking the turn of the millennium, but because the old order is a-dying, in so far as it can no longer provide answers corresponding to the social needs of our point of development, though it clings successfully to power, because there is no class, no social force ready to push it off the historical stage.’ (Daniel Singer Whose Millennium: Theirs or Ours? 279). All’s Well That Ends Well, Pericles, Coriolanus, The Winter’s Tale, King Lear, Cymbeline, The Tempest, Cardenio, Henry VIII, and The Two Noble Kinsmen. Stephen Orgel persuasively challenges the idea that Shakespeare would have been considered old at forty-seven, his age when composing the play (Introduction 79–80).

1 The storm of history

They’ll tell the clock to any business that/ We say befits the hour. Antonio II.i

The Tempest as monad Walter Benjamin approaches Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal as a portal into the poet’s age that simultaneously offers exceptional insights into Benjamin’s own current era: he saw it as a ‘constellation saturated with tensions … by which thinking is crystallized as a monad’ (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 95). The latent potential of the work can be accessed by the historical materialist who, takes cognizance of it in order to blast a specific era out of the homogenous course of history … the lifework is both preserved and sublated in the work, the era in the lifework and the entire course of history in the era. The nourishing fruit of what is historically understood contains time in its interior as a precious but tasteless seed. (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 95) This is a distinctive departure both from the bourgeois notion of ‘timeless art’ floating above history and from the crude historicist view of literature as unwitting testimony for the ruling ideas of an epoch. While the artwork may condense dominant ideology, it may also expose underlying social contradictions, and even provide glimpses of the ‘revolutionary chance in the fight for the oppressed past’ (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 95). In his introduction to The Writer of Modern Life, a collection of Benjamin’s writings on Baudelaire, Michael W. Jennings explains what is distinctive about this method. For Benjamin, The poet is … not a genius who ‘rises above’ his age and distills its essence for posterity. For Benjamin, the greatness of Baudelaire consists instead in his absolute susceptibility to the worst excrescences of modern life: Baudelaire was in possession not of genius, but of an extraordinarily ‘sensitive disposition’ that enabled him to perceive, through a painful empathy, the character of an age. (Jennings ‘Introduction’ 15)

The storm of history  21 There are inescapable parallels with Shakespeare, who is routinely understood both as an exceptional ‘genius’ for all times and also, conversely, as the scribe of the Renaissance. Benjamin’s model of historical materialism leads us to reject both paradigms, neither removing the artwork from the material confines of its age nor reducing it to a narrow record of homogeneous history: Shakespeare is not the mystical Bard, but a dramatist who is extraordinarily ‘sensitive’ to the age. In an earlier essay, Benjamin described the approach this way: ‘What is at stake is not to portray literary works in the context of their age, but to represent the age that perceives them—our age—in the age during which they arose. It is this that makes literature into an organon of history; and to achieve this, and not to reduce literature to the material of history, is the task of the literary historian.’ (Benjamin ‘Literary History and the Study of Literature’ qtd. in Jennings, 24–5) The concept of the ‘organon’ brings multiple meanings—a system of principles or rules, an instrument of learning, a sense organ, or a method for acquiring knowledge. To grasp The Tempest in this way is to apprehend its particular entanglements with the turbulent circumstances of a world that had lost all stability, as they are activated by subsequent moments of reception down to and including our own. The play’s witting and unwitting testimony about this world is famously hard to pin down: it is polyvocal, both speaking with many voices and addressing diverse audiences; it is richly suggestive and multifaceted, both inviting and resisting neat allegorical interpretations. For these reasons, it has generated countless debates resting on either/or oppositions: emphasizing ‘old’ or ‘new’ worlds, colonial or class inequalities, conservative or radical politics.1 Viewed through Benjaminian lenses, these questions are clearly inseparable and fluid: the play is ‘old world’ and ‘new world,’ embroiled in domestic class antagonisms and global relationships of colonization, and both endorses and challenges the social order. This habit of holding together seeming oppositions is embedded in the play’s very genre: neither and both comedy and tragedy and variously identified as ‘romance,’ ‘pastoral,’ and ‘tragi-comedy.’ The play is so compelling because it resides within these contradictions that have variously spoken to successive eras and continue in our own age. The circumstances of late global capitalism activate, or germinate, the seeds of early capitalist development as they are embedded in the play. In recent decades, historians and critics have mined The Tempest for what it tells us about early capitalism, sometimes explicitly reading the Prospero/ Caliban antagonism as that between capitalist and proletariat, and often concluding that the play is an endorsement of early capitalism. 2 The attempt to map contemporary political debates on to Shakespeare’s play inevitably raises the specter of presentism. To borrow and rephrase Lerone Bennett’s

22  The storm of history formulation, ‘most important, if hardest for us to understand, capitalism did not have the same meaning in 1611 that it has today.’ Now capitalism has spread across the entire globe, threatens to destroy the planet, and serves as a block on human progress. Then it was an emergent force, restricted to a limited geographic range, and represented progress relative to the stultifying feudal system. Nothing resembling the modern bourgeoisie or proletariat yet existed, and there was no global economy based on the profit system. The capitalists were the upstarts. And yet viewed with the weighty hindsight of intervening history, The Tempest contains within it those subsequent developments, and it becomes impossible to extract the future from the past. The play-text thus cannot be removed from its formative conditions in emergent capitalism nor from their reverberations in contemporary global capitalism. One of the continuing constellations between then and now is the business of theater itself. Even while bardolatry presupposes an aesthetic realm of abstracted ‘human values’ beyond the material plane, today the Shakespeare industry is a colossal global commercial enterprise. For example, the Royal Shakespeare Company’s income for 2012–13 (just after the 100th anniversary of The Tempest), was £62.6m. Shakespeare’s drama was, of course, a commercial project at its beginning. Long before taking the form of books to be treasured at home or studied in classrooms, the plays existed as live performance, calculated to entertain and make money from a mass popular audience consisting of a broad cross section of London’s vibrant and mercurial society. Samuel Johnson acknowledged this in 1765 when he wrote rather dismissively in his preface: ‘It does not appear that Shakespeare … had any farther prospect than of present popularity and present profit’ (Johnson). The Tempest was likely designed to take advantage of the new stage technologies of the Blackfriars Theater, integrating plenty of music and scenes calling for special effects. Shakespeare’s drama literally addressed diverse audiences, which is the kernel of truth within the bland claim that the Bard included ‘something for everyone.’ These commercial preconditions do not, however, delimit the work’s political valence. The Tempest displays all the idiosyncrasies and imaginative leaps of a creative work, and the intense and allusive language of poetry. None of this can be forced into the mold of a single ideology or neatly diagramed on to historical developments. 3 Rather than attempting to ideologically ‘fix’ the play-text, the following account strives instead to remain alert to the push and pull between then and now, the coexistence of contrary and antagonistic influences, and the play’s mercurial existence on the stage. The dialectical interplay of contradictory forces is itself both the lasting mark of the unsettled tensions of its moment of origin, and pivotal for understanding the subsequent history of reception and, in particular, its unique status in our present age. The normative integrative understanding of the play goes with the grain of its conservative plot, emphasizing the themes of forgiveness, redemption, and closure. But the disintegrative dynamics

The storm of history  23 constantly interrupt this sentimental fairy tale: the violence of the era is writ large throughout the play, and discordant contradictions interfere with happy resolutions. The revolutionary aspirations of the age also leave their liberatory traces, in ways that are later both suppressed and released. The play grasps the unsettled hierarchies and sharp contradictions of this stage of the primitive accumulation of capital.

A world of conflict The geographical coordinates of The Tempest are of great and varied significance, indicative both of the contemporaneous weight of Ottoman and Mediterranean power and of incipient Atlantic mercantile and colonial expansion. Created and performed initially in the volatile and fluid world of Renaissance London, the action takes place on an unnamed island somewhere between North Africa, whence King Alonso and his party are returning from Princess Claribel’s wedding to the King of Tunis, and their homes in Naples and Milan. Africa has further significance for the action: Caliban’s mother, Sycorax, who presided on the island in the play’s prehistory, had reportedly been banished from ‘Argier.’4 Elsewhere there are references to the Americas—‘Bermoothes,’ ‘Setebos,’ and ‘Indians’ are all mentioned—in addition to the broader recurring allusions to the Bermuda pamphlets and Montaigne. The play thus draws attention to global hot spots: part of the Ottoman Empire, Argiers and Tunis were important harbors on the area of the North African coast known as ‘Barbary,’ and would have been associated with the ‘Barbary pirates.’ Also known as the Ottoman corsairs, these were predominately Muslim privateers who operated from the coast of Africa, acting for powerful wealthy sponsors, and intercepted merchant vessels in the Mediterranean and further afield.5 Naples and Milan were powerful Renaissance City States, home to the first phase of capitalist development and still at the forefront of commercial and cultural development globally. And the ‘American’ references suggest the emergent phase of capitalist expansion in the New World. The ‘uninhabited island’ itself, which is, as many have pointed out, in fact inhabited by Caliban and Ariel and numerous spirits prior to Prospero’s arrival, had resonance for the doctrine of discovery, precursor of terra nullius, whereby European conquest of the Americas was justified on the grounds that the indigenous populations did not own the land, either because they were not Christian or because they lacked any legal rights of possession. On more than one occasion the play quotes Montaigne, who questioned the violent practices of New World colonization. At the same time, the space is sufficiently flexible to allow for radically divergent imagined locations.6 The island is represented as both fertile and productive and a barren wilderness: when Gonzalo remarks ‘Here is every thing advantageous to life,’ Antonio quips ‘True, save means to live’ (II.i.50–1). Caliban, who has the best knowledge of the land, presents the

24  The storm of history most beautiful accounts of a physical environment that brings together both perspectives: ‘all the qualities o’ th’ isle,/The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile’ (I.ii.337). This flexibility is indicated in the geographical and creative diversity of stage settings and re-imaginings of the physical environment. In the first decade of the twenty-first century, for example, various high-profile productions and literary appropriations took place in or evoked locations in the Arctic North, Sub-Saharan Africa, New Zealand, Palestine, and Trinidad.7 Against this richly suggestive and mutable backdrop, the play foregrounds class conflict and places the master/slave relationship at the center of the action. The story begins with a storm and a shipwreck, both of which take on immense allegorical significance for social crisis and conflict in the reception history, as we shall see. Both labor and the material means by which to live are immediately highlighted, notably in the opening exchange between the mariners and the nobles, and in lines in the second scene. Prospero says of Caliban, ‘We cannot miss him. He does make our fire,/Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices/That profit us.’ (I.ii.311–3); before his famous declaration of sovereignty, Caliban declares ‘I must eat my dinner’ (I.ii.330). Social upheaval is dramatized through a series of usurpations. The primary antagonism is between Prospero, the ‘rightful duke’ of Milan, and his usurping younger brother Antonio who cheated him out of his dukedom and sent him into exile. This relationship is mirrored in the antagonism between the King of Naples, who was complicit in Prospero’s ouster, and his ambitious younger brother Sebastian, who now contemplates fratricide in order to advance his position. Prospero brings his old enemies to the island—compelling his indentured servant Ariel to use magic to wreck their ship without seriously harming them—and the main business of the play is their punishment and Prospero’s retrieval of his dukedom. Courtly usurpation is again mirrored in the comic subplot in which the ‘salvage and deformed slave’ Caliban temporarily unites with two servants separated from the noble party—the butler Stephano and jester Trinculo (who mistakenly believe the king and nobles to be dead)—in a conspiracy against Prospero. When considering the plot in outline form, it is hard to deny the judgment of many that The Tempest has a distinctly conservative affect: in the words of Christopher Morris, it launches a defense of ‘traditional society’ against ‘upstart parvenues’ (Morris 306–7). Over the course of the play, the original usurpation is reversed—Prospero not only regains the Dukedom of Milan but acquires for posterity the Kingdom of Naples through the political marriage of his daughter to the King’s son—and the attempted rebellions in both subplots are foiled. The violence of the era is routinely displaced onto the subordinate classes: those typically on the receiving end of exploitation and state violence—servants, the enslaved, the physically impaired, unattached women—are here plotting to acquire power and wealth: Sycorax, the Algerian ‘foul witch,’ exiled from her home while pregnant, is alleged to have subjected Ariel to slavery, imprisonment, and torture during her

The storm of history  25 time on the island. Stephano and Trinculo, both low down in the hierarchy of the ship, want to exploit Caliban and intend to kill a sleeping duke and abduct his daughter. Caliban, both disabled and enslaved, anticipates Prospero’s murder with great relish, instructing Stephano to ‘knock a nail into his head’ (III.ii.61), ‘brain him … or with a log/Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,/Or cut his weasand with thy knife’ (III.ii.88–91). Repeatedly, those social types most likely to be on the receiving end of violence are figured here as the dangerous perpetrators. Intra-class struggle and rebellion from below are thus dramatized in ways that are unsettling and conflicted. The plot to usurp Prospero uses the language of liberation: Stephano declares, ‘the King and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here’ (II.ii.174–5); the trio sing, ‘Flout ’em and scout ’em/And scout ’em and flout ’em!/Thought is free’ (III. ii.121–3). And Caliban’s song expresses both desire for freedom and rebellion against labor: No more dams I’ll make for fish, Nor fetch in firing At requiring, Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish. ’Ban, ’Ban, Ca-Caliban Has a new master, get a new man. Freedom high-day! high-day, freedom!…’ (II.ii.180–6) Such moments are part of ongoing thematic and figurative attention to liberty and freedom. This pertains to new critic Reuben Brower’s ‘­slavery-freedom’ continuity, one of the seven key figurative threads he identifies as central to the play (as discussed in the Preface). Gonzalo’s ‘Commonwealth’ speech, which hews closely to Montaigne’s essay ‘Of the Caniballes,’ continues this refrain, conjuring the utopian society he could develop on the island if he ‘were the king on’t’: I’ th’ commonwealth I would, by contraries, Execute all things; for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation, all men idle, all; And women too, but innocent and pure; No sovereignty— (II.i.148–57) Sebastian quickly points out the contradiction here—there is ‘no sovereignty’ but ‘he would be king on’t’ (157)—and Antonio retorts ‘the latter

26  The storm of history end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning’ (158–9). As is consistently the case with Gonzalo, the status of his wisdom is somewhat dubious, but the speech is an important illustration of another significant dynamic: imaginative conjuring of utopian alternatives to the status quo. This running thread is in tension with the ideologies of ‘natural slavery’ and divinely ordained hierarchy, and the aspirations of the oppressed are themselves constrained. Caliban’s dream of freedom is limited to exchanging one master for another: after being forced to consume alcohol, Caliban worships Stephano and vows to be his willing servant once Prospero is overthrown; having transferred allegiance to Stephano, Caliban sings, ‘Has a new master, get a new man’ (II.ii.185). The entire attempted usurpation is marred by drunkenness and divisions easily exacerbated by Ariel’s tricks under Prospero’s instruction. Trinculo jibes: ‘They say there’s but five upon this isle: we are three of them; if th’ other two be brain’d like us, the state totters’ (III.ii.5–7). The rebels are figures of ridicule throughout, their plot is soundly punished, and their appearance at the close, wounded, reeking of horse piss and with crushing hangovers, serves to underscore their inferiority, and affirm the ‘rightful’ rule of Prospero. In performance, the humor is typically at the expense of the three ­conspirators—we are invited to laugh when Ariel tricks them into falling into a muddy marsh, and again when conjured dogs hunt them down. Audiences reliably applaud and laugh heartily as the conspirators are punished and ridiculed into repentance and compliance. The trio nonetheless often steal the show in performance because they are funny. This is not inevitably the case, however. Laughter does not work if Caliban is portrayed as less fool or monster than wronged hero or abused victim. Black South African actor John Kani’s performance in a joint RSC/Baxter production conveyed a nobility and grace, even while bearing the physical evidence of trauma, that defied ridicule. In a 2003 production by Shenandoah Shakespeare, Caliban was played by a small white actress as a cowering sufferer, with tangible physical afflictions. Such was the sympathy she evoked that the audience was unable to laugh at those scenes typically played for humor.8

Encounters with the other Not only does the play foreground global locations and intra- and interclass conflict, but it also draws attention to various ‘other’ identities. The play’s association with alterity is so pronounced and wide-ranging that it has today become metonymic for colonization, and Ariel, Caliban, Miranda, and Sycorax have all variously been taken up as symbols of both oppression and liberation—around race, gender, sexuality, religion, and disability— in diverse guises. The Tempest registers a pivotal moment marking the origins of many modern forms of discrimination. While from the nineteenth century on it has become impossible to disassociate modern racial categories from the characters depicted, the play bespeaks an era prior to

The storm of history  27 the modern invention of ‘race’ as category and system of oppression, but also, as ­Ronald Takaki has argued, ‘a defining moment in the making of an English-­A merican identity based on race’ (892). The language used to describe Sycorax is marked by the discourse of witchcraft as well as emergent and contradictory notions of black femininity.9 Her presence bespeaks various fault lines of alterity, gendered and ethnic and religious, that represented vectors of oppression in 1611 and acquire expansive significance retrospectively. The history of racial oppression is so indelibly etched into the play, that attempts at ‘color blind’ casting can be fraught with racist implications, as shall be discussed in chapters that follow. At the start of the seventeenth century, the term ‘salvage,’ used to describe Caliban, retained its association with woods, suggestive of the old world ‘wild man’ rather than the racialized ‘savage’ of imperialist ideology. As Takaki and others have pointed out, the association of Caliban with savagery would likely also have evoked depictions of the Irish as ‘uncivilized’ and monstrous, in the context of the intensification of English colonization of Ireland.10 The expropriation of new world natives is explicitly named, particularly through references to critics of colonialism Bartolomé de Las Casas and Montaigne, and debates about ‘civility’ and ‘savagery’ are evoked. Stephano, Trinculo, and later Antonio and Sebastian, believe Caliban to be an ‘islander’ ripe for exploitation. Trinculo’s speech on first witnessing Caliban hiding under a gabardine draws attention to the practice of English explorers capturing Native Americans and bringing them back home for exhibition, alive or dead: Were I in England now (as once I was) and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian … I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffer’d by a thunderbolt. (II.ii.27–36) Trinculo could be said to take a descriptive and even critical stance toward such practices—certainly, the English are the butt of the joke here—but when Stephano discovers Trinculo hiding with Caliban under the gabardine, his thoughts run in a nakedly opportunistic direction: This is some monster of the isle with four legs … Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather. (II.ii.65–70) … He shall taste of my bottle; if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him; he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. (II.ii.74–8)

28  The storm of history The scene in which Prospero has Ariel conjure dogs to hunt down the conspirators resonates with the description of the Spanish colonial practice of setting dogs on Native Americans provided by Bartolomé de Las Casas: his Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies had been translated into English in the 1580s. Many performances pick up on these references and explicitly locate the play in the new world. Even though this makes little sense in terms of the play-text’s internal cartography, the Americas certainly have a presence in the drama’s economy of representation. Caliban is commonly described in the dramatis personae as ‘deformed.’ While the ‘deformity’ is nonspecific and ambiguous, he is compared to fish and tortoise, referred to as ‘thing’ and ‘shape,’ and called ‘monster’ dozens of times. The implications for shifting understandings of physical ability and disability are profound. As Shakespeare disability scholars have argued, ‘“in the early modern period the concept of disability was subsumed under other categories, notably deformity and monstrosity”’ (Turner and Stagg qtd. in Hobgood and Wood 9). The play objectifies Caliban and takes his outer form to be indicative of his inner self: in the final scene, Alonso remarks that ‘This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d on’ and Prospero replies ‘He is as disproportion’d in his manners/As in his shape’ (V.i.290–2). Caliban’s corporeal form has consequence within the wider symbolism of the play as it speaks to the broader culture. The opposition between Caliban as body and Ariel as spirit, with the former debased and the latter valued, speaks to the emergence of the Cartesian mind/spirit vs. body/matter duality. W.H. Auden highlighted and objected to this dynamic: ‘As a biological organism Man is a natural creature subject to the necessities of nature; as a being with consciousness and will, he is at the same time a historical person with the freedom of the spirit. The Tempest seems to me a Manichean work, not because it shows the relation of Nature to Spirit as one of conflict and hostility, which in fallen man it is, but because it puts the blame for this upon Nature and makes the Spirit innocent.’ (Auden qtd. in Kirsch xiii) Within this larger value system certain bodies, those conforming to reigning ideals of health, fitness, and beauty, are sanctified while others—those figured as sick, weak, or ugly—are condemned. These models are contrasted even more graphically in the series of dichotomous comparisons between Miranda and Sycorax. Miranda, Milanese noblewoman, typically taken as the representative of ideal femininity, stands in contrast to Sycorax, Algerian witch, her demonized antithesis: the words most associated with Miranda are ‘maid’ and ‘virgin,’ and she is also called ‘perfect and peerless’ (III.i.47). In contrast, Sycorax is a ‘hag’ who is described as more animal than human: Prospero says that she ‘did litter’ and tells Caliban he was ‘got by the devil himself/Upon thy wicked dam’ (I.ii.319–20). This Manichean imagery is repeated in Caliban’s advice to Stephano: ‘…that most deeply to consider is/The beauty of his daughter.

The storm of history  29 He himself/Calls her a nonpareil. I never saw a woman/ But only Sycorax my dam and she;/But she as far surpasseth Sycorax/As great’st does least’ (III.ii.98–103). These depictions of Sycorax can be seen in the context of early modern travel narratives that in some cases demonized dark-skinned women. Jennifer L. Morgan explores these discursive patterns in her account of the travel narratives of the era in her book Laboring Women: Reproduction and Gender in New World Slavery: ‘travelers depicted black women as simultaneously unwomanly and marked by a reproductive value that was both dependent on their sex and evidence of their lack of femininity’ (Morgan 14). The ‘monstrosity’ of Sycorax is deeply tied to her ‘illegitimate’ reproductive capacity.11 As with Caliban, it is also suggestive of a body that does not conform to dominant ideals of fitness and beauty. While the early modern understanding of physical difference and impairment was definitively unlike modern concepts, these depictions continue to speak to shifting ideological paradigms as they conform to intersecting oppressions around gender, race, and disability. One of the clearest examples can be found in the depiction of Caliban in conventional performances. In many disintegrative and liberatory performances, Caliban’s ‘monstrosity’ is obviously in the eye of the beholder: when Caliban is recast as hero, he is seldom portrayed as either monstrous or impaired. In the conventional integrative model, in contrast, his ‘monstrosity’ is frequently visualized on the contemporary stage as a nonhuman element such as reptilian scales, webbed feet, or hairy skin. It is also habitually registered as a form of human physical impairment, such as a limp, irregular gait, ‘hunched’ back, or sometimes the use of crutches or walking sticks. Thus, modern discrimination against nonstandard or impaired bodies is mapped onto early modern paradigms in ways that ratify deeply seated prejudices and derogatory stereotypes. In the most striking example of the play’s contradictions, Caliban’s representation is not restricted to abject other, but also allows for sympathy and agency, elicited through his exceptionally powerful and figuratively rich language, which has led generations of anti-colonial artists and writers to champion the character. Most famously, Caliban challenges Prospero with his own version of their prehistory. His first beautiful soliloquy asserts his right to the land—on the grounds of his maternal inheritance—and presents a moving account of his generous treatment of Prospero that resonates with the historical conquest of Native Americans: This Island’s mine by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first, Thou strok’st me and made much of me, wouldst give me Water with berries in’t and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night; and then I lov’d thee And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile. Curs’d be I that did so! (I.ii.331–8)

30  The storm of history Responding to Prospero’s initial show of friendship, Caliban shared the secrets of the island, only to have both his land and his freedom taken from him. In keeping with the pervasive pattern of mirroring, the play draws a clear parallel between Caliban’s treatment by Prospero and Miranda in the past and by Stephano and Trinculo in the present. Caliban’s account is audibly echoed in the subplot: Stephano gives Caliban alcohol, strokes and pets him, and in return Caliban promises to serve him: ‘I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island’ (II.ii.148); ‘I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries;/I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough’ (II.ii.160–1). This lends some credence to Caliban’s version of his prehistory with Prospero and allows for the possibility that the duke’s tyranny, on this accounting, is to blame for his hostility. In response to Caliban’s account, Prospero both denies that he treated him badly and then maintains that he was justified in doing so: he deflects the accusation by decrying Caliban’s attempted rape of Miranda.12 But the repeated narrative with Stephano and Trinculo nonetheless introduces a complicating factor to Prospero’s version of events. The fact that rape is evoked in a way that avoids answering for the crimes of colonization, immediately following Caliban’s appeal to his Algerian mother, has led many commentators to explore the intersection of class, empire, gender, and race, evoking the myth of the black rapist, the complicity of ruling class white women in colonialism and racism, sexism in male liberation movements, and the multiple oppression of colonized black women (as will be discussed further in Chapters 5 and 6). Other aspects of the play similarly undercut Prospero. When Miranda asks her father why his enemies did not kill him, he replies ‘they durst not,/ So dear the love my people bore me’ (I.ii.140–1). This is a strange assertion, coming immediately after his admission that he ignored his civic responsibilities in favor of private studies, paving the way for the corrupt rule of his brother. And his benevolence as a ruler on the island is flatly contradicted by Caliban, who asserts that on the island Prospero is not beloved by those he controls: without the power that comes from his books, ‘He’s but a sot, as I am; nor hath not/One spirit to command: they all do hate him/As rootedly as I’ (III.ii.93–5). Prospero dominates the play, but other characters compete for our affections. Ariel actually carries out all the marvelous acts and illusions, and certainly can be, and often is, portrayed in performance as antagonistic towards his/her demanding master. Stephano and Trinculo frequently steal the show in performance.13 Even in the case of the dastardly Sebastian and Antonio, their use of witty, fast-paced language and humorous running commentary is bitingly effective, and in stark contrast to the ponderous, pompous windiness of Gonzalo, ostensibly the moral center of the play, but also, as W.H. Auden observed, a ‘good but stupid character’ akin to Hamlet’s Polonius (Auden Sea and the Mirror 86). Significantly, as countless anti-colonial champions and others before them have argued, the ‘monster’ Caliban has some of the finest poetry of the play, including his ‘Be not afeard’ speech (III.ii.135–43), that can move

The storm of history  31 audiences to tears.14 The oppressed and the upstarts, in short, present some compelling counter-narratives to that of the ruling order.

Disrupting the natural order The in media res opening scene not only throws the audience into the perilous nautical world, but it also stages class conflict in a manner that is uncommonly hard to pin down. The Boatswain chides the nobles for interfering with the mariners’ work, and makes a strikingly radical pronouncement, ‘what cares these roarers for the name of king?’ (I.i.16–17). This depiction of nature as the great leveler, immune to human hierarchy, undermines the entire logic of the great chain of being, the feudal paradigm of a divinely ordained natural order in which all living beings belong in ‘their right place.’ When Gonzalo reminds him of the passengers’ nobility, the Boatswain’s response even more pointedly exposes the contingency of social power: ‘if you can command these elements to silence and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority. If you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long … Out of our way, I say’ (I.i.21–27). Following these rebellious lines, Gonzalo, Sebastian, and Antonio pronounce the Boatswain for the gallows and condemn him for his seditious talk in profane and vicious terms: ‘a pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!’ (40); ‘insolent noise-maker’ (43–4); ‘wide-chapped rascal’ (57). Linebaugh and Rediker argue that this exchange endorses the repression dealt out by the state and the Virginia Company and vindicates the emergent capitalists: ‘Hanging was destiny for part of the proletariat because it was necessary to the organization and functioning of transatlantic labor markets, maritime and otherwise’ (31). Once more illustrating its polyvocality, the play does not offer an unqualified endorsement of such treatment. For one, Gonzalo, Sebastian, and Antonio, who speak in unison in this scene, are in an antagonistic relationship throughout the rest of the play: Gonzalo is very much associated with the loyalty and fealty associated with the old order, while Sebastian and Antonio are threats to the status quo. The voice of repression here comes not only from the ‘honest councilor’ who above all else is a loyal and obedient feudal subject, but also from the primary villains of the piece, who themselves aim to subvert the ‘natural order’ for personal gain. What’s more, as critics as diverse as Thomas Bulger, Harold Goddard, and Christopher Hill have differently suggested, the play in many ways champions the Boatswain, who is, after all, simply doing his job and trying to save the ship: he reasonably points out that the nobles ‘mar our labour’ and ‘assist the storm’ (I.i.13,14). On our contemporary stage, at least, the attack that is launched against him seems unwarranted, unfair, and disproportionate. The Boatswain’s metaphor of the natural world as social leveler is picked up in a long exchange between Antonio and Sebastian in the second act.

32  The storm of history Here Antonio is persuading Sebastian to follow his example in removing the elder brother who, due to the law of primogeniture, inherits all, leaving the younger son without independent means. By 1611 this system, with roots in the medieval feudal order, was fraught with contradictions and tensions precipitated by broader social shifts, and these find their way into this debate. The vocabulary in this exchange resonates with the emergent money economy: ‘fortune,’ ‘invest,’ ‘yield,’ ‘ambition,’ ‘advancement,’ ‘tender,’ ‘fortune,’ ‘supplant,’ ‘business,’ ‘tribute,’ ‘payest’ (II.i.216–93). Earlier in the scene, Antonio and Sebastian enter into a wager on whether Adrian or Gonzalo—‘what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!’—will speak first after Alonso has asked for peace, and pun ‘dollar’ with ‘dolor’ (II.i.9–37). In the 2003 performance by Shenandoah Shakespeare, Antonio constantly toyed with a gold coin, emphasizing his association with money; such devices are not uncommon in stage representation. Following these exchanges, water again provides a metaphor for social status, this time contrasting stasis with mobility: SEBASTIAN: Well; I am standing ANTONIO: I’ll teach you how to SEBASTIAN: Do so. To ebb

water. flow.

Hereditary sloth instructs me. O! If you but knew how you the purpose cherish Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed, Most often, do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth. (II.i.221–8)

ANTONIO:

The static hierarchy of the established order, where from cradle to grave everyone stays in their allotted place, is associated here with stagnant water and sloth. Antonio suggests that a man may take fate into his own hands and improve his position rather than accept his given destiny. His discussion of Gonzalo’s heir after Ferdinand, Claribel, far away in Tunis, is part of the play’s broader preoccupation with old and new, past and future, and sea-change: …till new-born chins Be rough and razorable; she that from whom We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again (And by that destiny) to perform an act Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. (II.i.249–54) These richly evocative lines, turning on the oft-quoted ‘what’s past is prologue,’ are profoundly dichotomous: the contrast between ‘newborn’ and ‘rough and razorable’ chins; the tension between ‘destiny’ and action; the

The storm of history  33 image of being swallowed up by the sea and ‘cast again’ (meaning both ‘ejected’ and ‘put in new roles’). Then there is the confusing chronology of the conundrum, ‘what’s past is prologue’ itself, which suggests both interruption and acceleration of regular chronological time. Antonio insists that the social order is not fixed but malleable: regarding the sleeping king he says, ‘There be that can rule Naples/As well as he that sleeps’ (262–3). He even echoes the Boatswain’s reminder that social power is not absolute when he tells Antonio, ‘Here lies your brother,/No better than the earth he lies upon,/If he were that which now he’s like—that’s dead,’ (II.i.280–2). Not only may rank change during life, but finally death is the great leveler, reducing all humanity to earth. The other key metaphor here is, aptly enough, clothing, a hitherto reliable indicator of social position that was, like so many other areas of life, undergoing disruption at the start of the seventeenth century. Attention has already been drawn to their garments by Gonzalo’s repeated remarks that they strangely lack any signs of water damage after the wreck (II.i.62–5, 69–72). Now, with the nobles all put to sleep by Ariel’s magic, clothing again becomes a topic of conversation. Reminded by Sebastian of his usurpation of Prospero, Antonio replies, ‘And look how well my garments sit upon me,/Much feater than before. My brother’s servants/Were then my fellows, now they are my men’ (II.i.272–4). For Antonio, moving to a higher social position is akin to donning new apparel. This theme is, of course, reiterated toward the end of the play, when Prospero derails Caliban’s plot by having Ariel lay out ‘trumpery’—described as ‘glistering apparel’ and ‘showy finery’ in the stage directions—to lure the servants. Stephano and Trinculo fall for the plot, despite Caliban’s warnings: Trinculo [seeing the finery]: O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! Look what a wardrobe here is for thee! Caliban: Let it alone, thou fool, it is but trash. Trinculo: O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery. O King Stephano! Stephano: Put off that gown, Trinculo. By this hand, I’ll have that gown. Trinculo: Thy Grace shall have it. (IV.i.222–9) I have seen many performances where the male servants don the excessively performative feminine clothing associated with drag, and it is possible that the ‘transvestite theater’ of the Renaissance similarly played with the comic potential of cross-dressing. But the scene, like the earlier one with Antonio, also bespeaks the relatively novel circumstances of a newly wealthy class of men who are able to purchase the outward trappings of, if not royalty or nobility, at least a superior rank, or even gentility itself.

34  The storm of history The clothing motif is part of a broader imagistic pattern suggesting the mutability and instability that indicate rapid social change. Antonio is the ambitious younger brother who usurped Prospero and proceeded to rule not through reinforcing the ties of fealty and loyalty, but by dispensing the outward signs of status and preference. Prospero describes Antonio’s behavior thus: Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who To trash for overtopping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em, Or else new form’d ’em; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ th’ state To what tune pleas’d his ear… (I.ii.79–85) This resonates with Trinculo’s observation that ‘the state totters’ (III.ii.6–7), conveying a dizzying propensity for things to appear other than they are, and for fortunes to rise and fall at a whim. Antonio’s ‘unnatural’ ability to create new facts on the ground, in turn, intersects with the ubiquitous, and intensely contradictory, opposition between art and nature. We have already seen moments where the natural world functions as a social leveler. We quickly learn that in the first case, the opening storm, the waves—‘these roarers’—are not in fact ‘natural,’ but caused by Prospero using his magical powers, with the assistance of ‘providence divine,’ or so he claims. Prospero as ‘rightful duke’ is, on the one hand, part of the natural order: he repeatedly refers to his brother Antonio as ‘unnatural’ violator of that order. And yet when contrasted to Caliban’s ‘nature,’ Prospero represents its antithesis, ‘art,’ which has decidedly ambivalent significance.

Magic In an era when scientific discovery was rapidly upending received wisdom about the world, ‘art’ here may represent technology and science, or philosophy, as well as magic—the word comes from the Persian ‘magia’ or wisdom. Prospero has been seen as a contemporary mage, such as John Dee or Thomas Harriot. With the modern opposition between ‘science’ and ‘mysticism’ not yet in place, and the existence of a spiritual realm beyond the natural world generally assumed, Renaissance ‘science’ included alchemy, astrology, and magic. The play’s interest in mutability and transformation, resonant with Ben Jonson’s 1610 comedy The Alchemist, gestures toward contemporary interest in alchemy, which also becomes a metaphor for social change.15 David Hawkes has drawn out the link between alchemy and proto-capitalist development: ‘the early modern analysis of alienated labor took place, in large part, through the medium of the contemporary debate

The storm of history  35 about witchcraft and magic. Magic and money both depend on the power of performative symbols’ (‘Raising Mephistopheles’ 179). Prospero’s magic, then, signals old traditions and also these contemporary debates while anticipating the scientific knowledge of the Enlightenment.16 The trope of magic gone awry is later to become central to the most influential analysis of capitalism of all time, Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto: Modern bourgeois society, with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. (47) As we shall see, Prospero is destined to be perennially associated with Marx’s capitalist sorcerer. There are correspondences between Prospero and Francis Bacon, commonly regarded as one of the founders of modern science, who advocated magic as a tool to advance human knowledge. Lunacharsky sees Prospero as the most Baconian of Shakespeare’s characters: By means of creative invention, by means of scientific investigations, man achieves great power over Nature. Bacon is on the look-out for just such a magic book, just such a staff. If he denies the old magic, it is because it is false. At the same time, he is inclined to call the power of technical knowledge which man achieves through applied science a new magic. Through his own peculiar Alchemy, Bacon passes out into the Utopian Atlantis. Bacon really is a kind of Prospero. (241) This is one of the main facets of Prospero as ‘a déclassé, changing aristocracy in the process of transition into a class of bourgeois magnates’ (Lunacharsky 242). His ‘magic’ is manifest social control: ‘Prospero’s power over Caliban represents at one and the same time his power over the lower elements of Nature, over the common people in general and over the “natives” of colonies in particular’ (Lunacharsky 241). Prospero thus suggests the archetypal ruler in transition, a composite of residual and emergent dominant class forces in both domestic and colonial contexts. While Prospero’s magic is indicative of power over the subordinated classes, it balances in a very complicated relationship with the extant reigning order. King James’ Daemonologie, which served as a justification for the persecution of witches, was published in England in 1603. It warned that magic can take demonic form, and is thus dangerous, especially if practiced by those not entitled, who were most commonly poor and overwhelmingly female, though men were also prosecuted and killed on charges of witchcraft.17 Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus had already dramatized the terrible consequences of conjuring the devil. Prospero is linked

36  The storm of history to Faustus by his name (both can be translated as ‘fortunate’), and in their final renunciation of these ‘unnatural’ pursuits: Marlowe’s Faustus swears, ‘I’ll burn my books’ (Doctor Faustus 13.113); Prospero promises ‘I’ll drown my book’ (Tempest V.i.57) and Caliban tells Stephano ‘Burn but his books’ (III.ii.95).18 The implications of all this are profound, as they locate Prospero in the camp of those being persecuted—tortured and killed, no less—by the crown and state. This offers a striking illustration of the contradictions within and surrounding the play: King James, the official sponsor of Shakespeare’s acting company in 1611, wanted to see those who dabbled in magic—such as Prospero, the ostensible hero of Shakespeare’s smash hit final solo work—burned at the stake. Not surprisingly, the paradoxical implications of Prospero’s powers are signaled from the beginning of the play. He often claims that his ‘Art’ has divine authority. But excessive study of the liberal arts in Milan distracted him from his duties and provoked Antonio’s usurpation, as he admits to Miranda: …he whom next thyself Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put The manage of my state, as at that time Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel; those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. (I.ii.68–77) He goes on to state his culpability even more clearly: I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind With that which, but by being so retir’d, O’erpriz’d all popular rate, in my false brother Awak’d an evil nature… (I.ii.89–93) Prospero’s ‘secret studies’ led him to neglect his responsibilities as duke, and also provoked his brother’s ‘evil nature.’ To assume, as many have done over the ages, that Prospero’s ‘Art’ is simply the good antithesis to Caliban’s bad ‘nature’ is to obscure these factors.19 The play’s patterned negotiations over nature and art, magic and witchcraft are richly suggestive of the contradictory and novel discourses surrounding these questions in the broader social climate.

The storm of history  37

Wenches, witches and wombs Contradictions around magic coalesce in the play’s gender dynamics, which include both Manichean oppositions and paradoxical mirroring while indicating that women’s social role was in a state of flux. One moment in the opening scene draws attention to itself, not the least because it seems out of character for the typically mild-mannered ‘honest councilor.’ In his ongoing harangue against the Boatswain, Gonzalo uses a misogynist simile for the vessel: ‘I’ll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanch’d wench’ (I.i.46–8). Here Gonzalo is continuing his main point, resting on a well-known proverb, trusting that their hope for survival lies in the certainty that the Boatswain will hang rather than drown. He also invokes the image, in the words of the Bedford edition notes, of an ‘insatiable, loose, unrestrained (suggesting also “incontinent” and “menstrual”) woman’ (Graff 12).20 While the simile’s vehicle is bodily, ‘unrestrained’ suggests disobedience of other kinds, and raises the specter of unruly, defiant women. This evokes insubordinate commoners, especially those engaged in the anti-enclosure struggles in the Jacobean period, which visibly included women (Federici 73). This unsettling image in the opening scene sets the mood: medieval patriarchal postulations about sexual reproduction and marriage are essential to the play at the level of both figure and plot. The only female character physically present (setting aside for now the fact that Ariel has often been played by a woman, and that Sycorax is sometimes materially embodied in productions), Miranda is indispensable for her reproductive capacities: Prospero’s plan to reclaim his Milanese dukedom and secure the kingship of Naples for his progeny rests on his daughter’s marriage to Ferdinand and subsequent production of ‘legitimate’ heirs. The backstory for Sycorax has already established that female reproduction is a question for the state. Women are both criminalized for their unsanctioned reproduction, and, as in the case of Miranda, enshrined as objects of exchange and vessels to ‘bring forth’ offspring and ensure the ‘legitimate’ patriarchal line. When Prospero addresses Ferdinand at the opening of the betrothal scene in Act IV, he obsessively repeats the metaphor of Miranda as a valuable thing: ‘…I/Have given you here a third of mine own life … who once again/I tender to thy hand … I ratify this my rich gift … Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition/Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter … she is thine own’ (IV.i.3–32). Such language used to describe a fourteen-year-old daughter is dissonant for modern audiences, which indicates a real gulf between the patriarchal assumptions of 1611 and attitudes to women now. At the same time, it is disconcerting that the scene is typically played for comic effect today. The continuing normalization of women’s oppression is evident in the fact that an equivalent scene in which a woman gives away her teenage son to an older woman could not be dramatized for laughs in the same way. 21

38  The storm of history The role of Ariel on stage similarly speaks volumes about the subordination of women. Christine Dymkowski points out that over the last century productions drawing attention to themes of slavery and colonialism have tended to humanize Caliban, and they also have typically cast Ariel as a man: ‘Just as a bestial Caliban was seen to deserve Prospero’s punishment and restraint, the service of a female Ariel was too culturally normative to be disturbing’ (44). In order to question Prospero’s mistreatment of Caliban, it was necessary to humanize him; in order to challenge the servitude of Ariel, it was necessary to defeminize the character. While feminism had interrupted this pattern by the 1980s, in the twenty-first century—after the rollback of many of the gains of the women’s liberation movement— performances returned to form: those emphasizing the injustice of Ariel’s servitude tend to cast a male in the role (Rupert Goold’s 2006 production with the RSC), while those that present the relationship as one of reciprocal love and willing subordination tend to cast a woman, often a woman of color, against an avuncular white male Prospero (Des McAnuff’s 2010 production at Stratford Ontario). The other unambiguously female figure, Sycorax, occupies a particularly vexed location and is arguably the crux of the entire play. Sycorax does not appear as an actual character and has no spoken lines, but is vividly described by both Prospero and Caliban and provides a crucial precondition for the plot. In the second scene when Ariel protests against ‘more toil’ and asks Prospero when he will be liberated from service as promised, Prospero responds with an angry and threatening tirade which includes an account of their prehistory. When Prospero arrived on the island, he says, Ariel was painfully confined in a tree, where he had been imprisoned by Sycorax for twelve years, during which time she had died. He proceeds to give his account of her backstory: …This damn’d witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier Thou know’st was banish’d; for one thing she did They would not take her life. … This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with child, And here was left by th’ sailors. (I.ii.263–70)22 There is much that is opaque here, including why Prospero would be an authority about events he could not have witnessed, what were the alleged ‘mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible’ and what was the ‘one thing’ that prevented her execution but led instead to exile. Some issues are clearer: the case against Sycorax ostensibly rests on the assertion that she is a ‘witch’ and has a baby that is ‘illegitimate’ [Prospero refers to Caliban as a ‘demi-devil’ and ‘bastard one’ (V.i.272–3)]. As shall be discussed in

The storm of history  39 Chapter 6, Sycorax, an Algerian woman who is scorned, demonized, and exiled, has come to have considerable symbolic significance as a figure at the nexus of colonial, female, and proletarian dispossession and resistance. It is of great note that Sycorax gives birth on the island. Women are synecdochally defined by their ability to reproduce, and valued by their production of legitimate heirs: Prospero tells Miranda that ‘Thy mother was a piece of virtue’ (I.ii.56); and Miranda comments, with reference to her Grandmother vis-à-vis Antonio, that ‘Good wombs have borne bad sons’ (I.ii.120). Just as Prospero denounces Sycorax for her sexual history, so is he inordinately concerned with his daughter’s virginity. His threats to Ferdinand about the dire consequences of sex before marriage are so exaggerated that they are (again, disturbingly) typically played for laughs in performances today, though they have also led to discussion of incest in both the critical and creative literature. 23 This preoccupation with procreation is enhanced by the latticework of figures of speech and imagery associated with birth (and death—about which more later). Caliban replies to Prospero’s accusation of attempted rape that he wishes he had been successful, for ‘I had peopled else/This isle with Calibans’ (I.ii.350–1); he later tells Stephano that Miranda ‘will become thy bed, I warrant,/And bring thee forth brave brood’ (III.ii.104–5). Prospero, secretly watching Miranda and Ferdinand exchange love vows, exclaims ‘Heavens rain grace/On that which breeds between ’em!’ (III.i.75–6). The betrothal masque he conjures is a celebration of fertility in which Juno bids Ceres ‘To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be,/And honored in their issue’ (IV.i.104–5). A grotesque parody of childbirth is featured in the slapstick scene where Stephano encounters Caliban and Trinculo hiding under a gabardine, mistaking them for a four-legged creature with two heads: Trinculo is referred to as the ‘siege’ of Caliban, which suggests excrement (and is sometimes updated to ‘turd’ in performances); ‘vent’ may be interpreted as ‘fart’ or ‘defecate,’ but may also mean ‘expel’ or ‘excrete,’ and in many performances the scene is explicitly staged as a kind of birth. Even while the opposition between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ femininity is asserted, so is it complicated by other factors on both sides of the equation. Miranda is not simply a passive vessel. She reproaches, challenges, and disobeys her father. She uses language that was considered so inappropriate for a female in the nineteenth century that her ‘Abhorred slave’ speech addressed to Caliban (I.ii.352–62) was routinely assigned to Prospero. She also takes the active role in pursuing the match with Ferdinand; her lines addressed to him in III.i contain obvious sexual innuendoes that editors often assert must be ‘unconscious’ on Miranda’s behalf. (One may just as logically conclude that perhaps women were seen to be more ‘knowing’ about sexuality in the Renaissance than modern editors have supposed.) Miranda’s exchange with Ferdinand in the discovery scene also suggests an attitude to marriage and infidelity that is at odds with the ‘pure and innocent’ image. In many productions, Miranda is played as a ‘tomboy’ or someone who does not

40  The storm of history conform to socially endorsed gender norms.24 This is appropriate for one who has escaped conventional training in femininity, lacks the clothing and other trimmings of female gentility, and has received an education fit for an heir: Prospero tells her that ‘I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit/Than other princess’ can, that have more time/For vainer hours and tutors not so careful’ (I.ii.172–4). Some editions use ‘princes’ rather than ‘princesses’ here. Just as Miranda is a bundle of contradictions, so too does Sycorax defy simple categorization. She is demonized as the witchy antithesis to Miranda, but also equated with the mage Prospero, in yet another striking instance of the play’s pervasive mirroring. Both are exiled from their homeland, Prospero because he was ‘rapt in secret studies’ (I.ii.77), and Sycorax ‘For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible’ (I.ii.264); both came to the island where they raised a child; both possess and use prodigious magical powers; and both subjugate Ariel. While the circumstances of Sycorax’ exile remain mysterious, Prospero claims, in his lengthy harangue addressed to Ariel, that the ‘blue-ey’d hag’ enslaved and then incarcerated the ‘delicate’ spirit: Thou, my slave, As thou report’st thyself, was then her servant, And for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine, within which rift Imprison’d thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; (I.ii.270–9) Yet, Prospero himself denies Ariel freedom: Prospero’s release of Ariel from confinement only justifies the spirit’s indentured servitude. He boasts that ‘It was mine art,/When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape/The pine, and let thee out’ (I.ii.291–3), before threatening to re-imprison Ariel if he continues to object to his labors: ‘If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak/And peg thee in his knotty entrails till/Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters’ (294–6). What’s more, accounts of Prospero’s magical practice, whether his own or those of others, frequently resemble those ‘earthy and abhorr’d commands’ of Sycorax. He describes Ariel’s ‘torments’ at her hands: ‘thy groans/Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts/Of ever-angry bears’ (I.ii.287–9). Moments later he threatens to inflict worse torments on Caliban: …to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches, that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,

The storm of history  41 All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’d As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made ’em. (I.ii.325–30) In an even more explicit echo of Ariel’s treatment by Sycorax, Prospero threatens: ‘If thou neglect’st or dost unwillingly/What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps,/Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar/That beasts shall tremble at thy din’ (I.ii.368–71). Elsewhere Caliban describes equally fearful cruelties inflicted on him by spirits at Prospero’s command, ‘For every trifle’ (II.ii.8). Prospero says that Sycorax punished Ariel when he refused to follow her ‘abhorr’d commands’ (I.ii.273); Prospero punishes Caliban even for ‘unwillingly’ following his ‘command.’ This relationship transects the play’s deep affinity with Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Both hag and mage have connections with Ovid’s Medea. Stephen Orgel elaborates in his introduction to the Oxford edition: ‘The figure of Sycorax is largely based on Ovid’s account of Medea in Book 7 of the Metamorphoses, and indeed the name, which has never been adequately explained, sounds like an epithet for Ovid’s witch, the Scythian raven’ (19). Prospero’s connection to Medea is explicit in his renunciation speech, which echoes, adapts, and paraphrases her lines as they appear in Arthur Golding’s 1567 translation of the Metamorphoses. 25 In this soliloquy, which exerts particular fascination for contemporary appropriations and commentaries, Prospero’s report of his own use of magic closely echoes his prior account of that used by Sycorax: she confined Ariel in ‘a cloven pine’ (I.ii.277); he ‘by the spurs plucked up/The pine and cedar’ (V.i.47–48); she draws on ‘potent ministers’ (I.ii.275); he commanded with ‘my so potent art’ (V.i.50); she ‘was a witch, and one so strong/That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,/And deal in her command without her power’ (V.i.269– 71); he ‘bedimmed/The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds,/And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault/Set roaring war’ (V.i.41–4). The striking parallels suggest an equivalency between the two figures. Prospero’s renunciation speech strongly evokes the discourse around unauthorized magic: ‘its close association with black magic would have rendered it frightening, potentially blasphemous’ for Renaissance audiences (Lindley 78). It is especially problematic for integrative interpretations of the play: in performance, as David Lindley notes, ‘[b]enign Prosperos have particular difficulty’ with the delivery of such troubling lines (78). The standard integrative production accentuates Prospero’s benevolence and legitimacy as a ruler, and demonizes Caliban and Sycorax. However, disintegrative and liberatory alternatives have shown that it is entirely possible to highlight the correspondences between Sycorax and Prospero. Sometimes Sycorax is given a physical presence [as in Brook’s production of 1968 (Chapter 4) or Honeyman’s in 2009 (Chapter 6)]. Prospero’s magic has a demonic edge, always threatening to escape his control, and constantly blurring the assumed opposition between the ‘mage’ and the ‘hag.’

42  The storm of history

Mirrors and doubles These parallels both demonstrate and undermine the Manicheanism that structures the entire play. As mentioned earlier, W.H. Auden’s poetic interpretation, dramatized in The Sea and the Mirror (discussed further in Chapter 3), highlighted and objected to the play’s schematic dualism while also drawing attention to the explicit and implicit mirroring of counterparts that undercut it. Characters and qualities that are positioned as polar opposites are frequently paired as mirror images, through linguistic echoes or actions. This can be seen in the relationship between Prospero’s Art and Caliban’s Nature: they represent artificial antitheses, with the former valued and the latter debased. And yet, as the parallels between Prospero and Sycorax suggest, the schematic dualism is repeatedly interrupted and undermined. Another such example comes in the first scene of the third act, when Ferdinand is compelled by Prospero to carry logs: the handsome royal heir, structurally the antithesis of Caliban, here mirrors the labor of the ‘salvage and deformed slave.’ Even the central opposition between earth/body and air/spirit represented by Caliban and Ariel is unstable. The figurative association of Caliban with the earth is overwhelming. Prospero’s very first direct address to him is ‘What ho! Slave! Caliban!/Thou earth, thou!’ (I.ii.313–4). The exchange that follows is peppered with images of the earth and creatures/things associated with it: ‘wicked dew,’ unwholesome fen,’ ‘fresh springs, brine pits, barren place and fertile,’ ‘toads, beetles, bats,’ ‘this hard rock’ (Caliban 321–2, 340, 343); ‘filth’ (Prospero 346); ‘this rock’ (Miranda 361). The correlation continues in Caliban’s next scene, which opens with his drawing on ‘infections’ from ‘bogs, fens, flats’ in his curse of Prospero (II.ii.1–2). Caliban’s exchanges with Stephano recapitulate his early history with Prospero: ‘I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island’ (148); ‘I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries (160); ‘I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts, … I’ll get thee/Young scamels from the rock’ (168, 171–2). 26 As punishment for their plot against Prospero, Ariel leads Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo into ‘Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns’ and leaves them ‘I’ th’ filthy-mantled pool … /There dancing up to th’ chins, that the foul lake/O’erstunk their feet’ (IV.i.180–4). Subsequent detractors and champions of Caliban have made much of his ‘earthiness,’ taking it to be indicative of everything from lack of humanity to noble savagery to superior understanding of the ecosystem. While his earthy and ‘salvage’ ‘nature’ is opposed to Prospero’s art and civility, Caliban’s primary antithesis is Ariel, the ‘airy spirit’ whose fleet mercurial ethereality contrasts with Caliban’s ponderous solid materiality. Just as Caliban is associated with earth and water, Ariel is linked to air and fire. This is in itself significant, because it places Ariel, although a ‘servant,’ above Prospero, noble master, in the natural chain of being. Prospero acknowledges to Miranda that they need Caliban: ‘We cannot miss him. He does make our fire,/Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices/That

The storm of history  43 profit us.’ (I.ii.311–3). So too is their reliance on Ariel apparent throughout: everything is commanded by Prospero but performed by Ariel. The connection between Caliban and Ariel is such that the duality becomes complementarity. As shall be discussed in Chapter 2, Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge at one point recognized the affinity between the two, and the pioneering Shakespeare critic Edward Dowden (1843–1913) acknowledged that ‘Caliban has dim affinities with the higher world of spirits’ (426). The ethereal beauty of Caliban’s speeches contrasts sharply with the language of monstrosity, and his affinity with the natural world of the island places him on the esteemed side of the ‘natural/unnatural’ dualism.

Unresolved endings The dissonance and contradictions that run throughout the play and are intensified in the closing scenes including Prospero’s most feted lines, indicate the sharp coexistence of elegiac nostalgia and utopian possibility that Christopher Morris sees as Shakespeare’s ‘political testament’: It touches on two themes that are recurrent in the history of political thought. One is the theme of an imagined ‘state of nature’ which once existed, a state from which, for good or ill, political society has taken us away. The other is the theme of a Utopia, an imagined society remolded nearer to the heart’s desire. Sometimes the two are intertwined, for the regeneration of society can be seen as the return. (308) The first theme permeates Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech, which was taken up exhaustively by the Romantics, whose understanding of the play deeply informs our own. The speech condenses the recurring preoccupation with change and dissolution, presenting a stunning and haunting meditation on impermanence and loss: ‘All that is solid melts into air’ seems to grasp the earth-shattering convulsions of the transition, and is destined to become the definitive statement of modernity, in seeming to capture capitalism’s constant drive toward destruction of the old in order to make way for expanded accumulation in the new. The lines ‘We are such stuff/As dreams are made on; and our little life/Is rounded with a sleep’ draw our attention to another, related, great theme of the play—­mortality. This motif is echoed near to the close, when Prospero contemplates his ­return, ‘to my Milan, where/Every third thought shall be my grave’ (V.i.311–2). These preoccupations, noted and extended by the Romantics, assume heightened significance in the mid-twentieth century: W.H. Auden understood the entire play as a meditation on death. The converse theme, regeneration, is central to the exchange with Ariel that ostensibly leads Prospero to curtail his revenge scheme, forgive his enemies, and renounce his magic. Reminded of human compassion by the nonhuman spirit, Prospero reaches the conclusion that ‘The rarer action is/In virtue than in vengeance’ (V.i.27–8) and so declares his intention to

44  The storm of history ‘break my staff’ and ‘drown my book’ in favor of clemency (V.i.54,57). A sentimental closure is at the core of the integrative version of the play: Prospero has reformed, having undergone a genuine moment of self-reckoning; his enemies are forgiven; the crew is safe and ready to board the vessel for the return trip; Miranda and Ferdinand are happily betrothed and facing married life together; the would-be rebels are repentant, and Caliban ready to ‘seek for grace.’ Even the most spangled performance, however, must tackle the many countervailing disintegrative elements that resist such a ‘happily ever after’ conclusion. First, the renunciation speech itself, as noted earlier, presents a vision of the mage that is demonic and fearful. What’s more, while in some performances Prospero actually breaks his staff or flings his book into water, in the play-text this is only a future promise. It is quite possible to interpret this entire scene more cynically: Prospero has, after all, already achieved his ends, and stands ready not only to regain his dukedom but also to acquire a kingdom through Miranda’s political marriage once back home. When he addresses his rivals, he makes this very clear, especially in his threatening words to Sebastian and Antonio: ‘But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,/I here could pluck his Highness’ frown upon you/ And justify you traitors. At this time/I will tell no tales.’ (V.i.125–9). The tone of his words to his brother could not be further from conciliatory: ‘For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother/Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive/Thy rankest fault—all of them; and require/My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know/Thou must restore’ (V.i.130–4). Even the most beneficent performance cannot conceal the vitriol, and while the lines may be played with comic timing, these are uneasy laugh lines. All of this indicates that the new settlement is contingent, made under the threat of force, and allows for the possibility of future conflicts and usurpations. Such a reading is reinforced by the ‘discovery scene,’ when Miranda and Ferdinand are revealed together playing chess (a familiar rhetorical conceit indicating political machinations). What’s emphasized here is not everlasting love and unconditional trust, but the prospect of duplicity and betrayal, albeit in the comic mode: Miranda says ‘Sweet lord, you play me false,’ and when Ferdinand demurs she adds ‘Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,/ And I would call it fair play’ (V.i.172–5). The final part of the scene, when the mariners, miraculously unscathed, rejoin the noble party, returns us to the opening of the play. Gonzalo remembers his prediction and offers a challenge to the Boatswain: I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? (V.i.217–20) The Boatswain’s response signals a return to obedience: ‘The best news is, that we have safely found/Our king and company; the next our ship … Is

The storm of history  45 tight and yare,’ (V.i.221–4). Despite the conciliatory mood, however, strictly speaking the Boatswain is still destined for hanging. His description of the intervening hours picks up the motifs of sleep/dream and enslavement/freedom, and, certainly for later audiences, chillingly evokes the middle passage: We were dead of sleep, And (how we know not) all clapp’d under hatches, Where, but even now, with strange and several noises Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, And more diversity of sounds, all horrible, We were awak’d; straightway, at liberty; (V.i.230–5) These disturbing conjured pictures, again, are in tension with the theme of reconciliation, just as ‘liberty’ contrasts with incarceration. They also continue the opposition between freedom and bondage that runs throughout the play. The contrast between ‘clapp’d under hatches’ and ‘at liberty’ is echoed in Prospero’s epilogue. This famously ‘meta’ ­moment sees Prospero as dramaturge asking for a positive response and applause from the audience, else, ‘I must be here confin’d by you’ (Epilogue 4). The final two lines are his plea for mercy: ‘As you from crimes would pardon’d be,/Let your indulgence set me free’ (19–20). The play opens and closes, then, with vivid intimations of social conflict, violence, and incarceration that are countervailing forces to the themes of restored order, forgiveness, and reconciliation emphasized in the ‘sentimental’ narrative. These patterns acquire particular significance in the liberatory modes of the twentieth century, when the play became identified with national liberation struggles against colonialism, and the disintegrative mode of the twenty-first, which highlights the mass incarcerations of the ‘new Jim Crow’ and the detentions and torture carried out in the name of the ‘war on terror.’ The extreme polyvocality of the play is perhaps the strongest argument against those in the ‘authorship debates’ who hold that the real author had to be someone of noble or royal status and that the historical Shakespeare lacked the requisite education and elite knowledge. On the contrary, only a figure deeply embedded in a collective project located right in the cauldron of London and in intimate contact with a broad spectrum of humanity could so vividly capture the contradictions and energy of this moment. The Tempest in its own way encapsulates the ‘collective psychology’ of the age. The dissolution intimated by the phrase ‘all that’s solid melts into air’ combines with the paradoxical quality of felix culpa—the fortunate fall—to produce a very specific sense of contradictory duality: a potent expression of the radically unstable ideological moorings and sharp social ­contradictions—to the point of crisis—raised by the conflict between old and new. 27 This makes for a disturbing and absorbing piece of drama, for those exceptionally diverse audiences in Renaissance London, and for those in our own global age of conflict and crisis.

46  The storm of history

Notes 1 Let me supply some examples from the many possible cases of ‘either/or’ readings. More than a few correctives to the ‘colonial’ reading argued that the play is primarily concerned with class rather than with colonialism. In a 1996 essay, Andrew Gurr held that ‘what we now prefer to read as colonialist power is verbalized as a pair of master-servant relationships’ (‘Industrious’ 198), and ‘[t]o see Prospero’s book and his magic as a representation of the power that came to the colonialists from superior technology … is to read a lot of today into a text of yesterday’ (205). Jeremy Brotton in a 1998 collection argued that ‘colonial readings have offered an historically anachronistic and geographically restrictive view of the play, which have overemphasized the scale and significance of English involvement in the colonization of the Americas in the early decades of the seventeenth century’ (Brotton in Loomba 24). In an essay in another 1998 collection, David Kastan held that old world dynastic conflicts are far more central to the play than the more peripheral new world contexts (91–106). Kastan makes it clear that the colonial dimensions are nonetheless important, but also concludes that when seeking to locate the play in its moment of production, ‘we should look more closely at the Old World than the New’ (101). More recently there has been a tendency to eschew dichotomous approaches, recognizing, as Brinda Charry puts it in her summary of recent critical perspectives, ‘that colonial and race relations are perhaps fundamentally struggles for economic power and resources’ (Charry 84). 2 Mark Netzloff explores the intimate connection between the dispossession of the laboring classes in England and the expansion of permanent colonies in the new world. He finds that The Tempest euphemizes class exploitation and social control and advocates a mode of colonial labor that precipitates a ‘declining status’ for the laborers (93): the play is ‘actively involved in a process that reconstituted the role of colonial labor’ (110); and, like Strachey’s True Report and the documents of the Virginia Company, ‘advocates a model of colonial labor that depends upon an elision of the narratives of the Bermuda mutineers’ (131). Barbara Ann Sebek acknowledges the perils of attempting to find capitalist antagonisms in characters and plot, even as she proceeds to do this: ‘Though it risks mapping later structures back onto an earlier period, we can read Caliban as a prototype of exploited labor-power, and Prospero as a capitalist. Miranda becomes a figure for the ambiguous status of goods and persons in capitalism…’ (465). For Sebek, the play serves to ‘intensify cultural questions about relations of exchange’ (474). 3 This is not the same as a retreat to the subjective relativism of the assertion that ‘all interpretations are equal.’ While inevitably critics and dramatists alike have to make choices about which elements of the play to highlight, the most successful readings and performances are those that recognize the coexistence of contradictory influences and impulses. 4 Conventionally glossed as ‘Algiers,’ the name of the current capital of Algeria. 5 James I issued a 1609 proclamation against pirates which named one particular Captain who was ‘harbored in Tunis and Argiers’ (Potter ‘Pirates’ 130). In this period, ‘the English already had a reputation as the fiercest pirates in the Mediterranean and Atlantic oceans’ (Potter 125–6). 6 Brian Gibbons captures the contradictory qualities of the location in his essay ‘The wrong end of the telescope’: ‘The island itself is a palimpsest’ (153). 7 Chapter 6 contains further discussion of these: Rupert Goold’s 2006 production for RSC; Janice Honeyman’s 2009 Tempest with RSC and Baxter Theater; Lemi Ponifasio’s performance event Tempest Without a Body which premiered in New Zealand in 2007; Jonathan Holmes’ 2011 tour of the occupied territories for Jericho House Company; and Elizabeth Nunez’ 2006 novel Prospero’s Daughter.

The storm of history  47 8 See Chapter 6 for accounts of these performances. Shenandoah Shakespeare, formerly known as Shenandoah Shakespeare Express, the touring wing of the American Shakespeare Center, performed frequently at the University of ­Vermont in the late 1990s and early 2000s. The ASC is home to the reproduced Blackfriars and Globe Theaters in Staunton Virginia. www.americanshakespearecenter.com/pages/238/0/history. 9 In ‘The Blue-Eyed Witch,’ a fascinating study of changing editorial practices surrounding successive publications of The Tempest, Leah Marcus reveals the extent to which modern racist assumptions have been projected back onto the play. Notions of racial categorization and expectations about blackness and femininity that did not exist in 1611 are introduced through editorial gloss and subsequently assumed to be part of Shakespeare’s play. 10 Dympna Callaghan includes this perspective in her Shakespeare Without Women. Sometimes it is played up in performances, including one by the Vermont Shakespeare Company in 2012 that made marked use of Celtic imagery and music. The Director’s Note from John Nagle explained the choice: ‘Many scholars … believe [Shakespeare] wrote this play as a response to England’s colonization of the New World, and of Ireland. While we did not necessarily follow this point of view as we approached the play, we did use Ireland as a launching point. It led us to explore Celtic philosophy and tradition, which strongly influenced our creative process’ (Vermont Shakespeare Company). 11 See Lynda Boose’s ‘“The Getting of a Lawful Race:” Racial Discourse in Early Modern England and the Unrepresentable Black Woman,’ and Kim Hall’s Things of Darkness for further explorations of the discourses of gender and race in the early modern period. 12 Barker and Hulme characterize Prospero’s response as paradigmatic: ‘Prospero’s disavowal is itself performative of the discourse of colonialism, since this particular reticulation of denial of dispossession with retrospective justification for it, is the characteristic trope by which European colonial regimes articulated their authority over land to which they could have no conceivable legitimate claim’ (200). 13 This response is sometimes cultivated in performance. For example, of the 2015 Classical Theater of Harlem’s production, set on Hispaniola, one reviewer noted: ‘When Caliban, enslaved by Prospero, teams up with Trinculo and his drunken comrade, Stephano … hoping they’ll help him gain his “liberté,” it’s hard not to root for them a little’ (Collins-Hughes C5). 14 Derek Walcott frequently made this point: ‘The best poetry in The Tempest, apart from Prospero’s speech at the end, is spoken by Caliban. And this is where the greatness of Shakespeare is. … He doesn’t make Caliban talk like Tarzan or some ape, or he doesn’t make him grunt. He gives him the greatest language, the most musical language…’ (interview with Moyer). 15 Critics have pursued the significance of alchemy for the play and the historical moment. Muñoz Simonds argues that ‘Prospero is an alchemist as well as a magician, that his goal in The Tempest is to restore the Golden Age or, in terms of the future, to create a “brave new world” by perfecting the people, including himself, who will live in it, and that the art or science of alchemy thus provides a major shaping pattern for the tragicomedy as a whole’ (542). Barbara Mowat’s investigation of the ‘complicated early modern interconnections’ between old and new notions of magic concludes that ‘Prospero evokes simultaneous images of the humanist scholar, the early modern sorcerer, and the lettered European who uses the book as a weapon against those perceived as “Brutish, Savage, Barbarous’’’ (Mowat 31). 16 Muñoz Simonds holds that ‘the science of alchemy was by Shakespeare’s time already a recognized metonym for reform and change that would soon be taken up with considerable enthusiasm by Puritans, Quakers, Levellers, and others,

48  The storm of history

17 18

19 0 2

21

2 2

3 2

24

25

but was then employed later in the century with equal fervor against the Cromwellian revolutionaries by Charles II and his royalist supporters as validation for the restoration of the monarchy’ (540). The figure of twenty percent is often given for the portion of the total witches who were male. Some historians have found that in certain regions in England a majority of those killed were men. See E.J. Kent Cases of Male Witchcraft. The connection to Faustus evokes other intriguing associations: the Faust legend ‘focused attention on the interesting question of whether male magicians were just as culpable as their female counterparts’ and ‘Marlowe’s play appealed both to true believers and to freethinking skeptics’ (Riggs 234, 247). In his historically grounded critique of allegorical readings, Frank Davidson argues that Prospero’s disregard for the duties of governance can be seen as ‘in itself a perversion of nature’ (216). The Riverside Shakespeare, my primary source for direct quotations here, includes no footnote for these lines. The misogyny was invisible, or at least apparently needed no explanation, to the esteemed editors of this work, published in 1974. The influence of mass movements for liberation and institutional recognition of women and gender studies had a broad and lasting impact on Shakespeare criticism, leading, among other things, to explanatory footnotes such as the one cited here. Attempts to change Prospero’s gender, while they can be thought-provoking, are seldom coherent (unless they otherwise overhaul the play) because they lose the central motivating factor of securing the patriarchal line. Julie Taymor’s 2010 film starring Helen Mirren as Prospera is a case in point. Leah Marcus shows how ideological assumptions have shaped the way this line has been understood in the play’s print history. With the consolidation of modern racism, the idea that Sycorax had blue eyes became a problem that needed to be explained away. A false assumption, that it had to have been a reference to bruising—associated with pregnancy—rather than eye color, was repeated without question by generations of editors. Orgel explains Prospero’s obsessive behavior in terms of Renaissance politics. He writes of the betrothal masque: ‘This is Prospero’s vision, symbolically expressing how deeply the fears for Miranda’s chastity are implicated with his sense of his own power … she is valuable to him, and an extension of his authority, only so long as she remains a virgin, a potential bride for the husband of his choice’ (49). Sokol argues that ‘a more or less shadowy incest motif … appears in each of Shakespeare’s four Romance plays … incestuous wishes may be powerfully represented in The Tempest, in a negative form, when Prospero expresses his absolute disgust at the sexual attempt on Miranda by her foster-brother Caliban’ (183). In the novel Prospero’s Daughter by Elizabeth Nunez, Prospero sexually abuses his servant, Ariana (the Ariel figure) and daughter, Virginia (Miranda). See also Mark Taylor, Shakespeare’s Darker Purpose. In the first scene of the third act Ferdinand is forced into manual labor as part of Prospero’s scheme to encourage the romantic attachment between Ferdinand and Miranda by seeming to oppose it. Miranda offers to carry the logs on his behalf. While Ferdinand refuses, I have seen productions where Miranda deftly picks up and tosses a log that Ferdinand has been struggling to drag a small distance across the stage. Such interpretive possibilities underscore Miranda’s gender nonconformity. …ye Elves of Hilles, of Brookes, of Woods alone, Of standing Lakes, and of the Night approche ye everychone Through helpe of whom (the crooked bankes much wondring at the thing)

The storm of history  49 I have compelled streames to run cleane backward to their spring. By charmes I make the calme Seas rough, and make the rough Seas plaine, And cover all the Skie with Cloudes and chase them thence againe. … [VII.270] By charmes I raise and lay the windes, and burst the Vipers jaw. And from the bowels of the Earth both stones and trees doe draw. Whole woods and Forestes I remove. I make the Mountaines shake, And even the Earth it selfe to grone and fearfully to quake. I call up dead men from their graves: and thee O lightsome Moone I darken oft, though beaten brasse abate thy perill soone. Our Sorcerie dimmes the Morning faire, and darkes the Sun at Noone. The flaming breath of firie Bulles ye quenched for my sake And caused their unwieldie neckes the bended yoke to take. Among the Earthbred brothers you a mortall war did set … [VII.280] Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimmed The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, And twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up The pine and cedar; graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth By my so potent art. (The Tempest 5.1.33–50) 6 ‘Scamel’ has confounded many critics. Woodward argues that the word is 2 the result of a transcription error, and should have read ‘seamel,’ which is, in turn, a variant of Strachey’s word for the cahow, or Bermuda petrel, an earth-­ burrowing nocturnal bird once common in Bermuda: ‘sea-mew.’ 27 While Brower concluded that The Tempest adds up to a ‘metaphysical poem of metamorphosis’ (‘Mirror’ 202), many after him have moored the play’s structural interest in change and contradiction to the transitional moment: Northrop Frye placed these thematic and figurative patterns in the context of a ‘dissolving society’ and ‘a new kind of social order’ (1992: 19). Paul Delaney observed that ‘psychological conflict must … be endemic in a dynamic society’ with its ‘resultant instability and uncertainty’ (429), and Colin Manlove argued that the age of transition gave rise to a divided, dual consciousness (The Gap in Shakespeare).

2 Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization

He that dies pays all debts. Stephano III.ii

The Tempest and capitalism 1660–1914 A paradoxical line from Shelley’s 1822 Hellas is suggestive of The ­Tempest’s distinctive habit of looking forward and backward simultaneously: ‘The coming age is shadowed on the Past/As on a glass’ (lines 805–6). Because of its status as a monad, a unique crystallization of a history of class struggle, subsequent interlocutors are able to find in the play shadows of later developments. An unstable and contradictory transitional environment, when the certainties of feudalism were buffeted but the structures of capitalism remained nascent, was The Tempest’s fertile terrain of germination. The decades following Shakespeare’s death saw the intensification of these contradictions, culminating in the English Revolution, which cleared the way for a society based on a market economy and capitalist relations of exploitation. Over the next two centuries, bourgeois revolutions would spread these new economic and social forces across the globe. In their famous account of these developments in their 1848 Communist Manifesto, Marx and Engels twice reach for metaphors that are at the heart of The Tempest. The first is in their description of capitalism’s perpetual compulsion to expand and innovate: Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air… (Marx Communist 44) This echoes Prospero in his ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech: ‘These our ­actors/…were all spirits, and /Are melted into air, into thin air’ (­ IV.i.148–50). The image vividly captures capitalism’s most distinctive quality: its incessant

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  51 pursuit of technological innovation. This compulsion, which is driven by market competition but impacts every area of life, produces unsettling disorientation for successive generations living through rapid change. In contrast to the long periods of stasis characterizing previous eras, the bourgeois epoch is marked by constant transformation and a breathless sense of impermanence. Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech was repeatedly evoked by the Romantics, as shall be discussed later in this chapter, as they responded artistically to the new uncertainties of their own age of bourgeois revolution. The second Tempest metaphor deployed by Marx and Engels is the sorcerer run amok: Modern bourgeois society, with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. (Marx Communist 47) Here Marx and Engels identify capitalism’s tendency to crisis: anarchic competition in the pursuit of profit leads to cycles of boom and bust that seemingly take on a life of their own as they generate ever more devastating consequences. The image of a sorcerer whose powers have unleashed great dangers is at the heart of Prospero’s renunciation speech: I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-bas’d promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar. Graves at my command Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ’em forth By my so potent art. (V.i.41–50) This speech comes into its own in the twenty-first century, when it now seems to speak to the violent consequences of the technologies of modern warfare, and also the tangible impacts of global climate change (as discussed in Chapter 6). While the specific points of connection change with successive generations, the association between The Tempest and the new capitalist societies that emerged and consolidated in the intervening centuries was to become a distinctive thread from the end of the eighteenth century. These developments were still in the distant future, however, in the seventeenth century. During the period leading up to, during, and following

52  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization England’s early bourgeois revolution, the play seemed far less relevant to the concerns of the day. The Renaissance theater that produced Shakespeare came to an end as rapidly as it had emerged. While there is evidence of continued theatrical activity—new plays published and performed, older works revived and adapted—in the period leading up to and during the civil wars, the world of Shakespeare’s theater met its end not long after his death. In the context of increasing political tumult and tightening censorship under the master of the revels, the theater underwent significant changes and then was officially closed in 1640.1 The second globe theater was dismantled in 1644; the King’s Men had disbanded by the end of that decade; Shakespeare’s works disappeared from the public eye. There is no evidence that The Tempest was seen as particularly relevant to the great debates of the day, either by republicans or royalists. The counterrevolutionary William Davenant was able to get the rights to The Tempest along with several other plays from the King’s Company in 1660. Shakespeare’s version was then usurped by The Tempest, or The ­Enchanted Island, coauthored by Davenant and John Dryden, first staged in 1667 and published in 1670. 2 Davenant/Dryden’s play is the prototype of the integrative Tempest: in order to consolidate a conservative worldview, it had to engage in full-scale dismantling and reconstruction, leading to a different work entirely. Shakespeare’s play was temporarily superseded by historical developments, but it was revived by the end of the next century. It was during the Romantic period, what Marxist historian Eric Hobsbawm dubs the ‘Age of Revolution,’ that the play achieved a new resonance and powerful aura of attraction for English writers and artists. Over the stretch of time since the play’s initial appearance the English economy had transformed, and England itself changed from a poor backwater to a global empire, drawing the rest of the world into the capitalist mode of production.3 In this new context, the Romantics usurped the prevailing integrative Tempest as mediated by The Enchanted Island, and ushered in a largely disintegrative reading that becomes a point of reference in the ensuing reception history. The Victorian establishment shifted toward an overwhelmingly integrative Tempest—one that has also had a lasting influence—although there were sporadic outbursts of disintegrative exceptions. From the middle of the nineteenth century, both commercial theater and Shakespeare’s reputation as a national icon saw exponential growth. As the industrial revolution progressed, fed by the transatlantic slave trade and mass exploitation of enslaved labor, England expanded its empire, and with the seemingly unstoppable sweep of British colonialism the Shakespeare industry made its way around the world. While The Tempest was not a great favorite on the Victorian stage, at the turn of the twentieth century the play was yoked into the service of nationalism, imperialism, and racism, and the era also produced an emancipatory version, one that connected back to the Romantic and forward to the modern critique of capitalism.

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  53

Hostile takeover and consolidation: 1660–1789 The revolutionary upheavals of the period that witnessed the English Civil War, or Great Rebellion, of 1642–51 and the Glorious Revolution of 1688 resulted in a new state favorable to the development of capitalism. The compromise of the restored monarchy provided imprimatur for the newly ascendant bourgeoisie while curtailing further social upheaval: the radical questioning of society represented by the Diggers and Levellers was for now closed down. Christopher Hill appraises the cultural impact of the containment of revolutionary ferment marking the ‘bourgeois compromise’: Fear of the vulgar, of the emotional, of anything extreme, was deeply rooted in the social anxieties of Restoration England. Enthusiasm was associated with lower-class revolution: the propertied classes had learned the dangers of carrying things to extremes, and were learning the virtues of compromise. (Hill Century 252–3) The institution of the theater changed accordingly: the outdoor amphitheaters disappeared; the indoor audiences lacked the exceptional social diversity of early century; and plays were subject to intensified royal patronage. At the same time, the collective model of production that reigned during the Renaissance was giving way to one in which the individual author had property rights separate from the company, while drama was moving from an ephemeral oral to an enduring print mode, and the whole business becoming more profitable (Kewes 12–31).4 During the middle and late seventeenth century, although their compilation in the Folios ensured survival while much Renaissance drama was lost, Shakespeare’s plays were no longer generally performed, and nor were they yet widely read. In this context, and for a long time to come, Shakespeare’s Tempest was subject to a hostile takeover. The royalist Davenant and the by now thoroughly counterrevolutionary John Dryden rewrote the play. Their Restoration version emphasized the failed rebellion from below in the subplot at the expense of the courtly usurpation it mirrors in Shakespeare’s play. The conservative dimensions of Shakespeare’s play were emphasized, but many of the discordant countervailing dynamics erased.5 The result was a very different play, one that replaced the disturbing elements with romantic intrigue and much more readily lent itself to an affirmation of royal power and the status quo, through a comic lens.6 Although the Restoration Tempest has at times been berated as a sacrilegious assault on the ‘timeless classic,’ it is better understood as an adaptation in keeping with the changed times. Only through wholesale alteration could Dryden and Davenant make the play ‘affirm a hierarchical social order, bonded together by the virtues of loyalty, constancy, fidelity, trust, and ultimately validated by a divine providence’ (Canfield 448). This necessitated not simple amendment but comprehensive reworking of plot,

54  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization addition of characters and story lines, and erasure of the contradictory, paradoxical, and unsettled elements that are so pervasive in Shakespeare’s play.7 This project was consistent with the prevalent contemporary depiction of Shakespeare, perpetuated by the poet and taste setter Joseph Addison, as a ‘natural,’ unschooled in the finer aspects of the arts. In his essay ‘Shakespeare’s Judgement Equal to His Genius’ Coleridge retrospectively observed that during the Restoration Shakespeare was portrayed as ‘a sort of beautiful lusus naturae, a delightful monster, wild, indeed, and without taste or judgement, but like the inspired idiots so much venerated in the East, uttering, amid the strangest follies, the sublimest truths.’ (Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher 43). Coleridge’s comments betray the orientalist associations that were to become firmly attached to the play later in the century. Ironically, given the future habitual connection between Shakespeare and Prospero, they also indicate that during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries the playwright was routinely associated with Caliban.8 Not until 1746 was something closer to Shakespeare’s Tempest seen on the stage, and Dryden/Davenant’s version remained dominant until the third decade of the nineteenth century.9 In the intervening period, it is evident that although Shakespeare’s Tempest is sometimes singled out for particular praise by authors and editors, it generally lacked the fascination it later was to exert. Joseph Warton’s scornful comments from 1753, even though followed by praise for the creative power of The Tempest, indicate how little this Shakespeare resembled the modern Bard: ‘“Shakespeare is sometime blameable for the conduct of his fables, which have no unity; and sometimes for his diction, which is obscure and turgid”’ (qtd. in D.J. Palmer 37). It is almost impossible to imagine a twenty-first-century commentator making such claims in any reputable publication. During the second half of the eighteenth century, Shakespeare’s reputation underwent a transformation, assisted by the editions of Samuel Johnson (1709–84) and performances of David Garrick (1717–79). Garrick, sometimes seen as the founder of bardolatry, put The Tempest on the stage in 1756 but in a curtailed musical rendition. The play was also yoked into patriotic duty during the Seven Years’ War. This massive global conflict between 1756 and 1763, which revolved around struggle for colonial control over North America and India and drew in all the major powers, had tremendous reverberations for the changing world order. The period following that war saw the playwright transformed from the ‘artless rustic’ of the Restoration to the ‘morally uplifting master of English letters’ of the nineteenth century (Dobson Making 13, 214). The 1769 Stratford Jubilee was a milestone in this process of canonization. While The Tempest played a role in the celebration at the Jubilee, establishing what was to become an enduring link between Shakespeare and Prospero, Shakespeare’s play itself was still not broadly performed or read. The ‘national poet’ promoted by Garrick was as yet an ideal unmoored from the play-texts. This continued to be the case throughout the

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  55 period that saw both the commercial expansion of popular theater and the rise of the neoclassical tradition of Shakespearean performance as stately tableaux. In the expanding global arena of English performance, the pattern was repeated: In New World Drama, a study of transatlantic performance and capitalist dispossession in the period 1649–1849, Elizabeth Maddock Dillon confirms that the ‘significantly revised version of The Tempest would push Shakespeare’s original from the stage and hold the boards for the duration of the eighteenth century in both the metropole and the colonies’ (104). The integrative Tempest continued to exert considerable weight over a broad geographical and chronological span. The popularity of such a radically amended version suggests that Shakespeare’s Tempest did not speak to the dominant political and cultural currents of the period, while The Enchanted Island was an available allegory for debates about monarchical power. David Francis Taylor’s research into graphic political satires from 1780 to 1830 traces the play’s shifting allegorical register over this period. In the 1780s, Caliban’s plot reliably represented the absurdity of failed rebellion, while Prospero (refigured as both Shakespeare and monarch) affirmed the divine right of kings. This paradigm held true on the stage also: ‘Each performance of Prospero gave flesh to the body of the Shakespeare-King as the guarantor of British cultural integrity’ (David Francis Taylor 509). By the end of this period, however, Taylor finds that it ‘was no longer a sufficiently stable syntax of legitimate and effective authority, and adequate idealization of secured borders’ (513). As the fortunes of The Enchanted Island waned, those of Shakespeare’s Tempest waxed.

The age of bourgeois revolution 1789–1848 The Tempest was revitalized in the context of political convulsions and intensified class conflicts, fostered both by the consolidation of the bourgeoisie and the demands of the expanding working class. The Romantic era, which saw unparalleled commercial growth of the plays and the creation of Shakespeare as a marketable commodity, invented the Shakespeare we know today.10 Jonathan Bate writes: ‘The rise of Romanticism and the growth of Shakespeare idolatry are parallel phenomena’ (Shakespeare and the English Romantic Imagination 6). The Shakespeare industry and Romanticism were also in sharp and contradictory tension, and nowhere can this be seen more vividly than in the era’s sundry responses to The Tempest. While the long process of canonizing The Tempest is associated with the construction of Shakespeare as national hero in service of British imperialism, the play was also taken up at the end of the eighteenth and start of the nineteenth centuries in the spirit of Jacobin radicalism and Romantic anti-capitalism.11 These contradictory responses laid the foundations for twentieth- and twenty-first-century performance, criticism, and creative appropriation, pioneering the pattern of competing integrative and disintegrative Tempests that continues today.

56  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization Shakespeare’s Tempest was again seen on the stage in 1789 in a production by the famed London actor and stage manager John Philip Kemble (1757–1823). This was, however, still a very different play than the one we know today. The wisdom of the age was that Shakespeare’s drama was better treated as poetry, mined for literary allusion or suitable for turning into narrative. This practice was epitomized by Mary Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare of 1807, which opened with a stripped down and sanitized Tempest. Even with the development of the principle of textual authenticity, the Tempests of Dryden/Davenant et al. continued to dominate the stage; while scholars searched for an accurate text of Shakespeare’s Tempest there was still no notion that a staged performance should be based on ‘Shakespeare’s original’ script.12 Shakespeare’s Tempest nonetheless acquired a broader visibility beyond the stage. The most striking change came with the Romantics. This literary movement included middle-class reformists and sometime supporters of revolution: many of its major figures were at least initially full of excitement and hope for the revolutions that shook America, France, and Haiti in the final decades of the century. Throughout the period Shakespeare had special appeal, and The Tempest was of particular significance.13 Jonathan Bate argues, with reference to Joseph Warton’s essays on Shakespeare of the 1750s: The creative imagination, characterization, and the passions; these are the topics which will preoccupy those critics of the second half of the century in whom there is a gradual ascendancy of what we now consider the ‘Romantic’ reading of Shakespeare … The Tempest is chosen because it is the most striking instance of Shakespeare’s ‘creative power’; it is characterized in terms of ‘boundless imagination’, the romantic, the wonderful, and the wild. (Shakespeare and the English ­Romantic Imagination 10) The Romantics thus established The Tempest as the quintessential Shakespearean work and endowed it with those powerful qualities of heightened imagination and creativity that from this time on are indelibly associated with it. As Romantic scholar and Marxist William Keach has argued, citing John Barrell, this Romantic ‘“imagination”’ itself is ‘fundamental to the language of revolutionary violence’ (Arbitrary 123). These new social and literary developments activated latent explosive energies within the play that had long lain dormant. In some cases, as for Shelley, pro-revolutionary ardor was the lasting note of their life’s work. Several of the key writers died young, but some of those who lived into advanced age, including Coleridge and Wordsworth, came to regret their early radicalism and settled into the role of conservative state poet. These developments, too, left their mark on Romantic responses to The Tempest.

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  57 The play was evoked in myriad registers in a wide range of poetry and prose. The Prospero/Caliban relationship was roped into the Jacobin debates, variably representing the corrupt old regime and the democratic new, while Caliban acquired what was to be a lasting identification with the emergent proletariat. The conceit of the island ‘non-place’ as commonwealth resonated with Romantic republicanism and utopianism. Most significantly, some of the central motifs—intimations of instability and dissolution juxtaposed with hope and regeneration, the mad magician run amok—conjured both millenarian scenarios provoked by the early industrial revolution and epitomized by the Blakean vision of dark satanic mills, and more broadly Romanticism’s deeply ambivalent attitude to revolutionary violence. And of course, the tempest as a long-standing recurring metaphor for social upheaval gained heightened and contradictory significance in the context of global revolutions. As William Keach remarks of Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind and Wordsworth’s 1805 The Prelude, Romantic poetry ‘articulates a relationship among natural, imaginative, and political modes of power organized through the figure of the wind as arbitrary force’ (Arbitrary 126). A Shakespeare play with a powerful storm in its title and at the heart of the action acquired heightened valence in this milieu. An ambivalent response to revolutionary violence figured as storm was both deeply embedded in poetic form and an overt topic of discourse. Several poets paid tribute to the Haitian Revolution, the world’s first successful revolution of the enslaved, as Haitian historian J. Michael Dash remarks: ‘Writers such as Wordsworth, Lamartine and Victor Hugo all wrote idealistic tributes to Haitian independence and Toussaint Louverture in particular’ (6). Wordsworth wrote an ode to this revolutionary leader (whose name is written both ways): his ‘To Toussaint L’Ouverture’ promised ‘There’s not a breathing of the common wind/That will forget thee’ (lines 11–12).14 On the other side of the Atlantic works such as Abolitionist Thomas Branagan’s 1805 Avenia: A Tragical Poem demonstrated ‘an American response to one of the great themes of Romantic Literature, the yearning for individual freedom’ (Dash 6). Over the span of the Romantic period, many of the central literary figures themselves changed their position toward revolution. The trajectory is perhaps most striking in Wordsworth’s mutation from ambivalent champion of the French revolution—captured for posterity in the Prelude’s stirring description of the high point of the struggle, ‘Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,/But to be young was very heaven’ (Wordsworth Prelude Book Ten 692–3)—to curmudgeonly Tory warning against the dangers of social upheaval. The Tempest became a contradictory touchstone during this revolutionary moment in transatlantic capitalist development. A frightful poem that appeared in a journal in Kingston, Jamaica in 1799 reworks Caliban’s ‘be not afeard’ speech in to the words of a plantation owner fearful of slave revolution: ‘“methinks I see the street/In horrid blaze around me, that I long/ To quit this isle for Britain once again”’ (qtd. in Dillon 208). As noted by

58  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization Elizabeth Maddock Dillon, this poem not only reveals the anxieties of the plantocracy but also draws attention to the Black labor that was the precondition for capitalist modernity (208). In the twenty-first century, after decades of postcolonial appropriations of Caliban and Sycorax, it is particularly appalling to hear this speech given to a member of the plantocracy, but it indicates that at the time there was no particular association between Caliban and the racially oppressed, and that the characters were far more mutable in their allegorical potential than they would become. The radical flexibility of the play’s political import against a backdrop of revolution is apparent in its recurrent appearance in the critical and poetic writings of all the major figures of British Romanticism. Their battles over the play’s meanings, and their embedded and overt borrowing from its images and themes, profoundly influence the course of the play in subsequent eras up to and including our own. The Romantics were attracted to Caliban’s lines, Ariel’s songs, the masque scene, and Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ (IV.i.148–58) and ‘Ye elves of hills’ (V.i.33–57) soliloquies. A misquoted version of lines by Prospero had been inscribed on the first Shakespeare monument erected in Westminster Abbey in 1741. The original reads And like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And like this insubstantial pageant faded Leave not a rack behind. (IV.i.151–56) ‘Rack’ here is usually taken to mean ‘wisp of clouds,’ heightening the sense of transience and insubstantiality, though there is an obvious audible pun on ‘wreck.’ The inscription on the monument keeps much of the language, but collapses two of the images—‘baseless fabric of this vision’ and ‘insubstantial pageant faded’—and substitutes ‘wreck’ for ‘rack,’ thus emphasizing the destruction of the shipwreck: The Cloud capt Tow’rs, The Gorgeous Palaces, The Solemn Temples, The Great Globe itself, Yea all which it Inherit, Shall Dissolve; And like the baseless Fabrick of a Vision Leave not a wreck behind.15 Often this is the version quoted rather than Shakespeare’s, particularly the substitution of ‘wreck’ for ‘rack’.16 In Mary Wollstonecraft’s 1788

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  59 novel Mary, as the eponymous heroine anxiously observes the declining health of her beloved Henry she reflects: ‘was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind?’ (Wollstonecraft 157). Wollstonecraft’s treatment seems indicative of the allusive availability of this misquoted line, here certainly carrying intimations of instability, mortality, and loss. While the differences between the two versions are not definitive in themselves, the fact that so many contemporaries quote the monument rather than Shakespeare suggests that the idea of the play was ‘in the air’ and could be cited without recourse to a copy of the play-text. The Tempest’s wistful air of dissolution, crystallized in Prospero’s soliloquy, corresponded with the broader Romantic response to capitalist consolidation, deftly characterized by Löwy and Sayre: ‘Each generation will relive the illusion of feeling that it has experienced the crisis of the disappearance of Old England and the arrival of a fallen modern world’ (Löwy and Sayre 248). Byron, whom Bate neatly dubs the ‘strongest critic of Romanticism among the exponents of Romanticism’ (222), parodied contemporary evocations of The Tempest but nonetheless could not quite escape them. Bate captures this push and pull: While Shelley frequently invokes Ariel-like spirits, Byron will say ‘For ever and anon comes indigestion/(Not the most “dainty Ariel”)’ (xi.3). He works hard to avoid the characteristic Romantic allusion to The Tempest in contexts of dream or human transience. With reference to dreams of former woes he first writes ‘And leave like opening Hell upon the Mind/No “baseless fabric” but “a wreck behind”’, then changes the couplet …. (Shakespeare and the English Imagination 243) Here we see an early version of what would become the standard opposition between the integrative and disintegrative versions. Whether in sentimental or cynical registers, the play’s powerful sense of loss and apprehension of a future of perpetual transformation form the signature Romantic association, informing and anticipating twentieth- and twenty-first-century Tempests. The Tempest offered a counterpoint to industrialization, an example of what Löwy and Sayre call the romantic quest for ‘the marvelous and enchantment against the heavy, somber machinery of state rationalism’ (31). Significantly, the first contribution to Boydell’s famous Shakespeare Gallery by Romantic artist Henry Fuseli (1741–1825) was a Tempest related piece, ‘The Enchanted Island: Before the Cell of Prospero’ (1797). Boydell’s enterprise—an ambitious collection of works depicting scenes from the plays by contemporary artists that ran from 1789 to 1805— was itself a commercial venture signifying a new market for Shakespeare paraphernalia. Fuseli’s ‘The Enchanted Island’ depicts the confrontation between Miranda, Prospero, and Caliban from I.ii. The image relies

60  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization on chiaroscuro: the central contrast is between the dark solidity of the crouched naked Caliban and the light fluidity of the draped and ambiguous Ariel tumbling from the sky. Indicative of the early Romantic interest, especially strong in the work of that most revolutionary poet William Blake (1757–1827), in the Manichean and supernatural elements of The Tempest, the work also calls to mind Blake’s illustrations both of his own poems and Shakespeare’s plays. The Tempest makes regular appearances throughout Blake’s oeuvre. It has been identified as an ‘overlooked source’ for the 1784 satirical prose piece, ‘An Island in the Moon’ (Cooper). This curious and sprawling work features an island setting populated by characters who are social types and abstractions, including the ‘three Philosophers Suction, the Epicurean, Quid, the Cynic and Sipsop, the Pythagorean’ (Blake 449). It contains phrases and images that certainly resonate with the play: the conceit of not only a man but an entire society in the moon speaks to Caliban’s drunken exchange with Stephano about the ‘Man i’ th’ moon’ and his attendants (II.ii.138–46). Once seen from this perspective other snippets seem to echo the play, such as ‘foolish puppy’ (449), ‘flimsy stuff’ (450), the ‘wreck of matter’ (456) and ‘I’ll sit and fade away/Till I’m nothing but a spirit/And I lose this form of clay’ (464). While these associations may be somewhat tenuous, the links are stronger in Songs of Innocence and Experience, published with illuminations in 1794. Not only does it contain clear echoes and allusions, but it also shares some of the play’s larger concerns and contradictory, dialectical qualities. Of the images of suffering individuals presented in Songs Keach writes: ‘Each figure is every member of an oppressed class; the violence of collective suffering generates a comprehensible violence of collective retaliation’ (136). Blake scholar Andrew Cooper remarks that the poetry and play contain ‘similar themes of life and art, music and cacophony, utopia and society, while also repeatedly conjoining these contraries…’; Blake’s work, ‘abounds in “dialectical images,” wherein the universally human is apprehended within the dehumanized realm of the social’ (Cooper 58–9). Here, we can see the Romantic expression of an idea that is to be lasting: The Tempest’s allusive and allegorical potential for the opposition between the deadening reification of capitalism on the one hand, and ‘universal’ human aspirations for individuation on the other. Blake also inaugurated a long tradition of ambiguous characterizations of the Prospero/Caliban relationship. His graphic illustration ‘Caliban in The Tempest by William Shakespeare’ presents the character as barely human, with webbed feet and a deformed and oversized head, but also highlights his status as suffering laborer: he is stooped, defensive, and grimacing with the weight of a load of wood on his shoulders. Blake referred to Prospero and Caliban in Lines from the 1808–11 notebooks that have only partially survived, referring to two artist friends: ‘Look Flaxman and Stothard do/Old acquaintance we’ll renew/Prospero had One Caliban and I have Two’ (Blake 508). These cryptic lines are open to interpretation: the editor

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  61 David Erdman translates them as ‘look how scurvily my Calibans behave’ (Erdman 868 n24); Bate instead concludes that ‘[Blake] looks at the artists around him … and comes to the conclusion that he himself is the only one with true vision, with the Shakespearean Prospero-spirit of magical creativity’ (Shakespeare and the English Romantic Imagination 155). The salient point here is that Caliban is an available figure that can be imagined as scurvy slave and creative muse. Given the pattern of Tempest references throughout Blake’s work, it is hard not to hear Prospero behind the poignant title line of Blake’s poem, ‘Now Art has lost its mental charms,’ which also echoes the reliable Romantic association of the play with a deep sense of loss and impermanence (Blake 479). The work of John Keats (1795–1821), whose own edition of The Tempest was the most heavily annotated of all his Shakespeare editions, is redolent with the play.17 Allusions and references can be found in many of his letters. Sometimes the mood is wistful. In 1817, as he started to work on Endymion, Keats wrote a letter to a friend discussing financial and other personal difficulties. Mentioning Shakespeare in passing, he rather poignantly quotes the Westminster version of Prospero’s speech: ‘I am extremely glad that time must come when every thing will leave not a wrack behind’ (Keats 53). At other times, the tone is playful. A humorous letter to his publishers of the same year plays on lines from Prospero’s ‘Ye elves’ speech (V.i.37– 8): ‘I should conjecture that the very Spright that the “green sour ringlets makes hereof the Ewe not bites” had manufactured it of the dew fallen on said sour ringlets’ (Keats 56). Caliban and Ariel especially are evoked. In a review of revered Shakespearean actor Edmund Kean as Richard III, Keats writes that he ‘“does his spiriting gently,”’ with reference to Ariel’s promise to Prospero in the second scene. In response to Leigh Hunt’s criticism that some of the language in the first book of Endymion is ‘unnatural,’ Keats writes to his brothers George and Tom that ‘He must first prove that Caliban’s poetry is unnatural’ (Keats 91). In his annotations on Paradise Lost, Keats asserted of Milton that ‘In Demons, fallen Angels, and Monsters the delicacies of passion, living in and from their immortality, is of the most softening and dissolving nature’ and cites Caliban as a parallel example (231–2). And in an 1819 letter to Fanny Brawne, he quotes Caliban’s ‘“I cry to dream again”’ (277). These are by no means the only appearances of the play, but they do give a taste of its ubiquity. Adding layers to its rich allusive timbre, Keats also shares with The Tempest an abiding interest in Ovid and Virgil. The Tempest saturates Keats’ poetry. Sometimes the connection is through concentrated images and sounds that resonate with the play. This is the case for the evocation of the betrothal masque in his ode To Autumn. Bate captures the shared qualities of the two works: ‘Not only do masque and ode each brim over with a vocabulary of fullness, but they each have fullness of vocabulary, of adjective especially’ (Shakespeare and the English Romantic Imagination 199). The poem vividly evokes natural bounty: ‘…

62  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization how to load and bless/With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;/ To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,/And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;/To swell the gourd’ (Keats To Autumn 3–70). Such descriptions recall the images conjured by Iris, Ceres, and Juno of abundant harvest, sometimes with audible echoes: ‘Juno sings her blessings on you./Earth’s increase, foison plenty,/Barns and garners never empty;/Vines with clustering bunches growing…’ (The Tempest IV.i.109–12). Masque and poem both highlight the contrasts between the new young growth of spring, the wistful maturity of autumn, and the implicit threat of approaching winter: Keats’ poem asks ‘Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?/ Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--/While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,’ (lines 23–25). The masque gives us parallel juxtaposed images: ‘Spring come to you at the farthest/In the very end of harvest!/Scarcity and want shall shun you,/Ceres’ blessing so is on you’ (The Tempest IV.i.114–7).18 Keats seems drawn to the play’s preoccupation with metamorphosis and, in particular, the transformation into ‘something rich and strange,’ as much as its elegiac meditation on the artistic process. William Keach reads the poem in the context of the ‘current political turmoil in the country,’ most immediately the Peterloo massacre, providing further rich layers of correspondences (56). Paying close attention to image and rhyme, Keach connects To Autumn to Shelley’s ‘Song to the Men of England’ and, in particular, the figure of the ‘Bees of England’ which ‘is drawing upon a figurative tradition common in radical political writing of the later eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries’ (58). These associations only deepen with consideration of Keats’ uses of Virgil: Virgil’s early summer image (“aestate nova”) of Dido’s subjects joyfully laboring to build Carthage has complicated political resonances of its own, resonances carried over but transformed in Keats’s early autumnal image of worker-bees whose momentary abundance makes them “think warm days will never cease” (emphasis added), and whose “o’erbrimm’d … cells” are disturbingly “clammy.” A reader in 1819–20 familiar with popular political pamphlets and songs might have found Keats’s image of laboring bees political in ways of which no “bluestocking” would have approved. (58) This chain of influence is suggestive for Ariel’s song: ‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I/In a cowslip’s bell I lie … Merrily, merrily shall I live now,/Under the blossom that hangs on the bough’ (V.i.88–94). Keats’ To Autumn, that has so often lent itself to a ‘non-political’ reading, is deeply embedded not only in current events but in this longer tradition of literary borrowing that reaches back to foundational sources through The Tempest and forward to our present. Keach writes that ‘To Autumn presents us with an idealized, mythologized image of culminated, and therefore death-set,

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  63 fruition that is never merely escapist precisely because it fends off but cannot finally exclude a conflicted historical actuality with which Keats was certainly in touch’ (58). In drawing attention to ‘the ways in which acts of writing and reading may be subject to historical and political circumstances quite remote from a poem’s most immediate field of reference’ (59), Keach provides insight not only into Keats’ ode, but also into the cumulative chain of signification surrounding The Tempest in this period. To Autumn, read through these layers, highlights the tension within Shakespeare’s play between the bucolic luster of the masque and the unsettling apprehension of violence that is never far from the surface. These tensions are revealed also in the repeated invocations of The Tempest in the work of both towering figures of the first-generation Romantics, William Wordsworth (1770–1850) and Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772– 1834), as they work through deeply ambivalent and shifting attitudes toward revolution. E.P. Thompson provides this magisterial account of their paradoxical impulses: Wordsworth and Coleridge were caught in the vortex of contradictions which were both real and ideal. They were champions of the French Revolution and they were sickened by its course. They were isolated as Jacobins and they abominated Godwinian abstraction. They had broken out of the received culture and they were appalled by some features of the new. They wished to espouse the cause of the people, and they were afraid that the mob might turn first on men of their kind. There is a search for a synthesis at a moment of arrested dialectic. (Thompson Romantics 37) The ‘search for a synthesis at a moment of arrested dialectic’ serves as an apt and illuminating epigraph for this Romantic Tempest. Löwy and Sayre further specify the contradictory pull between old and new especially in Coleridge: ‘the “nowhere” of utopia constituted a revolt against what Coleridge … called the “Tyranny of the Present”’; ‘Robespierre and the French Revolution are thus opposed, in the young Coleridge’s mind, to the zeitgeist of the nascent capitalist world’ (121, 123). In a dizzying series of moves, The Tempest both comes to represent the certainty of a more stable terrain outside of time and the spirit of revolution against the alarming imperatives of the capitalist order. In Wordsworth, Tempest allusions appear in poems permeated by a sense of change, loss, and heightened awareness of the social conditions leading to rural dispossession and suffering, all refracted through a deeply personal lyric voice. This resonates with what E.P. Thompson calls the ‘Wordsworthian impulse’: ‘This vision into the universal heart—this transmutation of the political claims of égalité into the interior life’ (13–14). ‘An Evening Walk,’ Wordsworth’s first long poem—and exemplar of the poem of nature and imagination as it emerged from revolutionary tumult—while not

64  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization initially reaching a broad readership, nonetheless ‘evidently circulated among the pro-Revolutionary dissenting circles’ (Averill 10). Prospero’s ‘our revels now are ended’ speech can be heard behind several lines: ‘The pomp is fled, and mute the wondrous strains /No wrack of all the pageant scene remains’ (Wordsworth ‘An Evening Walk’ lines 359–60); ‘Nought else of man or life remains behind’ (line 375); ‘…sadly-pleasing visions, stay!/Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away’ (lines 385–6).19 The elegiac tone of Prospero’s speech matches the central human drama of the poem: the one scene that moves away from detailed description of the landscape lingers on the plight of a destitute woman, a war widow, exposed to the elements with her young children—a prequel to the central drama of ‘The Ruined Cottage’ (1798). This poem’s background is the rural poverty that led to bread riots and caused many laborers to enlist in the wars with France for the monetary incentive. It tells a tragic tale of a woman who loses her husband and infant before herself dying. There are some direct echoes: Prospero’s ‘Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and  groves’ (V.i.33) is audible behind these lines: ‘The poets in their elegies and songs/ Lamenting the departed call the groves,/They call upon the hills and streams to mourn’ (Wordsworth ‘The Ruined Cottage’ lines 73–5). 20 And elsewhere the mood of transformation and dissolution in both Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ and Caliban’s ‘Be not afeard’ speeches is palpable: ‘…what we feel of sorrow and despair/From ruin and from change, and all the grief/The passing shews of being leave behind,/Appeared an idle dream that could not live…’ (lines 520–3). In a later version of ‘The Ruined Cottage,’ Wordsworth used lines from The Tempest to describe the Pedlar who narrates the late abandoned woman’s tale: ‘he “could afford to suffer/ With them whom he saw suffer.”’ For Bate, this confirms the profound influence of Shakespeare as ‘the greatest poet of sympathy’ on this work (Shakespeare and the English Romantic Imagination 94). The Tempest is an important and recurrent point of reference for Wordsworth’s Prelude, which repeatedly evokes images of storm and tempest as metaphors for revolution and social disruption as it ‘converts the violence of historical conflict into internalized psychomachia’ (Keach 124). Echoes and allusions recur throughout the poem, including lines from Prospero’s favored masque speech: ‘the whole beauteous fabric seems to lack/ Foundation, and withal appears throughout/Shadowy and unsubstantial’ (i.225). 21 The sentiments vocalized in these lines, with their suggestion of existential crisis, exciting and yet alarming social change, and of course ‘roaring war,’ are redolent with the ‘Wordsworthian impulse.’ As with Wordsworth, images of storm and tempest run through the early writings of Coleridge that look to the French Revolution as a harbinger of social regeneration. In his journey from revolutionary enthusiasm to conservative reaction, Coleridge ran the gamut of the Romantic Tempest in his critical as well as poetic works. He begins his 1795 Conciones ad Populum with the contrasting images of a ship in calm and stormy seas as metaphor for tranquil and revolutionary times respectively: ‘When the wind is fair

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  65 and the Planks of the Vessel sound, we may safely trust every thing to the management of professional Mariners: in a Tempest and board a crazy Bark, all must contribute their Quota of Exertion’ (Coleridge Conciones ad Populum 7). Tempests continue but with transformed tenor throughout the period of disenchantment. Löwy and Sayre characterize the shift in Coleridge’s political moorings: Not only was the Revolution no longer a vehicle for achieving utopia and not only did it become the enemy; the utopian ideal itself was also henceforth an undesirable and impossible goal for the disillusioned young man. Abandoning a future-oriented utopianism based on nostalgia for a lost paradise, Coleridge adopted a point of view uniquely oriented toward the past: in contemporary land ownership and aristocracy, anchored in the feudalism of yesteryear, he found the remnants of an already fully realized ideal that could supply an antidote from within to the ills of bourgeois modernity. (121) Displaying its own ‘future-oriented utopianism based on nostalgia for a lost paradise,’ The Tempest supplied fitting attire for Coleridge’s ambivalent and mutating Romantic anti-capitalism. Coleridge’s growing conservatism can be traced in comments on The Tempest within his series of lectures delivered between 1808 and 1819. The ninth of the 1811–12 series opens with a general discussion of the relationship between Shakespeare’s plays and ancient Greek Drama, and a reconsideration of the former’s reception. He asserts that contrary to contemporary belief, it is not the case that Shakespeare ‘wrote for the mob’ because as a man of genius ‘he never wrote anything that he knew would degrade himself’ (Coleridge Collected Works I.353). 22 He also explains Shakespeare’s underappreciation in England, as opposed to other locales: The English had become a busy commercial people & had unquestionably derived from it [many advantages moral & physical]: we had grown into a mighty nation: one of the gyant nations of the world whom moral superiority still enables to struggle with the other, the evil genius of the Planet. (Collected Works I.354) Coleridge thus opposes Shakespeare to the ‘common’ and the commercial, finding in ‘those truly heroic times in body & in soul the days of Elizabeth’ a corrective to degraded modernity (Collected Works I.354). For Coleridge, The Tempest is the ‘ideal play’ in which Shakespeare has ‘appealed to the imagination’ (I.357): of the dramatic works where ‘the ideal is predominant … what was said on the Tempest would apply to all’ (I.357). He draws attention to the play’s remarkable dialecticism: A great part of the Genius of Shakespeare consisted of these [happy] combinations of the highest & lowest, & of the gayest & the saddest.

66  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization He was not … droll in one scene & melancholly in the other, but both the one & the other in the same scene: laughter is made to swell the tear of sorrow & to throw as it were, a poetic light upon it, & the tear mixes a tenderness with the laughter that succeeds. (I.358) Praising the opening storm scene for capturing the confrontation between the Boatswain and Gonzalo honestly and without editorializing, he quotes the Boatswain’s irreverent response to Gonzalo’s reprimand, then remarks: An ordinary dramatist would after this speech have introduced Gonzalo moralizing or saying something connected with … it; [for] common dramatists are not men of genius: they connect their ideas by association or logical connection, but the vital writer in a moment transports himself into the very being of each character & instead of making artificial puppets he brings the real being … before you. (I.359) As he proceeds to praise Shakespeare’s characterization, exquisite language, knowledge of ‘human nature’ and more, Coleridge explicitly corrects the various objections launched by his contemporaries and predecessors, particularly Pope, while championing Shakespeare’s ‘Poetic Faith before which our common notions of philosophy give way’ (I.362). While Ariel receives the most praise, followed by Miranda, Caliban is considered in positive terms: ‘wonderfully conceived: he is a sort of creature of the earth’ and ‘a noble being: a man in the sense of the imagination, all the images he utters are drawn from nature and are all highly poetical’ (I.364–5). By February 1818, Coleridge’s elitism is more marked: he notes ‘the characteristic of base & vulgar minds which Shakespear is fond of lashing & placing in a ridiculous light’ before proceeding to make the famous connection between the playwright and the magician: Shakespear can make even rude vulgarity the vehicle of profound truths & thoughts—Prospero—the mighty wizard whose potent art could not only call up all the spirits of the deep—but the characters as they were, & are, & will be &c Seems a portrait of [the bard] himself. (II. 123) And in a lecture later the same year, Coleridge returns to the theme of Shakespeare’s ‘non-partisan’ stance: In other writers we find the particular opinions of the individual; in Massinger it is rank republicanism; in Beaumont and Fletcher even jure divino [the idea that kings rule by divine right] principles are carried to excess;—but Shakespeare never promulgates any party tenets. (II.272)

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  67 In the same breath, it becomes clear that this ‘neutrality’ as channeled by Coleridge is, in fact, both partisan and deeply reactionary: He is always the philosopher and the moralist, but at the same time with a profound veneration for all the established institutions of society, and for those classes which form the permanent elements of the state—especially never introducing a professional character, as such, otherwise than as respectable. If he must have any name, he should be styled a philosophical aristocrat, delighting in those hereditary institutions which have a tendency to bind one age to another, and in that distinction of ranks of which, although few may be in possession, all enjoy the advantages. (II.272) Coleridge blithely projects his own increasingly counterrevolutionary ideology onto the play’s depiction of rebellion even as he is drawn to its ambivalence. Shakespeare, Coleridge says admiringly, ‘seems always to make sport with the passions and follies of a mob, as with an irrational animal’ (II.272). This tallies with his altered depiction of Caliban: all earth, all condensed and gross in feelings and images; he has the dawnings of understanding without reason or the moral sense, and in him, as in some brute animals, this advance to the intellectual faculties, without the moral sense, is marked by the appearance of vice. (II.270) Coleridge’s rendition generated contrasting responses from opposing sides of the political spectrum. The Courier ran a report of Coleridge’s fourth lecture of 1818: ‘“The character of Caliban, as an original and caricature of Jacobinism, so fully illustrated at Paris during the French Revolution, he described in a vigorous and lively manner, exciting repeated bursts of applause”’ (II.124). William Hazlitt read the report and ‘used it as an occasion for an amusing but abusive attack’ on Coleridge in the Yellow Dwarf (Foakes in Coleridge Collected Works II. 110). Foakes writes that Hazlitt ‘claimed that Caliban was really the legitimate sovereign of the island in The Tempest’ (Coleridge Collected Works II.110), which could be read as an endorsement. Hazlitt, however, allows for no ambiguity in recasting Caliban as the corrupt sovereign and Prospero, Miranda, and Ferdinand as the ‘true Jacobins in the time of the French Revolution:’ Caliban is so far from being a prototype of modern Jacobinism, that he is strictly the legitimate sovereign of the isle, and Prospero and the rest are usurpers, who have ousted him from his hereditary jurisdiction by superiority of talent and knowledge. … the superior beauty and accomplishments of Ferdinand and Miranda could no more be opposed to the legitimate claims of this deformed and loathsome monster, than the beauty and intellect of the Bonaparte family can be opposed to the bloated and rickety minds and bodies of the Bourbons. (Hazlitt Complete Works 19: 206)

68  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization The binary opposition between good and bad bodies is maintained in Hazlitt’s reversal: physical fitness and ‘beauty’ signal superior intellectual and moral worth, while sickness and ‘deformity’ indicate monstrous corruption. But now Caliban is associated with the old rulers and Ferdinand and Miranda with the emergent class. In these debates over the relative claims to sovereignty over the island, the Romantics again establish patterns of political contestation that become touchstones in the history of appropriation. Coleridge pioneers the archetype of Caliban as the mindless mob that recurs in conservative uses of the play from the late nineteenth century through today. Hazlitt’s re-imagining of Caliban as degenerate monarch in counterpoint to the republican Prospero/Miranda/ Ferdinand is certainly mirrored occasionally in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century paradigms, but as we shall see, more typically Caliban is destined to become not the aristocratic but the proletarian antagonist to a capitalist Prospero. If Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech was associated with revolutionary change in the 1780s, during the post-Napoleonic war era it was linked to political corruption, spiraling crisis, and the pressures of ‘an economic system felt to be rapidly deteriorating under the burden of its own contradictions’ (Gilmartin, 75). An 1818 critique of the government in the radical newspaper Black Dwarf returns to the favorite misquoted passage: ‘Their success has been fatal and complete. They have placed the nation on the verge of a crisis which must entail upon no very distant times, a ­convulsion too horrible for contemplation; when the paper column shall dissolve, and “Like the baseless fabric of a vision,/Leave not a wreck ­behind!”’ ­(Gilmartin 75). Prospero’s evocation of illusory civilization, of seeming certainties in actuality no more permanent than a stage set, now speaks to the violence and hypocrisies of a ruling order bent on suppressing the aspirations of the oppressed class. This variation continues in the work of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822), among the foremost revolutionaries of the British Romantic poets, who was at his most creative during ‘the three climaxes of working class resistance to the English government in his lifetime’ (Foot 222). Shelley, whose recurrent use of storm and tempest as metaphors for revolution is famously concentrated in his Ode to the West Wind, is of all the poets the one most closely linked with The Tempest, which is widely reported to have been his favorite play. Lines from Ariel’s ‘Full fathom five’ song—‘Nothing of him that doth fade,/But doth suffer a sea-change. Into something rich and strange’ (I.ii.400–2)—mark his gravestone in Rome, where his ashes were buried after he drowned at sea, and are echoed in Mary Shelley’s description of his death: ‘his skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder-storm, as it was last seen upon the purple sea, and then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away, no sign remained of where it had been’ (Hutchinson 679). Shelley’s preface to Frankenstein (1818) refers to The Tempest, and Frankenstein’s creation was linked to Caliban in a contemporary review

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  69 of the 1833 edition. 23 This association has been routinely repeated in subsequent years and is elaborated in the television drama Penny Dreadful (broadcast 2014–16) which features a new creation of Frankenstein called Caliban. Shelley’s contemporaries linked him with both Caliban and Ariel, and allusions and echoes from the play permeate his writing. Queen Mab pioneered the reading of Caliban as a colonized subject;24 the 1832 edition was taken up by the working-class movement, achieving fame as the ‘Chartists’ bible.’25 Shelley’s most famous Tempest-inspired work is ‘With a Guitar, To Jane’ (1822), one of his last compositions. Ariel gives a guitar to Miranda as a love token, as Shelley had given Jane Williams a guitar: ‘Take/This slave of Music, for the sake/Of him who is the slave of thee’ (‘With a Guitar’ lines 1–3). 26 The poem elaborates this conceit, describing Ariel as a willing servant to his beloved Miranda, and tracing the story of the guitar, which was wrought by an artist from a tree felled for this purpose. The instrument, silent until brought to life by a skilled player, thus becomes a metaphor for the lover who cannot express his feelings for the object of his desire, and more broadly for the poet whose work is animated by the act of reading. Ariel is a spirit cruelly bound to a material existence: ‘the poor sprite is/ Imprisoned, for some fault of his,/In a body like a grave’ (lines 37–9). As is frequently the case for the Romantics, Shelley’s primary engagement with the play here is through the register of music, which also becomes synecdochal for all artistic expression and antidote to the stultifying certainties of bourgeois life. Elsewhere Shelley’s linguistic echoes more overtly engage with the political realm. One of the best examples appears in Hellas, a long work inspired by the 1821 Greek uprising against the Turkish empire, which Paul Foot in Red Shelley aptly describes as a ‘thrilling revolutionary poem’ (221–3). An exchange between the ‘wandering Jew’ Ahasuerus and the tyrant Mahmud returns us to Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech, which is both glossed and interpreted in the course of the poem. Ahasuerus bids Mahmud attend to the permanent and eternal—‘that which cannot change—the One,/The unborn and the undying’ (Shelley ‘Hellas’ lines 767–9)—as opposed to the external trappings of existence: ‘This firmament pavilioned upon chaos,/With all its cressets of immortal fire,/ … —this Whole … / Is but a vision’ (lines 772–80). The most striking substitution, one that is vividly suggestive of the counterrevolutionary betrayals of the age, replaces Shakespeare’s ‘all which it inherit, shall dissolve,/And like this insubstantial pageant faded,/Leave not a rack behind’ with ‘all that it inherits/Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams’ (Shelley Hellas lines 780–2). Mahmud responds, ‘Thy words stream like a tempest/Of dazzling mist within my brain’ (786–7), and Ahasuerus continues the theme, with further echoes from the play. He counterpoises the intangible, ‘Thought/Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Passion,/Reason, Imagination’ (795–7) to the material: ‘The stuff whence mutability can weave/All that it hath dominion

70  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization o’er, worlds, worms,/Empires, and superstitions’ (799–801). (These aspects of the poem audibly influence Auden’s Sea and the Mirror, discussed in Chapter 5). Ahasuerus also gives us a striking variation on ‘what’s past is prologue’ in these stunningly evocative lines: ‘The coming age is shadowed on the Past/As on a glass’ (805–6). Hellas thus offers a distinctive twist to the Romantic opposition between imagination, creativity, and ­rationality—here associated with persistent revolutionary consciousness— and corrupt power, resting on violent domination and mysticism.

The age of capital: 1848–75 The central decades of the century delivered a phase of capitalist consolidation between periods of sustained social protest. Löwy and Sayre characterize this crucial era, dubbed by Hobsbawm ‘the age of capital’: This period, coming after the Chartist upheavals and before the late nineteenth-century socialist movements, constitutes a moment of (relative) stabilization, in the course of which the capitalist industrial system reigned more or less unchallenged and could seem incontestable, but during which its harmful effects on the overall human environment were nevertheless being felt in an increasingly general way. (128) In this context of bourgeois consolidation, the Victorians famously staged lavish Shakespeare productions, but The Tempest does not seem to have been a particular favorite in the mainstream theatres. It hardly makes an appearance in Foulkes’ account of the stage history from 1832 to 1916, Performing Shakespeare in the Age of Empire, while the history plays, ­Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, are well represented. Dymkowski’s history of The Tempest in performance lists only four productions in ­London between 1810 and 1890, all of which are adaptations and/or substantially edited (those of Macready, Phelps, Burton, and Kean). The Tempest similarly makes a limited appearance in Gail Marshall’s edited collection, Shakespeare in the Nineteenth Century, which mentions only one other production (Calvert’s for the Prince’s in Manchester) and scant cultural references. 27 William Charles Macready put Shakespeare’s Tempest on the stage in 1838, remarkably commenting that he had ‘“given to the public a play of Shakspeare which had never been seen before”’ (qtd. in Vaughan and Vaughan Shakespeare’s Caliban 181). When the play was performed, the dominant practice was to adapt the text to the needs of the spectacle. This far less reverent approach to Shakespeare is indicated in an 1843 performance review from The Guardian: In our judgment, The Tempest is a play rather for the closet than for the stage. The fatal objection to The Tempest, as an acting drama, is that it is not a play of the passions but purely one of sentiment and of

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  71 poetic fancy; it contains nothing to call forth the deepest emotions of the heart; it can only please at best. (October 18 1843) Again, such a comment, unthinkable in a review in our own age, indicates the immense gulf between normative sentiments regarding Shakespeare then and now. Nonetheless, even while not a stage favorite, the play did continue to be employed for competing political causes in the broader culture, as Shakespeare became a site of contestation between conservative and radical forces on a widespread scale. A spirited case of radical re-imagining from the early part of this epoch, via Davenant et al., can be found in the Burlesque Enchanted Isle, inspired by the revolutionary wave of 1848. Written by the radical journalist Robert Brough (1828–60) with his brother, and performed in Liverpool and London, The Enchanted Isle evoked both Chartism in Britain and revolutions on the continent, portraying Caliban’s insurrection against the tyrant Prospero. Richard W. Schoch locates the play within the mid-century ‘burlesque backlash—the comic attack upon the pious pretensions of “legitimate” Shakespearean culture’ (3). Amidst ruling class counterrevolutionary panic, Brough used The Tempest to champion insurrection at home—soon after the brutal repression of a Chartist rally—and abroad, where revolutions had toppled the bourgeois July monarchy in France and threatened to follow suit elsewhere. Influenced by the Romantics, and breaking with the pattern of mainstream productions since the Restoration, this rendition cut against conservative uses of the play: it ‘categorically prevents us from reading The Enchanted Isle as a legitimating allegory of monarchical restoration and patriarchal rule’ (Schoch 179). As was the case for the Davenant/Dryden rewrite, Brough’s version, which anticipates the liberatory rendition of the next century, also had to substantively restructure the play. In this incarnation, the monarchs are effectively usurped, while Caliban is ‘a figure of developing political consciousness—from oppressed slave to disaffected worker to militant revolutionary’ (Schoch 81). The play thus marks an important moment in the evolution of Caliban as a symbol of the resistant global working class. In another radical re-imagining, Prospero appeared as the ruling class tyrant in a speech in support of Daniel O’Connell by Irish lawyer, politician, and playwright Richard Lalor Sheil [1791–1851]: ‘“the rod of oppression is the wand of this potent enchanter of the passions, and the book of his spells is the penal code. Break the wand of this political Prospero and take from him the volume of his magic, and he will evoke the spirits which are now under his control no longer”’ (qtd. in David Taylor 514). This understanding of Prospero’s ‘magic’ as a euphemism for state repression also foreshadows later twentieth- and twenty-first-century developments. After a long period of an ascendant disintegrative Tempest, the middle of the century saw the return of the integrative mode. Shakespeare was included on university curricula in the newly forged subject of English

72  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization Literature, and newly ‘authoritative’ editions of the play-text were produced: both developments established Shakespeare as an essential element of an elite education. The poet/critic Matthew Arnold (1822–88) pioneered a vision of bourgeois culture, with Shakespeare playing a leading role, as the key to unifying the nation and civilizing the masses at home and abroad. Thus, a new Victorian Tempest was made to affirm British nationalism and imperialist expansion, serving up Prospero as benevolent patriarch and Caliban variably as recalcitrant worker, ‘natural slave,’ or the ‘missing link’ of social Darwinism. 28 This pattern continued throughout the century. As Trevor Griffiths remarked in a groundbreaking 1983 study of The Tempest’s reception history, ‘the virtual interchangeability of typifications of class and race in much later nineteenth-century thought make it particularly difficult to differentiate between Caliban as native, as proletarian, and as missing link’ (Griffiths 163). The play was taken up in debates about slavery, as can be seen in a series of racist cartoons appearing in Punch in the years surrounding the Emancipation Proclamation. 29 More broadly the play, and particularly the relationship between Prospero and Caliban, became an allegory for colonialism, nationalism, and industrialization. However, other developments gave rise to both disintegrative and liberatory Tempests. Increased literacy, the availability of more and cheaper editions of the play, the growth of fringe, unauthorized theatres, and the establishment of working-class political organizations, all combined to produce a distinctly working-class and radical Shakespeare that challenged the bourgeois Bard. This was the ‘Shakespeare of the people’ taken up by Chartists, who formed a Shakespearean Chartist Association and ran a regular column, ‘Chartism from Shakespeare’ in their paper The Northern Star (1838–52). 30 The conflict between the two came to a head at the 1864 Tercentenary—one of a series of major commemorations of the playwright—which witnessed a battle between the elite organizers who stressed empire and national unity, and their radical counterparts who ‘promoted the event as a festival of labour and reform’ (Antony Taylor 375). Such ‘radical bardolatry’ had a continuous, albeit uneven, presence throughout the century. These contemporary contexts suggest a particular reading of Robert Browning’s famously perplexing and ambiguous narrative poem Caliban Upon Setebos (composed in 1859 and first published in 1864). The work largely consists of Caliban’s reflections on existence, his god Setebos, and his enslavement by Prospero, during a stolen midday break from drudgery while Prospero and Miranda are sleeping. The poem is so stubbornly cryptic that it has been described as a satire of theology, or a satire of secularism, or not any kind of satire. It takes an entirely disintegrative approach to the play that foregrounds the forced labor at the heart of the action. Browning’s poem is aware of wage slavery and compulsory accumulation; capitalist economics are implicated in the destructive and circular world of the island. The poem suggests that the reigning bourgeois economists were

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  73 unable to explain the world and had no solutions to the pressing issues of the day: ‘Browning does seem to have been suggesting that contemporary political economists were as trapped in Caliban’s self-centered and self-destructive thought processes as the natural theologians were’ (Tebbetts 378). In a series of references to Prospero’s lines [‘We cannot miss him. He does make our fire,/Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices/That profit us’ (I.ii 311–3)], Browning’s Caliban reflects on labor and alienation: ‘’Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him./Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why?/’Gets good no otherwise.// ‘No use at all i’ the work, for work’s sole sake’ (Browning II.179–99). These lines speak to contemporary debates around political economy, and make a distinctive contribution to them: Work seems to begin and end in the ego of the worker, and profit is exercise of the ego, little beyond. In such a vision, the cycle of creation and destruction is endless and non-progressive. The profit motive is the ego circling back on itself. The passage certainly portrays a bleak economic system in a very definite ‘stationary state.’ (Tebbetts 379) Caliban’s reflections can be distilled: ‘This is what it means to be a slave. There is no love, no dialogue, no mating, just casual sadistic play’ (Poole 177). Like his Romantic predecessors, Browning opposes art to the relentless processes of capitalism: ‘Browning seems to be describing … a particularly poetic way of thinking and to be offering it as the life-giving alternative to the rational modes dominating contemporary theology and political economy’ (Tebbetts 381). Browning’s Tempest thus connects back to the radical bardolatry of the middle decades and forward to socialist uses of Shakespeare in the last decades of the century. In its focus on the master/ slave dialectic, the poem is also a precursor to Auden’s Sea and the Mirror.

The age of empire: 1875–1914 In the next phase of capitalist accumulation, increased concentration and centralization could no longer be accommodated within single national economies, and competition spread onto the global stage. In the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the European powers carved up and conquered large sections of the globe. Political agreements, such as that forged at the Berlin conference of 1884–85, dividing most of the continent of Africa into European colonies, were accompanied by violent wars of conquest and dispossession, and the imposition of elaborate systems of colonial administration. With the ascendancy of British imperialism, Shakespeare became an essential cultural weapon: the ‘“ideological glue” of empire … mediated and promoted as valuable imperial capital through such initiatives as the British Empire Shakespeare Society (1901) … and the British Empire Society (1907)’ (Greenslade 243–4).31 The late century on both

74  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization sides of the Atlantic consolidated the reading of the play as an allegory for colonization. A pro-imperialist and racist Tempest, nurtured by such luminaries as Shakespeare scholar Sidney Lee and author Rudyard Kipling, was countered by anti-colonial writers at this point mostly outside of the English-speaking world who would influence later developments in Britain, the United States, and Anglophone postcolonial nations.32 Incongruously, the bellicose era also produced two distinct and thoroughly integrative Tempests. One cast the play as a fairy tale of magical reconciliation, and the other as the apogee of serene bardic wisdom. The former is epitomized by the 1883 burlesque Ariel by the wildly prolific satirical dramatist and librettist F.C. Burnand (1836–1917). This ‘insipid’ work was part of the ‘late-Victorian cult of spectacular fairy extravaganzas’ (Schoch 186). The latter is exemplified by Edward Dowden’s 1875 reading of The Tempest as ‘the ideal expression … of the pathetic yet august serenity of Shakespeare’s final period’ (Dowden 380). Dowden’s appraisal established one dominant thread in the developing critical commentary that persisted into the twentieth century. Henry James’ Introduction to the play in Sidney Lee’s 1907 Complete Works presents an exorbitant variation on the theme. Remaining on a high level of abstraction, James praises with an elaborate flourish: The Tempest affects us, taking its complexity and its perfection together, as the rarest of all examples of literary art. There may be other things as exquisite, other single exhalations of beauty reaching as high a mark and sustained there for a moment, just as there are other deep wells of poetry from which cupfuls as crystalline may, in repeated dips, be drawn; but nothing, surely, of equal length and variety lives so happily and radiantly as a whole: no poetic birth ever took place under a star appointed to blaze upon it so steadily. (Henry James 82–3) With his signature rhetorical precision, James departs from earlier dismissive evaluations of the play’s frivolity and finds instead a work of aesthetic sublimity and substance. He associated the play with the court—due to its performance in celebration of the royal wedding in 1613—and considered it to be Shakespeare’s crowning achievement before his death three years later. Plot and character are of little interest; ‘style’ is all. Music, the most abstract of the arts, is again the apposite mode: the playwright is repeatedly imagined as a composer, at a piano or ‘sensitive harp’ (Henry James 93). This is The Tempest as harmonious poetry of the most exalted kind. Produced at a time when early cinema was seeking artistic legitimacy through Shakespeare, Percy Stow’s one-reel silent film of 1908 echoes this harmonious Tempest, albeit in a less reverential manner. Again plot is sacrificed in favor of mood: Stow offers a series of whimsical tableaux inspired by, and assuming familiarity with, the play: a visually innovative shipwreck

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  75 orchestrated by the white-haired magician; the courtly party arriving on shore unscathed; Ariel, a mischievous female sprite, shape-shifting between gamine and monkey, and disappearing at will; the much-harassed wild-man Caliban lurking in an idyllic pastoral setting; Pre-Raphaelite Miranda and Ferdinand in a passionate clinch. The usurpation narratives are removed altogether, and the tone is lightly comic, sentimental, and harmonious, albeit with occasional poignant and melancholy notes. These ascendant bourgeois Shakespeares, both imperialist and sentimental, were again contested by working-class cultural developments inspired by the growing socialist movements of late century and connecting back to the Romantics. Raphael Samuel deems Shakespeare ‘that favourite author of the nineteenth century working class stage’ and finds that ‘it is difficult to overestimate the influence of socialist ideas on English theatre practice in this period’ (10). Antony Taylor holds that in the 1880s radicals found in the plays support for land redistribution, as reformers ‘located Shakespeare in a set of attitudes that included opposition to enclosure, the game laws and the Elizabethan poor law’ (364). On the stage, in reading groups, and in allusions in political literature, this radical Shakespeare continued to be a presence through century’s end. While the record shows that the histories and tragedies, especially Coriolanus and King John, were favorites within this corpus, The Tempest does not seem to have played a major role. This is in part simply a reflection of the broader culture, as the performance records indicate a continuing lull. But it also suggests that this play did not readily lend itself to the political currents animating radical bardolatry during this era. While certainly rejecting the empire of the elites, this was a politics of plebeian nationalism, a form of romantic anti-capitalism that looked to a sense of ‘English’ liberty and connections to the land and folk culture. 33 Prospero as ‘rightful duke’ was not an attractive figure, but neither did Caliban offer much potential in this schema. It would take a new era of working-class revolution and mass struggles for national liberation, one that raised the possibility of a revolutionary consciousness rooted in internationalism, to provoke a revived and distinctly liberatory Tempest. At the turn of the century that would deliver these radical challenges, the integrative Tempests of Burnand, James, and Lee were contested first by an iconoclastic disintegrative version that emerged from the vertiginous climate of impermanence and instability ushered in by imperialist war and socialist revolution. In his sweeping history of English poetry, focused on World War One and written in the wake of the Vietnam war, Paul Fussell traces the influence of ‘the war to end all wars’ on the ‘political and social cognition’ of those living in what turned out to be a century of military conflict (35). What Fussell calls ‘Modern understanding’ transformed The Tempest beyond recognition in the worlds of high and popular culture, conservative and radical alike.

76  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization The approaching cataclysm was already registered in the first decade of the century. In 1906, Lytton Strachey famously took issue with the reigning representation of Shakespeare’s late period as ‘benign’ and ‘serene.’34 Citing contemporaries such as Dowden, Furnivall, and Lee, Strachey identifies The Tempest as ‘the play which is in many ways most typical of ­Shakespeare’s later work, and the one which critics most consistently point to as containing the very essence of his final benignity’ (65). He then precedes to dismantle this orthodoxy: Modern critics, in their eagerness to appraise everything that is beautiful and good at its proper value, seem to have entirely forgotten that there is another side to the medal; and they have omitted to point out that these plays contain a series of portraits of peculiar infamy, whose wickedness finds expression in language of extraordinary force … To omit these figures of discord and evil from our consideration, to banish them comfortably to the background of the stage … is surely a fallacy in proportion. (57) Drawing attention to all that is discordant, disturbing, and harsh, Strachey finds ‘a world in which anything may happen next’ (62), and asks: ‘In this world of dreams, are we justified in ignoring the nightmares?’ (63). He juxtaposes ‘Mid-summer Night’s Dream’ [sic] with The Tempest, arguing that for all their superficial similarities, the two are poles apart: ‘the gaiety of youth has been replaced by the disillusionment of middle age’ (67); ‘what a world of bitterness and horror lies between them!’ (68).35 Finally, he points to Caliban’s lines ‘You taught me language, and my profit on’t/Is, I know how to curse’ (I.ii.363–4) as conclusive evidence for his disintegrative reading: ‘Is this Caliban addressing Prospero, or Job addressing God? It may be either; but it is not serene, nor benign, nor pastoral, nor “On the Heights.”’ (69). The latter term, as Strachey has earlier explained, is used by Dowden to describe the plays of Shakespeare’s late period. Strachey’s disintegrative break with the integrative critical orthodoxy is graphically mirrored in two contrasting visions of Miranda by British Pre-Raphaelite artist J.W. Waterhouse separated by several decades spanning the turn of the century. His 1875 painting depicts Miranda as she might have appeared prior to her appearance in Act I Scene ii. She is seated on a rock gazing out at a calm sea, dressed in the classical style, barefoot, her blonde hair smoothly braided and tied with a ribbon that is gently lifted by a breeze. In the far distance a grey smudge possibly suggests a ship, and the sky is cloudy, but nothing indicates approaching storm or wreck; the mood is tranquil, contemplative, serene, and benign. When Waterhouse returned to Miranda in 1917, the scene had radically changed: the mood is now ominous, the sea churning, waves crashing violently on the shore; Miranda stands, clutching at her loose red hair whipped up by the buffeting wind; a large ship looms in the foreground, perilously close to the craggy

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  77 cliff-face, on the verge of splitting. The transformation indicated by these contrasting representations signifies a seismic shift precipitated by capitalist restructuring, war, and proletarian revolution.

Notes 1 Much scholarship has questioned conventional assumptions about the total absence of theater from 1642 to 1660. See for example Susan Wiseman, Drama and Politics in the English Civil War; Dale B.J. Randall, Winter Fruit: English Drama 1642–1660. The topic is given particular attention in the special issue, Yearbook of English Studies 44: Caroline Literature (2014). 2 English poet and playwright William Davenant (1606–68), a long-standing royalist, was rewarded with the royal patent in 1660 and became poet laureate thereafter. Poet and playwright John Dryden (1631–1700) came from a family who sympathized with the republicans, and himself contributed a poem to a memorial for Cromwell. He became a vocal supporter of Charles II after the restoration, writing many poetic tributes to the king, and succeeded Davenant as poet laureate in 1668. 3 A non-Eurocentric Marxist history of capitalism rejects the notion of an autonomous and essential English origin. As Henry Heller writes: ‘Instead it recognizes the relative backwardness of Europe and the existence of proto-capitalist elements in non-European societies. It analyzes the objective social, economic and political conditions which favored capitalism in some places and blocked its path in others. It acknowledges the critical role of state-backed colonialism and imperialism in fostering the success of western capitalism and blocking its development elsewhere’ (238). 4 But certainly for the duration of the Restoration authorship did not have the meaning it later acquired: playwrights’ names were neither included on playbills nor definitively associated with performances. Thus, Samuel Pepys famously referred to The Tempest as ‘an old play of Shakespeare’s’ even though it was the Davenant/Dryden version he attended. 5 Michael Dobson sees The Tempest as the best example of the broader pattern: ‘The more extensively Shakespeare’s plays were thus conscripted to address the issues of the 1660s, the more thoroughly they were wrested away from their original author and across the cultural gap separating the reigns of Elizabeth and James from the Restoration. This process is nowhere more self-consciously apparent than in Davenant’s equally timely last play, The Tempest; or the ­Enchanted Island’ (Making 38). 6 As is often noted, the play includes ‘less than a third’ of the original (Orgel ‘Introduction’ 64; Daniell 31). An even smaller portion remained in two further popular adaptations, Thomas Shadwell’s opera Enchanted Island and Thomas Duffet’s travesty The Mock-Tempest, both of 1674. 7 David Taylor holds that the authors of the Restoration rewrite ‘took up Shakespeare’s play as performative laboratory for their post-Restoration exploration of patriarchal power, casting Prospero as a father-king … and Caliban and company as parodic, stridently plebeian figurations of 1640s parliamentarians’ (487). 8 Gail Marshall and Philip Shaw identify the shift that occurred in the late eighteenth century: ‘the Romantics conceived of Shakespeare as a Prospero rather than as a Caliban, as a magus…’ (113). 9 Dobson, ‘Remember’ 99; Gurr ‘Review’ 279; Orgel ‘Introduction’ 66–9. 10 Han writes, ‘Scholars, actors, and publishers brought Shakespeare onto the market in various kinds of editorial forms’ (42). Only a handful of print editions

78  Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization

11 1 2

13

14 15 16

17 18

19 0 2 21 2 2

3 2 24

existed in the seventeenth century; there were dozens by the eighteenth century and hundreds by the nineteenth century. See Michael Löwy and Robert Sayre’s Romanticism Against the Tide of Modernity for an insightful exploration of the myriad political dimensions of the Romantic opposition to capitalist modernity. Orgel writes, ‘no producer until Garrick ever thought of that authentic text as the one that should or could be The Tempest of the repertory’ (Orgel ‘Introduction’ 69). Han reminds us that modern ideas of textual authenticity remained utterly foreign well into the nineteenth century: ‘The Romantics did not make it clear which editions of Shakespeare they encountered or used for their lectures or writings. They probably read several different editions of Shakespeare available in their time’ (Han 74). David Daniell, editor of a 1989 collection of Tempest criticism, writes that ‘the very understanding of Imagination itself, in the new full Romantic sense, was pretty well defined by reference to Shakespeare—and particularly in relation to The Tempest, which now suddenly came into its own. It is the play most commented on, after the “imaginative Tragedies”, Hamlet, King Lear and Macbeth’ (33). References from Stephen Gill’s edition of Wordsworth. See Westminster Abbey’s website: www.westminster-abbey.org/abbeycommemorations/commemorations/william-shakespeare/. For a discussion of the statue’s significance and the inscription of this misquotation, see Dobson 134–6 and 146. David Francis Taylor notes ‘such was the cultural impact of the monument’s apotheosis that the early 1770s acting texts of The Tempest used the adapted version of Prospero’s monologue included on the Abbey memorial’ (509). All references here taken from the annotated John Keats edited by Susan Wolfson. A century after Keats’ premature death, Wilfred Owen worked his own transformation on Keats’ ode. In ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’ Keats’ line ‘Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn’ was mutated into a description of shells exploding in the battle trenches: ‘Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, _ / The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells.’ The poem was published in 1792, thought to be initially composed in 1787–89, and revised throughout the poet’s life. All quotations here are from the 1793 version in Averill’s edition. References from Stephen Gill’s edition of Wordsworth. Bate notes that ‘In the 1850 text the echo is made stronger by the introduction of the phrases “the unsubstantial structure melts” and “Mist into air dissolving”’ (i. 225–7). (Bate Shakespeare and the English Imagination 108). All quotations from R.A. Foakes, ed. Lectures 1808–1819 On Literature, the fifth volume of The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The lectures were not published in print form, but Foakes draws on Coleridge’s notes, audience transcripts, and contemporary news reports to reconstruct them. In the case of Lecture 9, Coleridge’s notes were not found, so the text is derived from John Payne Collier’s transcripts. The review notes that ‘Frankenstein stands as much alone as Caliban’ New York Mirror Vol X (June 8 1833) 200. Bate comments: ‘To Trelawny, Shelley “seemed as gentle a spirit as Ariel”’ in response to his portrayal in the press as ‘“a monster more hideous than Caliban”’ and then adds: ‘Ironically, Shelley in fact had as much sympathy with Caliban: his idealization of the noble savage in part eight of Queen Mab suggests not only Rousseauesque primitivism, but also a political interpretation of The Tempest

Hostile takeover, consolidation, and destabilization  79

2 5 2 6 27 2 8

9 2 0 3

31 32 33

4 3 35

that reads Caliban as dispossessed native’ (Bate Shakespeare and the English Romantic Imagination 204). For more information, see the British Library Newsletter www.bl.uk/ collection-items/1832-edition-of-queen-mab-by-p-b-shelley. All References to Shelley from Hutchinson, ed. Shelley Poetical Works. Joseph Noel Paton’s 1845 engravings for The Tempest; Daniel Wilson’s 1873 Caliban: The Missing Link; and William Black’s 1884 Judith Shakespeare. See Philip Mason’s Prospero and Caliban. The influence of social Darwinism on the construction of Caliban as ‘missing link’—i.e., a connection between beast and human—was most infamously registered by Daniel Wilson’s 1873 Caliban: The Missing Link. Tebbetts 367; Vaughan and Vaughan Shakespeare’s Caliban 108. For classic discussions of these developments, see Clive Barker’s ‘Peoples’ Theatre in Nineteenth Century Britain’ and Raphael Samuel’s Theatres of the Left 1880–1935. Other engagements with working-class Shakespeare include Andrew Murphy, Shakespeare for the People; Paul Thomas Murphy, Towards a Working Class Canon. Gauri Viswanathan’s postcolonial classic Masks of Conquest explores the broader imperial uses of English literature in the context of India. See Retamar’s ‘Caliban’; Vaughans’ Shakespeare’s Caliban 147–53. As discussed in Chapter 6, the uses of The Tempest in Doyle’s opening ceremony for the London Olympics of 2012 arguably gesture toward this tradition of plebeian nationalism, though in the context of massive commercial appropriation that would have been anathema to Samuel. See Catherine Baker. English critic Lytton Strachey (1880–1932) was one of the founders of the Bloomsbury Group, conscientious objector during World War One, and famed author of Eminent Victorians. Strachey here is marking the distinction specifically between the Mechanics in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Caliban’s conspiracy in The Tempest.

3 Crisis, war, revolution

the state totters. Trinculo III.ii

The age of extremes part I: 1914–59 The line fragment ‘what is past is prologue’ is inscribed under the statue ‘future,’ a twenty-foot tall limestone carving of a seated woman that with her male partner, ‘past,’ flanks the entry to the National Archives building on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C. As employed for the Archives, established in 1935, the quotation draws on the tradition and dignity associated with ‘Shakespeare’s last play’ to affirm both the centrality of history to an understanding of the present and the indispensability of the United States to humanity’s future. Franklin Delano Roosevelt referred to the lines in his address at Little Rock in 1936: If you have been in Washington recently, you will have seen beneath one of the symbolical figures which guard the entrance of our great new Archives Building this quotation from Shakespeare’s ‘Tempest’—‘What is past is prologue.’ Times change but man’s basic problems remain the same. He must seek a new approach to their solution when the old approaches fail him. (201) Roosevelt here repeats one of the key features of the integrative Tempest— that it offers a timeless commentary on universal issues—before moving from the abstract register to the contemporary crises facing the nation: These problems, with growing intensity, now flow past all sectional limi­ tations. They extend over the vast breadth of our whole domain. Prices, wages, hours of labor, fair competition, conditions of employment, social security, in short the enjoyment by all men and women of their constitutional guaranties of life, liberty and the pursuit of ­happiness— these questions, reflected with the speed of light from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the Canadian Border to the Gulf of ­Mexico—these problems we are today commencing to solve. (201)

Crisis, war, revolution  81 Labor conditions are equated with democratic freedoms, at a moment when mass unemployment and widespread poverty amid the Great Depression had generated ‘an outbreak of class warfare’ (Lens Labor Wars 273). In the face of rising protests against systemic injustice, FDR threw a lifeline to the capitalist system by promising social reforms intended to mitigate the worst of the social and economic consequences of the crisis. Given that the villainous Antonio delivers the line while urging his co-conspirator to commit fratricide and regicide in the pursuit of ruthless ambition, the use of this quotation is sharply ironic. Antonio replies to the wavering Sebastian’s ‘But, for your conscience?’ with these cynical lines: ‘Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe/’Twould put me to my slipper; but I feel not/This deity in my bosom’ (II.i.275–8). While these sentiments are at odds with the civic solemnity of the Archives and Roosevelt’s promises of liberty and justice, they are perhaps in other ways well suited to the establishment’s response to the crises convulsing American capitalism in the 1930s. They are also indicative of the way the integrative Tempest is routinely employed, without regard to the entire play-text and in striking dissonance with its original circumstances, as a symbol of social stability and enduring bourgeois values in ‘a world in which everything has gone complicatedly wrong’ (Jarrell 62). Considering the exponentially increased diversity of Tempests in performance, literary adaptation, and critical commentary, it is possible to identify patterns in the play’s resonance for the changing fortunes of capitalism. The integrative play—the one behind Roosevelt’s speech—was firmly established as the dominant version in both performance and criticism: pastoral and stately varieties with venerable Prosperos and monstrous Calibans appeared on stage and page. But, especially at intensified periods of crisis, this was assailed by disintegrative versions, more disturbing than delightful, more tragic than comic. Reiterating themes raised by the Romantics, The Tempest was taken up by critics and dramatists as a symbol of violent social change and cultural dissolution, the storm repeatedly suggestive of war, revolutionary upheaval, and intractable crisis. The Tempest became a point of reference for many of the most significant transatlantic Anglophone writers of the century, and in the process each landmark re-imagining attached itself to the play, becoming part of the accreted associations endowed to future writers. Reflecting the increased globalization of capitalism and Anglophone literary traditions, and anticipating the great wave of anti-colonial Tempests in the 1960s, the play appeared also in the works of Anglophone writers from Africa and the Caribbean. Along the way, The Tempest was associated with capitalist modernity in a state of transition and crisis, and the terms ‘sea-change’ and ‘brave new world’ entered into ubiquitous common usage. While the integrative play was typically molded to a conservative defense of the status quo, with Prospero standing in for both domestic and imperial ruling class, and Caliban recalcitrant worker and colonized subject, the disintegrative Tempest was not reliably radical or progressive: T.S. Eliot most famously pioneered

82  Crisis, war, revolution its ironic deployment in a dystopic and deeply conservative worldview. This was periodically punctuated, however, by a liberatory Tempest, with Prospero emblematic of tyranny and injustice, and Caliban and Ariel elevated to figures of resistance and rebellion. At moments of heightened class struggle, the play was channeled by cultural works that ‘constantly call into question every victory, past and present, of the rulers’ (Benjamin ‘Thesis IV’ ‘On the Concept’ 37).

World War One and revolution Nineteenth-century certainties were shattered by the capitalist crises that ushered in the new age. Imperialist rivalries broke out into armed conflict in 1914, launching a devastating conflagration that over four years spread beyond Europe to embrace much of the globe, unleashed widespread social catastrophe and killed an estimated seventeen million combatants and civilians. The war initially not only plunged capitalism into unprecedented crisis but also shattered the global socialist movement that had been the system’s most powerful critic. At the outbreak of war, the Second International—the socialist movement that had achieved mass global influence and a significant parliamentary presence in much of Europe—was torn apart. In 1914, the majority of social democratic leaders abandoned internationalism and supported ‘their own’ national war efforts, while a revolutionary minority continued to organize against nationalism, colonialism, and imperialist war.1 Over the coming years, the socialist movement reconfigured, leading to the founding of the Communist International in 1919. The contradictions of the era provoked global mass anti-colonial and revolutionary working-class struggles that halted the war, brought down empires, and in Russia produced the world’s first socialist revolution. While the war ‘reversed the idea of progress’ (Fussell 8), the ‘red tide’— the mass social convulsions that brought much of the capitalist world to the brink of revolution—inspired hope for a world built on new foundations. 2 The impacts of both cataclysmic war and revolutionary aspiration were felt in all aspects of culture and shaped the modern understanding of The Tempest. This was borne out in the diverse milieu of the war’s immediate wake: in ‘high modernism,’ resting on the idea that, as Alan Wald puts it, ‘poetry must be difficult if it is to perform its function in the modern world,’ as much as in social protest literature, exemplified by the communist-­sponsored collection, Poems for Workers, where ‘simplicity became a primary aesthetic criterion’ (Exiles 21). These contradictory cultural forces inspired responses to the play that were overwhelmingly disintegrative, ranging from the conservative to the liberatory. The war provoked both ironic and tragic Tempests. Joseph Conrad’s 1915 novel Victory: An Island Tale stands as an apt transitional work. In his author’s note to the 1920 edition, Conrad explains that he completed and named the novel prior to the start of the war, at which time the tensions

Crisis, war, revolution  83 around the coming conflict were already making themselves felt: ‘The writing of it was finished in 1914 long before the murder of an Austrian Archduke sounded the first note of warning for a world already full of doubts and fears’ (11). The novel does not rewrite the play, and nor does it contain obvious references or allusions, but there are many correspondences, particularly in the main characters—Heyst/Prospero, Lena/Miranda, Pedro/ Caliban, Wang/Ariel—and in the broad plotline, in which a man and much younger woman live on an island until their life is dramatically changed by outsiders. The parallels are always inexact and usually involve an inversion or twist. In a 1964 essay tracing the formative influence of the play on the novel’s structure, story, character, and themes, British novelist and critic David Lodge identifies Conrad’s demeanor as ‘characteristic of the literary era to which he belonged in invoking The Tempest ironically’ (‘Conrad’ 196): ‘In Victory Conrad manipulates many of the elements of The Tempest to form a pattern which is the opposite of Shakespeare’s play—not a tragicomedy, but a tragedy of the absurd’ (‘Conrad’ 198). In contrast to ‘the myth’ of Shakespeare’s play—the fully fledged integrative reading taken for granted by Lodge—in Victory the title is ironic, love and redemption do not conquer evil and vengeance, and there are no happy endings but rather a bloodbath on a scale worthy of Hamlet. Victory is aware of the interdependence of empire and capital, as Michael Gorra has argued: ‘The imperialism Conrad describes isn’t concerned with administration so much as with money, with the movement of commodities’ (556). The Prospero figure, Heyst—repeatedly referred to as a magician who casts spells—is the manager of a Coal Company. The very opening of the novel presents a satirical image of colonial capitalism ‘melting into air’: The Tropical Belt Coal Company went into liquidation. The world of finance is a mysterious world in which, incredible as the fact may appear, evaporation precedes liquidation. First the capital evaporates, and then the company goes into liquidation. (Conrad 19) The ensuing seascape is somewhere between Waterhouse’s two Mirandas, but with Prospero (Heyst) as the subject: ‘Axel Heyst … was surrounded, instead of the imponderable stormy and transparent ocean of air merging into infinity, by a tepid, shallow sea; a passionless offshoot of the great waters which embrace the continents of this globe’ (Conrad 19). This line exemplifies the novel’s grimly ironic comic mode. Lodge concludes that ‘Conrad is not the only modern writer to find that the tragic or ironic rehandling of a myth which had an optimistic meaning in its original form fits the modern sensibility of disillusionment and regret’ (‘Conrad’ 198). The integrative Tempest, tracing a line back to Henry James’ mystical ‘arrest of … divine flight,’ was displaced by a new disintegrative version, epitomized by the treatment of the play in T.S. Eliot’s Wasteland. The Tempest as seen through these new eyes is ironic, nihilistic, and shot through

84  Crisis, war, revolution with grotesque images of war and destruction. Ariel’s haunting ‘full fathoms five’ song is woven into fearsome images of drowning and asphyxiation both graphic and suggestive: ‘the drowned Phoenician Sailor,/(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)’ (lines 47–8); ‘I had not thought death had undone so many’ (line 63); ‘“Do/ You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember/ Nothing?”/I remember/Those are pearls that were his eyes’ (lines 121–5). The idyllic and noble environs conjured by Henry James—‘the very air of the lone island, the very law of the Court celebration … charm and magic and … ineffable delicacy’ (lines 87–8)—are replaced with Eliot’s banal and sleazy industrial cityscape: A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse. Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. (187–92) The Tempest is central to Eliot’s dystopic vision of a shattered world, and reception of the play is forever changed in the process. 3 As a character in David Lodge’s 1984 novel Small World says, ‘“we can’t avoid reading Shakespeare through the lens of T.S. Eliot’s poetry … who can hear the speeches of Ferdinand in The Tempest without being reminded of “The Fire Sermon” section of The Waste Land?”’ (52). Eliot accesses those aspects of Shakespeare’s play that resonate with the cataclysmic and tragic dislocations associated with social and economic convulsions and cannot be accommodated by the categories of ‘comedy,’ ‘pastoral,’ or ‘fairytale.’ If The Tempest is ambiguously handled by Conrad and negatively associated with unsettling instability by Eliot, horrified by the social transformations of his time, its allegorical implications pertain to working-class struggle for many writers who embraced systemic social change in the first decades of the century.4 The radical optimism sparked by the revolutionary wave emerged in a liberatory Tempest that was to maintain a persistent presence as the century progressed, at times fading from view, and at others returning with force. This approach to the play, which anticipates the great wave of anti-imperialist Tempests of the 1960s, forms a distinct thread running from the outbreak of war through the subsequent decades. Louis Untermeyer (1885–1977), member of the John Reed Clubs and at times close to the Communist Party, included a poem titled ‘Caliban in the Coal Mines’ in the section ‘Songs of Protest’ in his 1914 collection Challenge.5 This was anthologized in the wide-ranging compendium of social protest literature first published in 1915 and edited by Upton Sinclair, The Cry for Justice. Sinclair’s Preface explains his personal metamorphosis from literary scholar to archivist of rebellion after he ‘discovered the modern movement of the proletarian revolt’ (21). The collection brings together

Crisis, war, revolution  85 an eclectic and dizzying range of poems, prose, songs, and illustrations from the classical era to the present, organized around epic themes such as ‘Toil,’ ‘Nations and Colonies,’ ‘Socialism,’ and ‘The freedoms.’ Jack London’s Introduction affirms the profound necessity and tangible possibility for a radically new world: ‘The humanists have no quarrel with the previous civilizations. They were necessary in the development of man. But their purpose is fulfilled, and they may well pass, leaving man to build the new and higher civilization that will exposit itself in terms of love and service and brotherhood’ (Sinclair 11). ‘Caliban in the Coal Mines’ was included in the section ‘Toil.’ The lyric voice is Caliban as a subterranean laborer, appealing to the heavens: God, we don’t like to complain— We know that the mine is no lark— But—there’s the pools from the rain; But—there’s the cold and the dark. (lines 1–4) The poem takes a wearily irreverent and playful tone toward the class ­divide—referred to in The Cry for Justice as ‘the chasm’—as the oblivious deity maintains a privileged and comfortable existence far above the sweat and toil below the earth: God, You don’t know what it is— You, in Your well-lighted sky, Watching the meteors whizz; Warm, with the sun always by. (5–8) As Alan Wald writes, Untermeyer ‘refigures Caliban … into a symbol of the proletariat’ and in the process ‘[w]hile hardly modernist, the sensibility is mischievously modern’ (Exiles 23).6 Untermeyer is part of a broader swing of the pendulum in which Prospero is displaced in favor of Caliban as protagonist, variously representing maligned slave and exploited proletarian.7 American radical Edwin Markham (1852–1940) forged a similar identification with Caliban.8 His long poem Ballad of the Gallows Bird, completed in 1919 and initially published in the American Mercury in August 1926, was first released in book form in 1967, forming a bridge between the two revolutionary eras. A 1968 review in The Antioch Review identified the poem as an expression of modernity with signature importance for the contemporary moment: ‘it is to the Markham ballad, vibrating as it does with outrage at whatever dehumanizes modern man, that readers in general may look for the most immediate relevance to our own tormented age’ (Winchell 394). The ballad tells the story of a murderer who believes he has escaped an angry lynch mob and now traverses a nightmarish wasteland replete with images evoking the industrial war, poverty, inequality and violence of modern capitalism, before eventually discovering his own dead body hanging from the gallows and realizing he is in hell.

86  Crisis, war, revolution In Part 4 of the poem, the speaker encounters ‘a tottering shape,/Bent with a load of earth’ whom he addresses as ‘Caliban’ (Markham 28). While this is one of a series of haunting ‘shapes’ met along the way, the repeated use of the word here also echoes Prospero’s descriptions of Caliban as ‘misshapen knave’ and ‘disproportioned … in his shape’ (V.i.268, 291–2). The figure explains that he is ‘“doomed to fill the sea”’ with earth, and that ‘“All mountains, all must melt before/The pecking of one spade.”’ He then appeals to the speaker: ‘“Tell me if when the ages end/The task will all be done?/Can I survive the trampling years—/Can I outlast the sun?”’ (29). Caliban is the eternal proletariat, forever alienated by his empty labor, part of a relentless system of exploitation: I answered not, but fled aghast From the horror of the hill— Fled deeper, deeper into the voids Curst by an Evil Will, By a Power that seemed to be grinding men In some prodigious mill. (29) The imagery here recalls the great war poets such as Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen. It also resonates with one of the finest writers of the international socialist movement, the Polish revolutionary Rosa Luxemburg: in her account of the 1905 ‘dress rehearsal’ of the Russian Revolution, she describes the workers who in order to organize mass political struggle ‘must come out of the factory and workshop, mine and foundry, must overcome the levigation and the decay to which they are condemned under the daily yoke of capitalism’ (Luxemburg Mass Strike 163). The use of ‘levigation’— the process of grinding into powder—is echoed in Markham’s image of workers ground in a giant mill.9 Despite these figurative echoes, Markham’s poem is politically far removed from Luxemburg, who emphasized the agency of workers and the inseparability of struggles against exploitation and all forms of oppression. In contrast, Markham’s poem dehumanizes workers and trades in derogatory stereotypes. There is the misogyny behind the portrait of a ‘skinny hag, a wreck of wrecks,/A harlot withered out of sex’ (Markham 25). And then the racism of a later encounter: ‘a host of shapes/Came up from a pit, like blackamoors/With visages of apes/And soon each one of the mongrel crowd/Was shouting from his stall’ (Markham 30). Cary Nelson’s description of Markham’s famous protest poem ‘The Man with the Hoe’ equally applies to the Ballad: both works feature ‘relentless othering of the worker … despite Markham’s evident outrage at his exploitation’ (17). These contradictory impulses encapsulate political contradictions of the time, even as the poem reimagines social conflicts ‘as a symbolic confrontation between abstract, mythological forces’ (Nelson 21). Winchell’s 1968

Crisis, war, revolution  87 review of The Ballad of the Gallows Bird placed Markham in the company of the great modernist poets: T.S. Eliot painted in somber shades the wasteland of our era, but Edwin Markham explored the shadows of the twentieth century with Jungian insight and saw man’s demonic will for violence and self-destruction. Like William Butler Yeats, he gave us poetry truly commensurate with our age. (Winchell 396) What’s more, Ballad seemed to offer a prophetic vision of the century: We who have lived through the days of Dachau, racist Johannesburg, the Watts and Detroit long-hot-summer infernos, and Viet Nam, seeing the Beast leering across apartheid veldt, rat-run ghetto, and barbed wire, have reason to become acquainted with Markham literature. (Winchell 397) The introduction to the 1968 edition of the poem notes that ‘we are still fighting our way back from Hiroshima and futility,’ and speculates that Ballad remained unpublished for several years because ‘it seemed too terrible, or what one of Markham’s conventional associates frankly called “horrible,” for use in the standard publications’ (Markham 4–5). Markham’s poem emerged from the modernist milieu of politically dichotomous and overwhelmingly disintegrative Tempests. These became reference points for future artistic responses to social upheaval, endowing the play with catastrophic associations that deepen and evolve in the century to come.10

Counterrevolution and the great depression By the end of the 1920s, the revolutionary wave had been reversed, Stalin was ascendant and the stock market crash ushered in more than a decade of economic recession that rippled across the globe.11 The crisis years of the 1930s saw both the resurgence of mass labor struggles and the rise of fascism. During this period, elements of both the disintegrative dystopic and liberatory social protest Tempests were revived in new variations. Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, published in 1932, is the iconic expression of the post-1929 Tempest, endowing Miranda’s line with the ironic and dystopic meanings that were to have lasting purchase throughout the century.12 The novel established the play’s enduring connection with science fiction while picking up Marx’s metaphor of the capitalist as mad magician. It offers a cautionary tale about the destructive power of industrial development, science, and technology, as suggested by the figure of the sorcerer unleashing catastrophic consequences through his ‘so potent art’ (V.i.50). The novel builds on the irony associated with Miranda’s words. In Shakespeare’s

88  Crisis, war, revolution play what she sees as figures of wondrous novelty are in fact the variously traitorous, murderous, weak, flawed, and inebriated higher and lower orders of the old-world home from whence her father was ignominiously exiled. In a second irony, the line describing the Renaissance city-states came to be associated with Europe’s encounter with the American ‘new world,’ even though this is nonsensical within the geography of the play. In Huxley’s novel, the ironies multiply. The text is itself a parody of the utopic science fiction typified by his contemporary H.G. Wells; Huxley’s dour vision is of a future far worse than anything humanity has yet seen. In its filigree of allusions, references, and character names, Brave New World is permeated by war and revolutionary upheavals, though, marked by the global economic crash and onset of depression, it lacks the energetic optimism of much radical literature of the age. Rather, it is a bitter commentary on the most ‘advanced’ aspects of industrialism and consumer capitalism in Europe and America, portraying a world whose potential is retreating rather than expanding. It is noteworthy that in Huxley’s imagined future Shakespeare has been banned.13 This suggests that the dramas contain within them some spirit of human resistance and potential for dissent—the very qualities repressed in the fictional dystopia, and by implication under threat in his present reality. Huxley’s contemporary Edwin Muir (1887–1959) also evoked a dystopic Tempest in his poem ‘Sick Caliban’ written around the same time.14 Muir’s poetry is infused with a socialist critique of capitalism and the overwhelming sense of mourning associated with his generation—like Huxley, Muir did not fight in the war for health reasons but watched many of his immediate circle fall.15 Muir’s Caliban is an object of perpetual misery, encountered by a nonspecific ‘he’ who feels both compassion and repulsion for ‘that suffering thing,/Man, beast, or bestial changeling/Or huge fish stranded choking in dry air/Without the sense to die … The proud and sneaking malice in its eye/That said, I suffer truly and yet malinger’ (276). As in Markham’s poem before, and Auden’s after, lines from Shakespeare’s play are forged anew—Trinculo’s ‘What have we here?—a man or a fish? dead or alive?’ (II.ii.24–5), Prospero’s ‘Shrug’st thou, malice?’ (I.ii.367). Caliban evokes guilt and pity. Initially ignoring the ‘poor bag of bone/And hank of hair,’ the figure has a change of heart: And so he took the straight road to his death In surly anger that was far from mourning. Behind him followed hope and faith Saying little. But something stood at that first turning By itself, weeping. If he could keep his eyes On that far distant mourner, would it save Something? Would he find breath to call To the others, and all be changed, that thing, and all? (277)

Crisis, war, revolution  89 Caliban represents the generic ‘other’—the poor, the unemployed, the hungry, the physically impaired—suffering the fallout of the Great Depression. The humanity of these others must be recognized as a precondition for collective redemption. These unsettling and dystopic associations registered in fiction and poetry were echoed in some critical works. Lytton Strachey had broken new ground when he argued that The Tempest and the other late plays were anything but ‘serene’ (see Chapter 2). By 1932, Edgar Stoll could reject wholesale the idea that they embodied ‘a spirit of serenity and reconciliation’ in favor of a reading consistent with that of Huxley, Markham, or Muir, albeit from a contrary political position: [I]n the final period there is a measure of ugliness and horror, cynicism and grossness … the outlines tend to become vast, vague, and wavering, as in a dream—as they will to one whose eyes are resting on the horizon, and whose thoughts brood upon the beginning and the end, over ‘the dark backward and abysm of time.’ (‘The Tempest’ 722–3) Stoll, like those radical writers and others in future parallel moments, is making a connection between this sense of being on the cusp of change— the preoccupation with looking forward and back—in Shakespeare’s late period, and a parallel habit in the interwar present provoked by economic crisis and social upheaval. These contexts sharpen the ‘ugliness and horror’ and diminish the magic and serenity that Dowden et al. cherished. The eminent British Shakespeare scholar John Dover Wilson (1881–1969) marked the rupture on a seemingly subliminal level. In a 1932 essay which gestures back to Henry James and before him Keats, Wilson’s integrative approach explicitly reads the play as a Romantic statement on transcendent aesthetic value. Despite his best attempts to keep the world at bay, however, disintegrative notes insistently crashed in. The essay begins by asking why Shakespeare retired when apparently neither old nor sick, and speculates that the dramatist was redeemed by ‘a return to the grand simplicities of life’ after his London career (Wilson ‘Enchanted’ 36). Wilson conjures a late-life conversion akin to that experienced by Wordsworth, who, apparently, …like Shakespeare, passed through a spiritual crisis, leading him to the gates of madness, who had dreamed of an age of reason, France standing on the top of golden hours, And human nature seeming born again, had seen the vision dissolve in blood and terror; and had come to realise that the attempt to overthrow the social structure meant striking at the very roots of the spirit of man. (Wilson ‘Enchanted’ 36)

90  Crisis, war, revolution The deeply conservative ideology, laced with misogyny—Shakespeare ‘seemed to have escaped from subjection to some barren witch who had offered him an impossible and detestable mirage in exchange for the paradise that lay around him’—projects a reactionary vision of the feudal past: ‘Nature, the birds, youth, the peasant, the simple traffic of family life, all that drew blood from that accumulated wisdom of centuries which we call instinct and tradition, were the only teachers, the only healers’ (‘Enchanted’ 36). For Wilson, The Tempest dramatizes a process that begins ‘with a wreck and a tempest’ but ends with ‘unity both dramatic and spiritual’: For, what is the enchanted island but Life itself, which seems so ‘desert and uninhabitable’ to the cynics and so green with ‘lush and lusty’ grass to the singleminded? It is Life also as Shakespeare himself sees it with his recovered vision; once the domain of a foul witch, but now beneath the sway of a magician who controls it entirely, who keeps the evil spirit in subjection and employs the good spirits to serve his ends. (Wilson 40) There is something more than a little desperate about this insistence on resolution and containment: just as the ‘foul witch’ stalks The Tempest, the specter of revolutionary insurrection from below—‘blood and terror’ circa 1789 and 1932—haunts Wilson’s bucolic patriarchal tableau. This presents another prime example of the lengths to which integrative readings must go in order to suppress the recalcitrant elements of the play. Performances in the 1930s occasionally embraced a global dimension, leading some to recognize in Caliban the dispossessed aboriginal, as Stoll put it, ‘bowed under the white man’s burden’ (‘The Tempest’ 714), and Prospero the oppressor (Griffiths 176–7; Dymkowski 54–5). What Rothwell calls ‘the first phase of televised Shakespeare’ culminated in a 1939 Tempest that suggested a higher profile: directed by Dallas Bower and broadcast live by the BBC, featuring music by Sibelius and Peggy Ashcroft as Miranda, this production also marked the end of an era (Rothwell History 94). The war that closed down production at the BBC precipitated another decisive change in direction for the play. As Roberto Fernández Retamar wrote in 1971: ‘For a new reading of The Tempest—for a new consideration of the problem—it was necessary to await the emergence of the colonial countries, which begins around the time of the Second World War’ (Caliban and Other Essays 12).

World War Two The return of global war marked a continuation of the imperialist conflicts that were left unresolved at the end of World War One. This six-year conflagration incorporated the entire world, left 55 million dead, and brought humanity the unprecedented horrors of the Nazi holocaust, aerial attacks on

Crisis, war, revolution  91 civilian targets, and the devastating deployment of the Atomic bomb. The same era initiated the dismantling of the European empires—­precipitated both by mass anti-colonial movements and shifts in global c­ apitalism—as the multipolar colonial system of competing European nations gave way to the bipolar Cold War standoff between the twin empires of the United States and the Soviet Union. Even while the war wreaked havoc in the colonized world, decolonization generated an optimistic and confident political radicalism, as successful movements for national liberation built on each other and generalized. The rapidly changing and contradictory realities of postwar capitalism gave rise to radically diverse Tempests. Dislodged at the start of the century, the integrative variety survived in criticism and performance, and returned with some force in conservative readings in the 1950s, but the recurrence of war produced distinctive reworking of the disintegrative version. As one critic remarked in 1948, incidentally echoing Strachey’s pronouncements of forty years earlier: ‘the storm has a greater intrinsic importance and contributes more to the delicate structure and logic of the play than the critics have usually supposed’ (Nosworthy 281). Especially after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the postwar Tempest assumed an apocalyptic cast, and the period as a whole recapitulated and intensified the old antinomies of hope and horror. If Eliot’s Wasteland was the quintessential expression of the post-World War One moment, Auden’s The Sea and The Mirror occupied the parallel location for World War Two. Transition and transfiguration were the keynotes in politically diverse responses to the play in the war period. In 1942 Theodore Spencer, echoing Stoll, noted in Shakespeare’s late work an uneasy tension between loss and rebirth, captured in the lines from The Winter’s Tale: ‘thou mettest with things dying/I with things new born.’ He traced this to the ‘transfiguration’ that is the overarching theme of the play: ‘the mountains and waters have changed because they once seemed something else’ (274). Commenting on a production from 1945, another critic described Prospero as not Shakespearean autobiography but as ‘the noblest of Shakespeare’s many utterances on mutability’ (Campbell 272). From a reliably conservative perspective and with rather less subtlety, G. Wilson Knight argued in 1947 that ‘Caliban symbolizes all brainless revolution’ (Crown 211). H.D.’s ‘By Avon River’ emphasized a related but distinct dynamic of return and renewal in the context of social upheaval.16 Horace Gregory’s 1950 review of this book of poetry noted that ‘The Tempest … has enriched associations to those who have felt the impact of World War II on the continent of Europe’ (225). He continues: ‘In the presence of a storm such as World War II, individual sensibility turns to its islands, returns to its earliest faiths, its Crete, its Utopia, its imagined place of rescue from the storm’ (Gregory 226). By Avon River has often been described in these terms, as a utopic retreat from the war—H.D. wrote much of the long poem in L ­ ondon during the blitz. Inspired in part by her visit to Stratford-upon-Avon for

92  Crisis, war, revolution Shakespeare Day in 1945, the long work moves between reflections in various verse and prose forms on The Tempest, Shakespeare, and other figures in the English poetic tradition. The sequence ‘Good Friend’ brings to life Claribel, who provides the poetic voice of the section ‘Claribel’s Way to God.’ In the second part of the book, Shakespeare is imagined as a confused old man reflecting on his life. While By Avon River has often been presented as an exemplar of bardolatry, the work offers a powerful critique of Shakespeare and a disintegrative approach to The Tempest. It anticipates the wave of feminist readings from the late century that reclaims female characters, and offers a radical analysis of the Renaissance world, as mediated by the play and its relationship to H.D.’s contemporary moment. Lara Vetter draws out these dynamics in the introduction to her excellent annotated 2014 edition of the poem. First, World War Two is a ‘key context’ for the work: ‘The Tempest’s storm evoked in the opening lines of the poem—“I came home / Driven by The Tempest”—is, on one level, the war, for H.D. had chosen to remain in London for her second world war, having faced World War I as the wife of a poet-soldier’ (Vetter 14). In extension, the poet strongly associates Shakespeare’s play with colonial expansion and imperialism, and elaborates a critical account of the deep connections between war, empire, and nationalism past and present. This analysis is bound up with the fate of Claribel, whose marriage is understood to be an act of patriarchal statecraft mirroring both Miranda’s betrothal to Ferdinand and the marriage of King James’ daughter ­Elizabeth to Frederick V of Bohemia, often assumed to be the event celebrated by Shakespeare’s Tempest. In the poem ‘Rosemary,’ ‘The invisible, voiceless Claribel’ is described as ‘An emblem, a mere marriage token’ (H.D. 60): The line from The Tempest describing her marriage is reworked and repeated with variations several times: ‘The king’s fair daughter/Marries ­Tunis’ (H.D. 55, 57, 61). Vetter provides a useful analysis: H.D.’s rewriting points out what Shakespeare elides, that Claribel loses her name, her identity, in the marriage; that she is defined entirely in terms of her relationship to her father, the king; and that she weds not a man but a geopolitical entity, Tunis, long a pirate stronghold. In Shakespeare’s period, this alliance would have strengthened ties to the Turks, invaluable for Venice, a major trading port, in consolidating power against Spain. (22) The political arranged marriage is connected to English imperialism. Colonial dynamics are flagged from the beginning of the poem through references to the wreck of the Sea Venture—‘Some say the Sea-Adventure set out,/(In May, 1609, to be exact)/For the new colony, Virginia’ (H.D. 52). Claribel and Miranda are shown to play crucial parts in the bigger power game, given the role of their marriages in consolidating property, wealth, and power (Vetter 20). Furthermore, Shakespeare becomes metonymic for

Crisis, war, revolution  93 England, and his practice of ‘poaching,’ referring both to the rumored story of his youthful practice of poaching deer and to his pervasive plagiarism of others’ stories—Shakespeare ‘stole everything’ (H.D. 54)—is equated with English imperial plunder: ‘The Elizabethan era, then, is inevitably tied to imperialism and the amassing of wealth pilfered from other parts of the world’ (Vetter 27). These connections are relevant not only to the early modern period, but also to the poet’s present, when critics such as G. ­Wilson Knight yoked Shakespeare to the service of cultural nationalism and jingoism. The integrative reading of The Tempest as the Bard’s fond farewell to his art is utterly dismantled in By Avon River, in the depiction of the elderly Bard as ‘“a drunken, senile old man”’ as much as the overwhelming mood of anxiety and pain (qtd. in Vetter 12).17 These repeated lines haunt the work: ‘Farewell, farewell,/But only to pain, regret, disaster,/O friend, farewell/Is only to fear, despair, torture,/Say not farewell,/ But hail, master’ (H. D. 63). All of these dynamics suggest a strongly disintegrative reading of the play. It is illuminating to read By Avon River alongside W.H. Auden’s closet drama The Sea and the Mirror, because both works securely tie a disintegrative Tempest to loss, death, and war, while Auden explicitly interweaves a critique of capitalism that is implicit in H.D.18 In the 1930s Auden, like other poets of his cohort, understood his art to be connected to a larger collective political project that could herald the end of the old order and the coming of the new. At that time, his vision of transformation was grounded in Marxism, but by the start of the next decade, in light of the victory of fascism in Spain, the Hitler-Stalin pact, the Moscow Purge Trials, and outbreak of another World War, the poet had become disillusioned with the revolutionary project, looking instead to individual and spiritual solutions as he returned to Christianity.19 The Sea and the Mirror offers not only an imaginative engagement with the characters, plot, and figurative patterns, but also a sustained critical analysis of The Tempest. These qualities, as much as the work’s outsized influence, warrant a detailed exploration of this landmark text. It is a profoundly disintegrative reading—it associates the play with fallen empires, class domination, and the anomie of mid-­century industrial capitalism—even while it reaches for a redemptive aesthetic. It launches a powerful critique of the integrative approach. The Sea and the Mirror cannot forget what Auden elsewhere wrote of the false resolution of The Tempest: ‘“Justice has triumphed over injustice, not because it is more harmonious, but because it commands superior force; one might even say because it is louder”’ (Auden qtd. in Kirsch Appendix 66). An outsider to mainstream American culture due to his gay sexuality as much as his expatriate status (he relocated from Britain in 1939 and was based in the United States until 1972), Auden’s poetry identified with the oppressed and took the dissident perspective: ‘“Art is like queerness,”’ he wrote in a letter to Christopher Isherwood (qtd. in Kirsch Sea and the Mirror xix). Shakespeare’s mythopoetic Tempest, poised at the birth of the society now seemingly in its dotage, was the perfect source text for Auden.

94  Crisis, war, revolution As previously noted, he had an ambivalent fascination with the play’s excessive dualism, in particular, the contrived opposition between Caliban (flesh, eros, nature) and Ariel (spirit, logos, consciousness), and emphasized its dialectical and convulsive dynamics. He also expressed anti-imperialist advocacy for Caliban. As American critic Cleanth Brooks wrote in 1964, ‘Auden cannot really approve of Prospero, who is guilty of—though Auden does not use the term—what would be called today colonialism. Caliban loses much more than he gains under Prospero’s domination of the island’ (176). The drama takes place after the conclusion of The Tempest, with the characters reflecting on the action, each employing a particular poetic form suited to their distinctive qualities. The Preface—the voice of the ‘stage manager to the critics’—introduces the keynotes: the opposition between age and youth, the inadequacy of science or art to provide explanation or solace, and the relentless inevitability of human mortality. Without explicitly naming the war raging in the world outside—and Auden apparently went to some effort not to mention the war—the work is saturated with images of violent conflict. The final stanza establishes death as the central concern of The Tempest. The rest of the poem consists of three chapters and a brief Postscript. Prospero has Chapter I to himself. This sustained meditation on mortality, essentially a wordy elaboration of his line ‘Every third thought shall be my grave’ (V.i.312) anticipates the Manichean oppositions that run throughout The Sea and the Mirror. The relation that hangs over them all is that of freedom/servitude: the emancipation of Ariel is echoed in references to mastery and servitude in myriad forms: ‘dukedom’ and ‘service’ (5); ‘kings’ and ‘subjects’ (5); ‘beggars’ and ‘Pope’ (8); ‘master’ and ‘apprentice’ (8). In addition, the poem is rife with juxtaposed opposites: a memorable line turning on the ubiquitous mirror imagery—‘all we are not stares back at what we are’—powerfully embodies such paradoxical antitheses. Prospero declares ‘Today I am free and no longer need your freedom’ and asks if Ariel is ‘anxious and miserable’ ‘without/A master to need you for the work you need’ (8). These references are rooted in Prospero’s reminder to Miranda of Caliban’s importance: ‘We cannot miss him. He does make our fire,/ Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices/That profit us’ (I.ii.311–3).20 The work moves away from an abstract notion of ‘freedom’ toward a materialist understanding of social power relations and vectors of class inequality. The densely concentrated economic vocabulary continues this materialist thread: ‘speculation,’ ‘values nothing … overvalues everything,’ ‘the price is pegged to his valuation’ (5); ‘extravagant,’ ‘pays,’ ‘contracted,’ ‘prosperous,’ ‘over-estimate,’ ‘business,’ ‘expense’ (9). These sections also echo and educe Antonio’s preoccupation with monetary concerns. Prospero’s poem is a reflection on power and the renunciation of that power. His authority is confirmed by the placement at the start of the text and possession of a whole chapter to himself but undermined by the structure of the rest of the work: Caliban is also given his own Chapter, the

Crisis, war, revolution  95 third, and has many more words, more artfully expressed, than Prospero. Chapter II is divided between the other characters, including not only the obvious central candidates, Miranda, Ferdinand, and Alonso, but also minor figures such as the Master and Boatswain and, briefly, Adrian and Francisco (whose role in Shakespeare’s play is so minor that they are often omitted from stagings). Ariel is given the Postscript. The play’s hierarchy is further disrupted by the dominance of Antonio: he not only starts the second chapter but also has a coda responding to each of the subsequent characters’ speeches. The drama suggests skepticism toward Prospero’s self-transformation and stresses instead the contradictory and unresolved state of affairs at play’s end: Antonio’s refusal to seek forgiveness opens up the possibility of renewed usurpation attempts in the future; Prospero’s renunciation of his magic is disingenuous as he has already used it to achieve his goals and will need to retain all his power if he is to defend his reign over Milan and Naples. Just as Antonio has some of the sharpest and funniest lines in The Tempest, Auden’s Antonio maintains an ironic and cynical running commentary throughout Chapter II, undermining the voices of the other characters, puncturing sentimentality and piety wherever they appear. Poetic form, which always tells us something important about the character, is in witty interplay with subject matter, often with comic results. The poems endow the recurrent antithetical imagery with an overwhelming sense of loss, destruction, instability, and transformation. The shift from the comedic to the tragic is mirrored in a series of unsettling reversals. Alonso’s Horatian ode, at the heart of Chapter II, explicitly addresses questions of political rule, instability, imperialism, and war. A looming sense of spiraling, vertiginous, and terrifying transformation emerges in startling images: ‘How soon the lively trip is over/From loose craving to sharp aversion,/ Aimless jelly to paralyzed bone;’ ‘…praise the scorching rocks/For their dessication of your lust,/Thank the bitter treatment of the tide/For its dissolution of your pride’ (21). The tour de force is Caliban’s prose monologue, written in the elaborate style of the late period of Henry James, in Chapter III. Caliban uses sophisticated and rhetorically complex language to undermine Prospero’s version of their relationship and history. This reversal is in keeping with Auden’s critical analysis of Caliban’s role in The Tempest: ‘“we cannot help feeling that Prospero is largely responsible for his corruption, and that, in the debate between them, Caliban has the best of the argument…”’; while their relationship is ‘“profitable to Prospero … it is hard to see what profit, material or spiritual, Caliban gets out of it”’ (qtd. in Kirsch 58). The Caliban of Chapter III far outstrips Auden’s critical voice in the depth of his rejection of the moral order of The Tempest, and in turn, of the contemporary world. The prose poem is defiantly ironic, witty, self-referential, parodic, and paradoxical, and offers a blistering social critique, assaulting the bourgeois myths of democracy and meritocracy, and of art and culture as reflections

96  Crisis, war, revolution of civilization and progress, depicting instead a capitalist world resting on expropriation, systematic inequality, and exclusions. With its lengthy sentences, elaborate conceits, shifting voices, and running metaphors, it is challenging to quote this chapter in a way that is representative. There are, however, certain moments that stand out. One comes in the opening section when Caliban is speaking as the audience: we should not be sitting here now, washed, warm, well-fed, in seats we have paid for, unless there were others who are not here; our liveliness and good-humour, such as they are, are those of survivors, conscious that there are others who have not been so fortunate…. (33) This resonates with Benjamin’s image of the barbarism and ‘invisible toilers’ behind the cultural treasure. In another section, addressed to the potential artist, the relationship between artist (Prospero) and muse (Ariel) is depicted as a love affair gone wrong. The dramatic climax comes at the moment of separation, when the artist ‘frees’ the muse, only to encounter a strange substitution: [Y]ou glare into His unblinking eyes and stop dead, transfixed with horror at seeing reflected there, not what you had always expected to see, a conqueror smiling at a conqueror, both promising mountains and marvels, but a gibbering fist-clenched creature with which you are all too unfamiliar, for this is the first time indeed that you have met the only subject that you have, who is not a dream amenable to magic but the all too solid flesh you must acknowledge as your own…. (38–9) Ariel becomes Caliban, and then, in a reprisal of ‘all we are not stares back at what we are’ (6), becomes Prospero’s mirror image. Caliban then turns to Prospero’s speeches expressing disappointment over his slave’s ingratitude and rebellion (IV.i.188–93 and V.i.272–6): Can you wonder then, when, as was bound to happen sooner or later, your charms, because they no longer amuse you, have cracked and your spirits, because you are tired of giving orders, have ceased to obey, and you are left alone with me, the dark thing you could never abide to be with, if I do not yield you kind answer or admire you for the achievements I was never allowed to profit from, if I resent hearing you speak of your neglect of me as your ‘exile’, of the pains you never took with me as ‘all lost’? (41) This must surely count among the most subversive and devastating ripostes to Prospero provided by any re-imagined Caliban. The poem offers a dazzling twenty-four-line riff on Caliban’s lines in the second scene: ‘You taught me language, and my profit on’t/Is, I know how to

Crisis, war, revolution  97 curse. The red-plague rid you/For learning me your language!’ (I.ii.363–5). This is followed by an elaboration of a metaphor—‘the greatest grandest opera rendered by a very provincial touring company indeed’ (51)—which was, according to Auden, ‘taken from the writings of Leon Trotsky’ (Kirsch 104 n51). This flows into a description of the Masque scene that becomes an account of war: ‘the knock-kneed armies shuffling limply through their bloody battles, the unearthly harvesters hysterically entangled in their honest fugato’ (52). The recognition that ‘there is no way out’ and that ‘the massacres, the whippings, the lies, the twaddle … are still present, more obviously than ever’ is the precondition for Auden’s religious answer: [T]hat Wholly Other Life from which we are separated by an essential emphatic gulf of which our contrived fissures of mirror and proscenium arch … are feebly figurative signs … it is just here, among the ruins and the bones, that we may rejoice in the perfected Work which is not ours. (52) The message of transcendence through Christian faith is crystallized in the final sentence: ‘the working charm is the full bloom of the unbothered state; the sounded note is the restored relation’ (53). These notes of reconciliation and transcendence are continued in Ariel’s Postscript, a spare, constrained yet ethereal lyric on love and mutuality. The three ten-line stanzas, following a regular meter and rhyme scheme, form one long sentence; enjambment dissolves the boundaries between stanzas, and the stanza end lines—‘I can sing as you reply,’ ‘I will sing if you will cry,’ and ‘One evaporating sigh’—are followed by a disembodied ‘…I’ described by Auden as the ‘Echo by the Prompter’ (55–6). The paradoxical oppositions that have appeared in all the previous poems reappear—‘Fleet/lameness,’ ‘Fascinated/Drab,’ ‘company/lonely,’ ‘Heaven/earth,’ ‘kindness/brutal’—but the poem undoes the fundamental opposition between Caliban (nature) and Ariel (art) by showing their mutuality and interdependence. Ariel is the ‘Fleet persistent shadow cast/By your lameness’ and is ‘Helplessly in love with you,/ Elegance, art, fascination….’ Ariel is Caliban’s ‘sworn comrade’ who recognizes that ‘only/As I am can I/Love you as you are’ (55–6). The poem thus attempts to transcend Manichean dualism through dissolving divisions and fusing opposites into each other. Ariel begins as ‘me’ talking to Caliban ‘you,’ but progressively the two move together until they are indistinguishable. In the last stanza the two become one, in the final conundrum: Both of us know why, Can, alas, foretell, When our falsehoods are divided, What we shall become, One evaporating sigh …I

98  Crisis, war, revolution Thus, dualism is overcome in a demonstration of unity through division, and transformation of the corporeal into the intangible, the earth into the air. The Sea and the Mirror ultimately strives to achieve the harmony and reconciliation that many have sought in the ending of The Tempest, even though this is at odds with most of the closet drama and Auden’s own reading of Shakespeare’s play. Auden’s Christian resolution is no more convincing than The Tempest’s: all the conflicts, contradictions, and tensions remain stubbornly present. Even at its most harmonious moment, The Sea and the Mirror is aware of the ‘grim’ and the ‘sour’ in its undercurrent of corporeal violence, conflict, and death: ‘drab mortality,’ ‘earth’s frankly brutal drum,’ ‘evaporating sigh’ (55–6). Auden was deploying The Tempest in service of his shift away from explicit anti-capitalist critique toward conventional bourgeois individualism. In one of his lectures on Auden at Princeton University in 1951 and 1952, the great critic Randall Jarrell referred to his movement ‘from a vague and aberrant communism to a normal enough, and temporary enough, liberalism’ (41). Jarrell’s assessment of Auden’s Age of Anxiety is equally true of The Sea and the Mirror: ‘archaeologists, hundreds of years later will be able to read it and say, “yes, this is what they were anxious about then” … the world of the poem is a world in which everything has gone complicatedly wrong’ (62). Writing in 1997 Arthur Kirsch noted the extraordinary influence of Auden’s work on subsequent responses to The Tempest: [I]n revolt against the apparent sentimentality of traditional readings, the disposition of most critics of the last two decades has been to follow W.H. Auden’s lead in The Sea and the Mirror … and stress ironic and subversive ambiguities in the play as well as its apparently patriarchal and colonialist assumptions. (‘Virtue’ 338) The Sea and the Mirror established a distinctly late twentieth-century understanding of The Tempest.

The Cold War, decolonization and civil rights The end of the war ushered in a decade of sharp contradictions amid the reconfiguration of the world order. Globally, capitalism saw an unprecedented sustained economic boom, leading to myriad changes in labor and social arrangements. In North America and Western Europe, this meant a tendency to rising wages and improved living standards for workers, and the development of both mass consumer culture and the welfare state. Low unemployment led to new flows of labor from formerly colonized areas to metropolitan centers, as the major capitalist powers sought to replenish workforces. The role of women in the labor force also expanded, paving the way for the women’s liberation movement by giving women more financial independence and raising expectations.

Crisis, war, revolution  99 The old European colonial empires were crumbling. The announcement of Indian independence in 1947 marked the start of a long and steady progression of decolonization, and mass movements for national liberation across the postcolonial world sparked and were, in turn, nurtured by rising demands for civil rights in the Global North. At the same time Partition, which brutally divided Hindus and Muslims into separate nations (India and Pakistan), led to devastating communalist violence, ethnic cleansing, and war, all of which were indicative of the coming contradictions and constraints of the post-colonial era. The old colonial system was replaced by the twin empires of the United States and USSR, with their respective spheres of influence, locked in a monumental confrontation that came to be known as the ‘Cold War.’ Presented as polar opposites, the two sides of the iron curtain were also mirror images in their exorbitant military spending, emphasis on ideological conformity, and persecution of dissent: The Soviets cracked down on those accused of being ‘pro-Western’ while McCarthyism launched witch hunts against suspected communist sympathizers. This was also the nuclear age. The United States had dropped the Atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki with catastrophic consequences. Now the military standoff between the two empires’ respective alliances—NATO and the Warsaw Pact—raised the specter of nuclear annihilation, captured by the chilling doctrine of ‘mutually assured destruction,’ or MAD. The Cold War period led to intensely bifurcated responses to The Tempest. This was the milieu that germinated an ascendant integrative reading of the play as both, paradoxically, a meditation on the universal human condition and an affirmation of the status quo. It was the age that generated Reuben Brower’s ‘metaphysical poem of metamorphosis’ discussed in the Preface (202). New Criticism’s deep conservatism and insistent refusal to acknowledge social and historical contexts were entirely compatible with McCarthyism, while the anxieties of the nuclear age can be seen even behind this benign and abstract response: ‘like the actors and scenery of the vision, earth’s glories and man shall vanish into nothingness’ (Brower 196). Within popular culture and especially the emergent science fiction genre, the specter of the atom bomb produced a fiercely disintegrative response to the play. Meanwhile, decolonization and emergent civil rights movements globally foreshadowed the liberatory Tempests of the 1960s. These contradictory forces coalesced around Margaret Webster’s 1945 Broadway production of The Tempest featuring Canada Lee, which became a lightning rod for contemporary debates about race and class that anticipated the political battles of the coming decade. Webster later reported that Lee, the first African American to play the role in a high-profile production, had been cautioned against taking the part as it, ‘“would be derogatory to his race to play the enslaved and brutish Caliban”’ (qtd. in Dymkowski 55n116). Some of the critical responses to the production, such

100  Crisis, war, revolution as that of Shakespeare scholar Oscar James Campbell, give credence to those concerns: Shakespeare visualizes him as a monster who had long lived in popular superstition, a creature half fish and half man. Miss Webster is then close to Shakespeare’s conception when she arrays her Caliban in a covering of scales. But the poetry gives individuality to his debased fish-man by endowing him with the qualities of a surly half-witted boy, of a savage and, shall we say, of an ill-trained dog. Over this strange amalgam play Shakespeare’s imagination, humor, and poetry to endow with life one of the most original and robust of his creations. This was the part played in Miss Webster’s production by Canada Lee. (Campbell 279) Though Campbell acknowledges Lee’s creative contribution, the latent racism of the language here is exacerbated by his claim that Shakespeare’s Caliban was ‘an old world dramatic type given a new vitality’ because he evoked ‘American savages seen on exhibition in London’ (Campbell 279– 80). In a by-now familiar trope, he uses Caliban to belittle political resistance: ‘this brutish man becomes an inept revolutionary’ who mistakenly takes drunken servants for gods and trusts them to ouster Prospero: ‘Assured of this, he marches off in tipsy revolutionary ardor. Now that he has a new master, he will become a new man—never realizing that for him, as for all the mass of men, a change of masters can never be anything but a change of despots’ (Campbell 279–80). This speaks to two mainstays of contemporary right-wing ideology: that Communism inevitably led to Stalinism, and that decolonization would not lead to liberation. Campbell’s conservatism rests on a fantasy version of Renaissance theater. He attributes some of The Tempest’s distinctive characteristics—its links with the Italian pastoral tradition, music, happy ending, spectacle— to its intended staging at the newly acquired Blackfriars, which, he asserts, would have housed ‘cultivated,’ ‘modish,’ ‘comfortable,’ and ‘rather inattentive aristocratic audiences’ (Campbell 274, 280). It follows, then, ‘that Shakespeare expected his intelligent auditors to catch some suggestions of social significance in Caliban’s conduct’ and recognize in him a would-be revolutionary who is, inevitably, defeated (Campbell 279). Discounting the possibility of performances at the far more socially diverse Globe and mistakenly assuming Blackfriars to be uniformly aristocratic, Campbell projects a political conservatism that is common sense among his 1940s petty bourgeoise Manhattan cohort, but utterly anachronistic by any rational measure. While the audience in the Alvin in 1945 could not approach the social diversity of the Renaissance Globe or of the popular theaters of the transatlantic nineteenth century, there is reason to suppose that it was nonetheless far from homogeneous, and Campbell’s response by no means universal. His reaction to Lee’s performance was clearly shared by many critics—Alden

Crisis, war, revolution  101 and Virginia Vaughan note that reviews ‘gave no hint of Caliban as colonial victim’ (Shakespeare’s Caliban 190)—but some dissenters were making connections diametrically opposed to the establishment view. Canada Lee himself ‘brought to the role a Left-wing political consciousness’ (Wald Exiles 175). Lee was a civil rights activist in the 1930s and 1940s, and he pioneered anti-racist organizing within the acting profession, famously refusing to take roles that perpetuated racist stereotypes, and sometimes altering the portrayal of a character to challenge its racism. He was a friend to both Paul Robeson and Langston Hughes, and achieved fame playing Banquo in Orson Welles’ ‘Voodoo Macbeth,’ and Bigger Thomas in Orson Welles’ staging of Richard Wright’s Native Son. His civil rights activism was not restricted to the choice and interpretation of roles, however, as a New York Times article from 1949 indicates: Canada Lee, Negro actor, charged yesterday that the ‘lynch mentality’ of American radio made ‘cannibals, dehumanized monsters, clowns, menials, thieves and liars’ out of the Negro people whom it had ‘jailed in a concentration camp of silence where we are surrounded by indifference and our real words reach nowhere.’ (qtd. in Canada Lee) The life of this extraordinary actor and warrior for social justice was cut short by McCarthyism. Among the first to be rounded up by authorities in the midst of anti-Communist hysteria, Lee died while facing a HUAC hearing: ‘“Lee’s achievements were all but swept away during the red scare … For speaking his mind about race relations in this country [and for preserving his dignity and integrity], Lee was blacklisted and eventually hounded into an early grave”’ (Robert Edwards qtd. in Canada Lee). 21 We know that Lee’s performance registered with at least one person in the audience: Communist poet and critic V.J. Jerome. 22 When Canada Lee died in 1952, Jerome was inspired to write the poem ‘Caliban Speaks’ in his honor. Jerome importantly attributed the work to ‘certain impressions inspired by Lee’s interpretation of Caliban’ and described it as ‘an attempt to recapture and set forth those impressions’ (Jerome 21). The poem begins with a revised account of the exchange between Caliban and Prospero in the second scene: Caliban ‘Comes out of his rock-bound ghetto’ in response to the call from Prospero, ‘the white conqueror’ (21). The poem quotes the lines that draw attention to enslavement and exploitation, and includes Caliban’s ‘this island’s mine’ speech in its entirety. Caliban becomes a universal representative of resistance against oppression— ‘the fierce-proud warrior—/towering fore-shadow/of Red Cloud,/Toussaint,/ Juarez/Nat Turner’—while the confines of the play suppress and distort the historical record (22). Prospero’s violence against Caliban is encapsulated in a powerful metaphor: ‘the tongue of the white lord has struck/and gashed his speech!’ (22). The poem then develops an appeal, addressed to Shakespeare in the voice of Caliban or possibly Canada Lee, for redress.

102  Crisis, war, revolution Supporting evidence for this appeal is taken from elsewhere in the play, including Gonzalo’s Commonwealth speech with its advocacy for equality and freedom, and from characters in other plays: Shylock—‘if you prick us, do we not bleed?’ (22)—and Othello—‘whose great heart you opened/with fiery and noble passion/that lit up for all mankind/the image of its aspiring self’ (24)—and Lear’s appeal from the heath, surely one of the most moving statements on dispossession in the canon: But, Shakespeare, you who muffle Caliban Gave to blind Lear new eyes to see, and words To speak to all the dispossessed: ‘Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en Too little care of this!’ (24) The poem captures the densely contradictory ambience of The Tempest, while seeing in it an expression of dispossession, and a precursor to a history of enslavement and resistance. Certain moments stand out for their originality and prescience. In an atypical shift, both the accusation of rape and Caliban’s apparent confirmation of it are shown to be false: after quoting Prospero’s ‘thou most lying slave’ speech, which includes the charge of attempted violation, the speaker challenges Shakespeare to ‘Lay not on my lips the lie to prop his lie.’ In place of Caliban’s ambiguous ‘would’t had been done’ is this reversal: Violate… Rather did you, Shakespeare, violate the honor of your child, Caliban. Undo your assent to Prospero, lest it be a comfort to the pirate civilizers who come with conquering tread on freemen’s coasts— who come with trinkets, rum, and bibles—and guns: for the Glory of God and the power of Spain and the vaults of the Virginia Company. Theirs are the roads to the silver mines of Potosí Covered with Indian dead (23–4) In Jerome’s hands the play, which maligns the enslaved and the indigenous, becomes ideological fodder for the atrocities of mercantile plunder, genocide, and the triangular trade. The poem then hurtles forward in time

Crisis, war, revolution  103 through anti-slavery rebellions in the nineteenth century and on to the atrocities of American imperialism in the poet’s present: Theirs the long, cruel noose flung across the centuries for the necks Of Willie McGee and the Seven of Martinsville— the noose that strangled Gabriel, Vesey, Turner, whose gallows against the sky are pointing fingers to freedom. Theirs the scourge on Korean earth lit up with bomb-blossoms in the night— Korean children napalm burnt, torn— planes winging low on moonless paths along the River Yalu, over China’s new earth, planes bringing gifts from far-off War Lords, gifts bacterial from the Atlantic War Lords. (24)23 The work ends with a vision of the upheavals about to shake the world and challenge extant power structures, with Caliban the figure of the future: ‘The fires of my cause lighten the earth./Continents are rising/with the wrath of centuries’ (25). The final image, ‘In my chains the world goes chained: In my freedom will man be free’ (25), reiterating the concept of shared interests among the oppressed, evokes two famous invocations of this principle: Frederick Douglass in 1866—‘they divided both to conquer each’ (267), and Karl Marx in 1867—‘Labor cannot emancipate itself in the white skin where in the black it is branded…’ (329). This liberatory response to The Tempest thus looks back and ahead even while it is deeply attuned to the present. Alan Wald calls it a ­‘marvelous meditation on the ambiguities of cultural production on multiple levels’ (Exiles 176). While drawing on older radical traditions, it also ‘leaps forward several decades in cultural debate’ through a ‘particular approach to the pivotal location, and intricacies, of subaltern representation’ (177): Not only does Jerome address the ur-text of Shakespeare; he also conveys the context of theatrical depiction in an advanced capitalist society from the perspective of a politically conscious reader responding to the real or imagined signals emanating from an actor with an individualized identity beyond the stage. In the explicit merging of the poet-observer’s vista with the one attributed to the Black actor, Jerome implicitly concedes the possibility of projection, and therefore opens the door to himself being interrogated and challenged in the manner that he cross-examines Shakespeare. (177) The poem apprehends The Tempest’s conditions of initial production and implication in a long history of violent exploitation and dispossession,

104  Crisis, war, revolution while adding multiple layers of signification that become inextricable from the play-text and our responses to it. As we would expect of a liberatory rendition, this poetic interpretation is an entirely new work of art that responds to the original play and its long history of production and reception. Jerome was ahead of the time in elevating Caliban to the role of anti-­ colonial freedom fighter, but he was not alone in making connections between The Tempest’s origins at the birth of capitalism and colonial expansion, and its significance for the United States during the political and military conflicts of the Cold War. Marxist educator and literary critic Annette Rubinstein noted in 1953 the proliferation of scholarship showing ‘how closely linked Prospero’s island—and its “native”—were with the colonial explorations and conquests of the early seventeenth century’ (Rubinstein 77). She adds that ‘exciting and troubling news of these early imperialist adventures, and of the rebirth of slavery with which they were accompanied, are reflected in many other contemporary English writers such as Bacon, in addition to Shakespeare (77). Rubinstein characterizes Renaissance drama as an expression of the tremendous energy and innovation accompanying a transformative moment: ‘It was the great time of the revolutionary bourgeoisie and to it we owe the greatest realistic literature of hope and affirmation which the bourgeois world has ever known’ (80). At the same time, she identifies the uneasy intimations of violence and dispossession within The Tempest, which does not meet ‘Caliban’s strong case for justice’ and offers little sense of hope or promise: ‘The same pessimism, amply warranted by those facts of the time apparent to Shakespeare, permeates every other theme developed in the play’ (79). These historical realities account for otherwise inexplicable dynamics: Prospero’s ‘cynically unmoved acceptance’ of his evil brother, and ‘the cold contempt of this forgiveness [which] is emphasized by Miranda’s naïve exclamation on seeing this band of traitors … and Prospero’s condescending “tis new to thee”’ (79). The alarming climate of the 1950s stimulated disintegrative connections between the early modern and contemporary eras. This timbre is amplified in the poetry of Raphael E.G. Armattoe ­(1913–53), one of the first African writers to take up the play.24 Armattoe wrote most of his poems after his return to the Gold Coast following a long period studying in Europe and then working in Ireland. Deep Down the Blackman’s Mind was published posthumously in 1954 in England. Given Armattoe’s European education and recognition by the establishment, his poetry has been understood within, as Charlotte Bruner explains, ‘the pattern described by Mannoni of the western-educated African who feels Caliban’s outrage and betrayal by his erstwhile protector and friend’ in keeping with later writers who ‘seize particularly on the problem of self-expression in an alien and imposed language’ (246). This thread is woven with other eclectic strands into an uneven, alternately discordant and compelling collection: expressions of racial pride that anticipate the black power movement

Crisis, war, revolution  105 sit uneasily with negative stereotypes; traditional and experimental poetic forms appear in unexpected combinations; the vocabulary of the English pastoral tradition is juxtaposed with African images and landscapes. The mood is established in the opening prose poem, ‘Letter to an African Poet in 5,000 A.D,’ which asks questions of the future: ‘have men been yet to the moon or have the cave men returned at last through some vast negation of the mind, some chaotic nuclear erupting sun, sinking England’s pride with our shame? Are there sovereigns left in the world and do your statesmen also deal in lies?’ (Armattoe 6). The collection incorporates Tempest allusions and linguistic echoes that also serve as commentaries on the current times: ‘And sots have taken charge/And the state totters/And rulers have lost their wits’ (52); ‘Nothing is what once it was:/All is flux and chance and change’ (59); ‘Death begetting life,/Calm before the storm,/ Poverty amidst plenty’ (63). The poem ‘Beauty Ended’ is an unsettling and unforgiving account of contemporary African dynamics, beginning ‘Come, let us declare war on all men cherish’ and enjoining ‘Ye who the long weary years have sat out/Waiting for the dawn that never broke for you,/Sing out aloud Beauty’s death and burial!’ (59). The ‘new freedom’ named in the poem is painfully ironic: She is Africa with her terror and her norms. All that in Hades or in Inferno lives Which Caliban has made his own beneath the seas Plainness beyond despair, folly to the nth, All these are found in our Hesperides. (59) Caliban’s position is ambiguous—all ‘he has made his own’ suggests that he has adopted rather than created all these ills, presumably from ­Prospero— but he is in no way a figure of hope or resistance. The collection as a whole offers an acute and frequently bleak portrait of the contemporary world, which is war-torn, riven with inequality, and teetering on the brink of devastation. While anticipating some of the themes taken up by anti-colonial writers in the next decade, this work is disintegrative but without a liberatory edge.

The atomic age Incongruous though it may seem to draw parallels between a fairly obscure collection of poetry and a Hollywood cult classic, Armattoe’s work shares Cold War anxieties with Fred M. Wilcox’s 1956 movie The Forbidden Planet. A pioneer film on many fronts—it boasts, for example, the first entirely electronic soundtrack—this was not the first Tempest to be set in outer space: a Yale Dramatic Association ‘science fiction production, set on a planet, costumed in space suits’ is on record from 1954, suggesting that other such adaptations were afoot (Current Theater Notes 85). But it

106  Crisis, war, revolution is the most famous early example of a science fiction film using the play as a template for an entirely different story, often selectively borrowing plot elements and names or themes. Using cutting edge cinematic technology while highlighting early modern contexts—exploration of new worlds, colonialism, scientific discoveries—Forbidden Planet also draws correspondences between the contradictions and conflicts of the Renaissance and the Cold War present. As film historian Andrew Huebner says of the futuristic Hollywood movies of the 1950s, they ‘signaled turbulence in a decade normally imagined as prelude to the really turbulent one that followed it’ and were imbued with the ‘sense of destabilisation, anxiety, and confusion’ that marked the moment (Huebner 8). The film imagines a twenty-third-century universe where a ‘United Planets’ cruiser led by one Commander John Adams has been sent to the planet Altair IV to discover the fate of an earlier expedition. The crew find the scientist Dr. Edward Morbius and his daughter Altaira the sole survivors from the colony, living in isolated but cultured modern luxury in a militarized compound where they are provided for by their mechanical servant, Robbie the robot. Outside their paradise, however, lies a stark landscape where a mysterious destructive force proceeds to decimate members of the crew. So far, the relation to The Tempest seems pretty clear: Morbius is Prospero; Altaira, Miranda; Robbie, Ariel; John Adams, Ferdinand; and the unseen terrible monster, Caliban. As an allegory, too, the film has an obvious conventional frame: the good, white, blond, and blue-eyed American military commander must fight the dangerous ‘other’ on foreign soil in order to save the white damsel in distress. In the end, Adams does indeed ‘get the girl,’ destroy the evil planet, and fly off into space to fight another day. But the central plot twist complicates this narrative. As the story continues, Adams learns that Morbius has inherited the powerful instruments of an ancient civilization, the Krell, who once inhabited the planet but are now extinct: they are victims of their own technology, which has the terrifying capacity to harness consciousness and make thoughts manifest. Morbius uses this deadly equipment—the film was originally titled ‘lethal planet’— and, being even less qualified than the wiser though deluded ancients, has inadvertently created the very monster that is wreaking havoc. Jealous of the burgeoning romantic relationship between his beloved daughter Altaira and Adams, the enraged id of Morbius turns on his own compound and threatens to destroy those he loves. Only his self-sacrifice and the demolition of the planet prevent mutually assured destruction. The allegory is hardly subtle: Prospero and Caliban=Morbius and his monstrous id= the United States military and the nuclear bomb. Adams warns against the inherent violence of ‘human nature’ and the unruly passions of ‘man’ against which ‘religion and law’ are the only defense, but his heavy-handed moralism feels grafted onto the more salient message: imperial violence begets more violence—the more weapons they turn on the monster the more powerful it gets—and military technology threatens to annihilate human

Crisis, war, revolution  107 civilization. While it is hard to see the film as anything other than integrative, with its ‘happy ever after’ ending and the good soldier flying off to save another world, these disintegrative elements are also formative. Similar intimations of nuclear annihilation were apparent on the stage across the Atlantic, in Peter Brook’s avant-garde 1957 Stratford production: performance historians Christine Dymkowski and David Lindley both note that this one ‘broke the mold’ of established convention (Dymkowski 19; Lindley Shakespeare at Stratford 20). Here again, The Tempest is linked to technological innovation: the performance is famous for its innovative staging which used the latest in sound, lighting, and special effects, including electronic music. John Gielgud inaugurated a tradition of angry, despotic, and conflicted stage Prosperos whose magic is dangerous rather than benign. And the storm itself quite literally moved center stage, which transformed into the ship’s deck and site of a realistically ominous hurricane. London Stage recognized Brook’s achievements: ‘“The best staging of the play for many years … Mr. Brook has succeeded well in bringing out the horror and pain as much as the pathos and beauty”’ (qtd. in Griffin, 55).

Postwar contradictions: innovation and tradition The disintegrative Tempest of the 1950s appeared in major transatlantic literary works which, in turn, became crucial components of future associations and appropriations. Foremost among these is the poetry of Sylvia Plath, which has become an integral part of the rich cultural repertoire surrounding the play. Although now thoroughly canonical, during her lifetime Plath’s work was avant-garde: it was often considered too ‘difficult’ to be worthy of publication and initially rejected by many journals. From her childhood, Plath was famously intrigued by The Tempest, which was the first Shakespeare she saw on stage: her most celebrated collection is named Ariel, for the poem she considered her finest; Ariel’s song provides the title to ‘Full Fathoms Five’ (which was also the original title for The Colossus); and through the connection to Plath’s father, The Tempest is also linked to her most famous poem, ‘Daddy,’ considered by some to be ‘the poem of the twentieth century.’25 Plath’s oeuvre is permeated by the play, in a web of associated images around pearls, dew, bone, Lazarus, rebirth, and seascape, and invocations of dissolution and transformation that loop back to the original via Eliot’s Wasteland. ‘Full Fathom Five’ incorporates Ariel’s poignant song about Ferdinand’s mourning for Alonso into an evocative and disturbing apostrophe to a dead father who is ever present and yet unreachable. The unavoidable autobiographical reading leads us to Plath’s own unfinished grieving for her father, who died when she was a child. But the iconography of the poem also reaches out both to the mythopoeic and to the tangible contemporary moment. The poem visually evokes the battlefields, echoing Eliot’s imagery: ‘I/ Cannot look much but your form suffers/Some strange injury’ (92); ‘…you

108  Crisis, war, revolution may wind//One labyrinthine tangle/To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,/Skulls’ (93). Straining against the stifling atmosphere of Cold War conservatism and the patriarchal family, it ends with this appeal: ‘Father, this thick air is murderous./I would breathe water’ (93). While the allusion strictly speaking links Plath’s father with Alonso, there is an implicit association with Prospero, who becomes the archetypal patriarch to Miranda’s eternal daughter. The Tempest haunts ‘Ariel.’ While the title comes from the name of the horse described in the poem (it was renamed ‘The Horse’ by publishers who doubted their readers’ ability to grasp the meaning otherwise), both are also named for Shakespeare’s airy spirit. ‘Ariel’ describes the exhilarating and terrifying experience of being on a runaway horse, evoking vertiginous flight, chaos, and impending disaster. This continues the figurative centrality of Ariel, as a creative spirit, and Sycorax, a maternal, destructive force, in the poetry of both Plath and her estranged husband, Ted Hughes, which registers on both contemporary and mythopoeic levels. Hughes described poetry as ‘“the record of just how the forces of the Universe try to redress some balance disturbed by human error … the difficult task of any poet in English (is) to locate the force which Shakespeare called Venus in his first poems and Sycorax in his last”’ (qtd. in Libby 398). One critic writes ‘even in a poem which rather beautifully suggests the white magic of Ariel, Hughes’s Sycorax, mother of Caliban, looms behind the ascent to triumphant destruction’ (Libby 404). As such commentary indicates, these uses of Ariel and Sycorax reinstate the racist and misogynist dualisms that in later decades were interrogated by Black feminist reclamation of Sycorax (see Chapter 6). At its center, the poem also contains a glaring racist image used to describe the horse, ‘Nigger-eye,’ which is frequently overlooked in commentary. In ‘Daddy,’ the latent associations with war and fascism come to the surface, as the father/addressee becomes a swastika-wearing fascist, and the daughter/speaker a Jew facing the Nazi death camps of the holocaust. If we read the poem as an intensely personal address to her actual father in the confessional mode, the figurative association, as many have pointed out, is wildly inappropriate. But as an embodiment of the Zeitgeist it is also the ‘Guernica of poetry,’ as George Steiner famously professed. Plath herself famously invoked the broader historical context in an interview accompanying her 1962 reading of the poem on BBC radio: she said that the personal is the starting point, but poetry should connect to the outside world, and must ‘be relevant’ to the realities of ‘Hiroshima and Dachau.’ Yet anti-­Semitic and racist imagery and sentiments pervade Plath’s poetry and prose. 26 In this way, too, the work speaks to the profoundly unequal structures that continued to be the bedrock of American society in the 1950s and were soon to provoke sustained mass struggles for racial justice. In some of the most iconic transatlantic poetry of the century, Plath contributed these at times disturbing and reactionary associations to the

Crisis, war, revolution  109 Tempest’s allusive tapestry, passing down for posterity a deeply disintegrative understanding of the play. Parallel disintegrative associations are central to a work by one of Britain’s most important late twentieth-century novelists: John Fowles’ The Magus. Fowles shared Plath’s affinity for The Tempest, about which he remarked, ‘it’s perhaps not the greatest Shakespeare play, but it’s always been the one I felt most emotion for’ (Raman K Singh 197). The Magus does not offer an interpretation and cannot be considered either a rewrite or a creative appropriation—there are in fact very few direct references or allusions—but the novel does indicate some of the distinctive meanings attached to the play in the 1950s.27 Fowles’ works are richly hybrid: they depict a decadent society while seeking change, draw on the literary canon while experimenting with form, and ‘seamlessly join innovation and tradition’ (Buchberger 150). Heraclitus and Kierkegaard are touchstones, as for Auden, but Fowles remains meticulously secular. The Magus turns on the archetypal quest in the ironic rather than the heroic mode. The unreliable narrator, young middle-class Briton Nicholas Urfe, encounters an enigmatic man called Conchis while teaching on the Greek island of Phraxos. As a Prospero figure, Conchis is at best ambiguous and contradictory, and at worst sadistic and demonic.28 He is clearly constructed as a generational archetype: in the course of the narrative, we learn that he went to the battlefields as a young man in 1914 and was traumatized and permanently scarred by the experience. While these events provide explanatory backstory for Conchis, World War Two is closer to the novel’s present of 1953. As critics have observed, of the seventy-eight chapters only the one in Nazi-occupied Greece has a title, ‘Eleuthera’ (Lorenz 79; Buchberger 137). That title is itself rich in associations: the meaning, ‘freedom,’ is deeply ironic, given the context of occupation, terror, and torture; it also evokes the eponymous Caribbean island, with its record of indigenous dispossession, colonial conquest, and, in the 1950s, deep American capital investment. The chapter contains a graphic account of torture, and a powerful condemnation of fascism, which are generalized to signify the dehumanization that accompanies all acts of imperialist war and conquest. The contemporary plot is bizarre and obtuse: Nicholas gets caught in a confusing web of illusion, orchestrated by Conchis for unclear reasons and involving elaborate plots and an unlikely cast of paid assistants, that leads at various points to physical confinement, abuse, and humiliation. This is the narrative that most directly evokes The Tempest: Conchis is the magician controlling the lives of others on the island, making Nicholas fall in love with a beautiful young woman, punishing and rewarding at will. When Conchis refers to himself as Prospero, Nicholas remarks, ‘“Prospero had a daughter”’ and Conchis replies, ‘“Prospero had many things … and not all young and beautiful”’ (68). When Conchis eventually reveals his illusion, he notes: ‘“The masque is only a metaphor”’ (399).

110  Crisis, war, revolution The novel defies singular conclusions in favor of ambiguity and contradiction, with an emphasis on transformation and flux, while projecting a clearly dystopic view of contemporary capitalism. Urfe describes his hometown on his return to England in terms reminiscent of Eliot: ‘London, a city of the drab dead … I had forgotten the innumerability of the place, its ugliness, its termite density … I wondered why anyone should, or could, ever return of his own free will to such a landscape, such a society, such a climate’ (Fowles 501). In comic mode, Philip Larkin’s poem about alienation and the rat race, ‘Toads’ (1955), draws on The Tempest with the same note of cynical disenchantment, though with a gratuitous jab at the welfare state: ‘Ah, were I courageous enough/To shout Stuff your pension!/ But I know, all too well, that’s the stuff/That dreams are made on.’ The mass movements of the 1960s can be sensed waiting in the wings of these postwar works, and they soon move center stage in an extraordinary upsurge of global Tempests in the 1960s and 1970s which ushered in a newly ascendant liberatory paradigm.

Notes 1 The minority current coalesced in the internationalist revolutionary ‘Zimmerwald Left’ named after the first assembly of anti-war socialists at Zimmerwald in Switzerland in September 1915. The organizing principle of this movement was that imperialist war could be ended through international working-class revolution. See Nation’s War on War for a full history of these developments. For recent Marxist commentary on the war and its impact on our own era, see Anievas, ed. Cataclysm 1914. 2 For an insightful history of the highs and lows of the Communist International, see The Comintern, by British Marxist Duncan Hallas (1925–2002). 3 My argument here has much in common with that of Richard Halpern in his ‘Shakespeare in the Tropics’: he argues that modernism recognized the Renaissance as a time of transition ‘not gradual and evolutionary but catastrophically rapid’ and ‘constructed the English Renaissance as an allegory for the colonial encounter itself; the period’s catastrophic experience of modernity, the disintegration of its organic and ritualized culture, offered an historically displaced and geographically internalized image of the effects of contemporary imperialist penetration into indigenous Third World societies’ (Halpern 8). 4 The cultural impacts of social revolution were visible in American periodicals like Comrade and anthologies such as Upton Sinclair’s 1915 The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of the Literature of Social Protest. (The anthology was updated and reissued in 1963, in another era of mass struggle for social change domestically and globally.) In Britain, the left-wing press showcased literature of protest, while literary publications such as Contemporary Poetry and Prose took up radical causes. In both contexts, anti-colonial and anti-racist writers globally were foregrounded, and understood to be part of the same worldwide struggle against capitalist war and inequality. 5 The collection is available online at www.gutenberg.org/files/34001/34001h/34001-h.htm. ‘Caliban in the Coal Mines’ was anthologized in Sinclair’s 1915 Cry for Justice and also in the 1927 Poems for Workers collection edited by Manuel Gomez (a pseudonym for Charles Francis Phillips). See Wald Exiles 19–23.

Crisis, war, revolution  111 6 The Marxism evident in Untermeyer’s work from this period was used against him during the McCarthy anti-communist trials, when he was blacklisted for his anti-war articles in The Masses. As a result of the hounding, he dropped out of a position on the TV show ‘What’s My Line’ and left public life for many years. 7 Alden and Virginia Vaughan note this tendency in their discussion of ­‘Modern poetic invocations’: ‘in the earliest poems in this genre, Caliban represents the down-trodden laborer, doomed to meaningless, arduous, repetitive tasks’ (Shakespeare’s Caliban 254). They position Markham as the earliest exemplar with his 1926 poem; they date Untermeyer’s ‘Caliban in the Coal Mines’ at 1935, when it appeared in his Selected Poems. But the poem was actually ­written and anthologized earlier. 8 Edwin Markham was a teacher and poet whose work appeared in socialist journals such as the Comrade. 9 Elsewhere Luxemburg refers to the toil of trade unions as ‘a sort of labor of Sisyphus’ constantly pushing for improvements in the conditions of workers, only to see them rolled back by the capitalist system (‘Mass Strike’ 83). Picking up on the pervasive use of the tempest as metaphor for social crisis, Luxemburg wrote an essay in 1904 originally published in French as ‘Dans la Tempête’ and translated into English as ‘Amid the Storm’ (Hudis et al. 23). 10 A 1928 film called Tempest directed by Sam Taylor has been misleadingly described as a silent version of The Tempest offering a ‘Romantic drama of the Russian Revolution’ (Ball, Shakespeare on Silent Film 370). In fact, this counterrevolutionary film, a romantic vehicle for John Barrymore, has nothing to do with the play, other than its title. But the opening is accompanied by a description of ‘Imperial Russia’ during ‘the last long calm before the red tempest of terror,’ which certainly captures the sense of revolution as storm, in this case from a conservative perspective. 11 The rise of Stalin represented a counterrevolution, rather than the continuation of the achievements of 1917. This is perhaps most clearly indicated by the fate of the Zimmerwald left: ‘Almost all of Lenin’s closest associates during the war were annihilated physically, and often morally as well, during the terror of the 1930s’ (Nation 230). As historian R. Craig Nation argues, the political legacy of those defeated nonetheless survived: ‘Their efforts are no less significant for that reason. The cloud-storming enthusiasm born with the international communist movement, the confidence in people’s ability to make their own history, has left its traces despite failures and betrayals’ (230). 12 Aldous Huxley (1894 to 1963) escaped the fate of so many of his British contemporaries due to his poor eyesight, which kept him out of the war; he endured to become a lifelong pacifist and social critic. 13 In his essay ‘Shakespeare’s Revolution—The Tempest as Scientific Romance,’ Scott Maisano writes: ‘The ultimate irony of Huxley’s novel, then, is that Shakespeare has been excluded from the very future he originally invented and engineered’ (166). 14 The poem was published posthumously in the Collected Poems of 1965, but is thought to be from the 1930s. See also Vaughan and Vaughan Caliban (256–7). 15 Muir was born in the Orkney Islands, off the coast of Scotland, where he spent his early childhood, but his family lost their farm in 1901 and moved to ­Glasgow, a relocation that Muir experienced as a traumatic fall from Eden, especially his tenure working in a grim factory. 16 Hilda Doolittle was born in 1886 in Pennsylvania. She worked with Marianne Moore at Bryn Mawr and both Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams at the University of Pennsylvania and was known for some time as a leading imagist

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19

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poet. She moved to Europe in 1911 and died there in 1961. On Avon River was written during and immediately after the war and was published in 1949. It was the most popular of her poetry, which did not receive broad acclaim during her lifetime. The description comes from a Rheinische Post review of the German edition of the poem published in 1955. Auden’s life span, from 1907 to 1973, encompassed the profound and unprecedented economic and military convulsions that shook capitalism to its core during the ‘century of war.’ A child during the Russian Revolution, the young Auden shared with the other ‘poets of the thirties’ both passionate opposition to the spread of fascism and great hope for the renewal and global expansion of socialism. His vision of Britain in the interwar period was of a system diseased, decaying, spinning out of control, and unable to deliver on its promise of increased democracy and economic opportunities; he saw that the tremendous productive potential of capitalism was fettered by its inequitable and exploitative social relations. In one of his famous lectures on Auden (delivered during 1951–52), Randall Jarrell characterized this as a shift to ‘sentimental idealism … the attempt, inside any system, to pray away, exhort away, legislate away evils that are not incidental but essential to the system’ (40). Auden also evokes the Marxist reading of Hegel’s master-slave dialectic, as elaborated by Engels in Anti-Dühring: ‘Hegel was the first to state correctly the relation between freedom and necessity. To him, freedom is the appreciation of necessity [die Einsicht in die Notwendigkeit]. “Necessity is blind only in so far as it is not understood” [begriffen]. Freedom does not consist in the dream of independence of natural laws, but in the knowledge of these laws, and in the possibility this gives of systematically making them work towards definite ends’ (Anti-Dühring Part 1: XI Morality and Law. Freedom and Necessity 125). See Mona Z. Smith’s moving biography, Becoming Something, and also the Canada Lee Heritage Foundation website, based on the work of Frances Lee Pearson, his widow. www.canadalee.org/heritage.htm. Jerome was born in 1896 in poverty in Poland, moved to London and then to New York City where he spent most of his life. He helped found the USCP in 1919. He was chair of the Communist Party’s Cultural Commission and editor of The Communist (later Political Affairs). He was arrested in 1951 under the Smith Act, and spent three years in prison. He became an apologist for Stalinism against its critics on the American Left. He died in 1965. Willie McGee was a working-class African American man from Laurel Mississippi who was charged with raping a white woman in November 1945. He was convicted by all white juries and executed by the infamous traveling electric chair on May 8, 1951. The Martinsville Seven were a group of young black working-class men from Martinsville Virginia accused of raping a white woman in 1949. Despite a mass campaign in their defense, they were found guilty by all white juries, and executed in February 1951. Gabriel Prosser, D ­ enmark Vesey, and Nat Turner were the respective leaders of three anti-slavery rebellions in the early 1800s that are often understood as representing the origins of the anti-slavery movement. In a pivotal moment during the Cold War, the United States entered into the Korean War in June 1950. Possessing vastly superior military power and technology, the United States was stalemated by May 1952, though the war continued for another year. Civilian deaths are estimated at over a million in both the South and North of Korea, and millions became refugees (Lens Forging 399–411). The River Yalu, bordering Korea and China, became a key battleground for American and Chinese air wars.

Crisis, war, revolution  113 24 Armattoe’s biography is not only representative of broader social patterns but also exceptional in many ways. Born in the Gold Coast, Armattoe studied in Europe—he was fluent in German, French, and English as well as Ewe—and lived for some years in Ireland where he was a celebrated doctor and researcher during World War Two. He returned to Africa in 1948, where he was active in politics and vocally opposed Nkrumah. The epigraph of his collection Deep Down the Blackman’s Mind accuses Nkrumah’s supporters of trying to kill him, and he did in fact die in uncertain circumstances at the age of 40. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in 1949, and led an Ewe delegation to the United Nations in 1953. 25 The centrality of The Tempest to Plath’s life is recognized in the title of Paul Alexander’s 1991 biography Rough Magic. 26 Renee Curry’s 2000 book White Women Writing White explores the racial implications of Plath’s work. See also Cystal Contreras’ interrogation of the racist stereotypes in The Bell Jar, and the following blog discussion of the anti-­ Semitism and racism of the journals in particular: http://maximilliusscriptor. blogspot.com/2010/03/sylvia-plath-and-racism.html. 27 The Magus was published in 1965 but written in the previous decade. 28 The normative notion of a ‘benign’ Prospero has led many critics to read Conchis in a positive light despite his patently despicable characteristics. A 1980 article, for example, sees him as an ‘older, wise advisor who cajoles, prompts and pushes the foolish, blind and selfish young person into an adulthood that is “worthy” of responsibility—and of love’ (Poirier 269–70).

4 Independence

The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me. Caliban III.ii

The age of extremes part II: 1960–79 As the era tilted once more toward revolutionary change, the storm again acquired potent symbolic significance. In 1960, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan gave what came to be known as the ‘winds of change’ speech in Cape Town, South Africa, at the height of apartheid.1 The most oft-quoted line, destined to become emblematic of the era of national liberation, picked up the ubiquitous natural metaphor: ‘“The wind of change is blowing through this continent, and whether we like it or not, this growth of national consciousness is a fact”’ (qtd. in Ward 198). Wind, storms, tempests, and shipwrecks became omnipresent signifiers of rapid global transformation, but the values assigned to them were sharply dichotomous. The storm struck fear into the establishment: one of Macmillan’s contemporaries later summarized the perspective of the British government that ‘“the only course open to them was to shorten sail and run before the tempest to the nearest and easiest harbor”’ (qtd. in Ward 200). For the oppressed majority, however, the winds blew tangible hope for entirely different societies built on more just foundations. The significance was retrospectively captured by the Marxist author, journalist, and historian Tariq Ali: ‘A storm swept the world in 1968. It started in Vietnam, then blew across Asia, crossing the sea and the mountains to Europe and beyond’ and sparking ‘a wave of global revolts not seen on such a scale before or since’ (Ali). As George Lamming wrote in 1960, ‘thunder is talking a language which everyone understands’ (96). Globally mass movements for national liberation won independence in rapid succession as the European powers lowered their flags, and colonial empires that once seemed omnipotent were toppled. The anti-colonial current progressively merged with protests against the Vietnam/American war and movements for civil rights and women’s liberation, culminating in the

Independence  115 worldwide revolts of 1968. The period witnessed a global class rebellion: the late 1960s and early 1970s saw a new labor militancy and a revival of left-wing consciousness. The spirit of ‘world revolution’ was captured by the great orators of the time. Martin Luther King Jr. in his monumental Riverside Speech of 1967 declared, ‘We must rapidly begin the shift from a “thing-oriented” society to a “person-oriented” society. When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered’ (‘Beyond Vietnam’). Amilcar Cabral in 1970 offered an equally capacious vision: ‘the chief goal of the liberation movement goes beyond the achievement of political independence to the superior level of complete liberation of the productive forces and the construction of economic, social, and cultural progress of the people’ (‘National Liberation and Culture’). Anti-capitalist politics broadened and deepened in the coming decade. The landmark black feminist Combahee River Collective Statement of 1977 declared, ‘we are actively committed to struggling against racial, sexual, heterosexual, and class oppression, and see as our particular task the development of integrated analysis and practice based upon the fact that the major systems of oppression are interlocking’ (Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor, ed. 15). Decolonization was generalized to include not only formal political independence but economic, social, cultural, and personal liberation. While the newly independent postcolonial states raised expectations for liberation and equality, the ambivalence that surrounded them from the beginning only increased as many became satellites to the twin empires of the cold war. All too quickly the tremendous thrilling optimism associated with national liberation transformed into postcolonial disillusionment, as the promise of independence failed to deliver full justice and equality. 2 As Frantz Fanon warned in ‘Pitfalls of National Consciousness’ (in Wretched of the Earth), postindependence national bourgeoisies presided over stark inequalities and continuing dependence on imperialist powers. More broadly, the achievements of the great social movements were many and had profound and lasting impacts, but within a decade faced the ‘backlash’ associated with the one-sided class war of capitalist restructuring.3 Both these realities—profound social change and backlash—are registered in responses to The Tempest in this period. Political transformations reverberated in all areas of culture and the arts, finding their way into theater and criticism alike. A generation of writers involved in and inspired by struggles for national liberation appropriated Shakespeare’s work, famously remaking it into an allegory of empire and reclaiming Caliban and Ariel as anti-colonial freedom fighters against Prospero the colonizer.4 Echoing Fanon, Tempests of this generation also registered continuing domestic and international vectors of inequality. Many of the anti-colonial writers who looked to The Tempest, some of them consciously drawing on Marxist paradigms, developed insights into the play’s

116 Independence imbrication in capitalist structures past and present. In some incarnations, Caliban transformed into freedom fighter and then rapidly into postindependence autocrat colluding with new forms of imperialist penetration. Creative rewrites, dramatic performances, and critical analyses from across the Anglophone world associated the play with decolonization, revolutionary upheaval, transition, and the birth of a capitalist system now seemingly facing terminal decline.5 The centuries-old culture war took a sharp turn, with the integrative Tempest now on the defensive against a proliferation of both ‘shock the bourgeoisie’ disintegrative variations and newly ascendant liberatory renditions vocalizing the anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist radicalism of the age. An unprecedented wave of innovative appropriations permanently transformed the play, this time into a global symbol of the ‘tempest of dissent.’ Like the ‘charmed moment’ of Shakespearean theater, the golden age of anti-colonial Tempests was brief but had a lasting impact.

The rise of Caliban George Lamming’s 1960 Pleasures of Exile is among the first distinctly ­anti-colonial explorations of the play from this generation.6 An autobiographical account of the decade following his 1948 arrival in England, the work was published in the wake of international acclaim for the author’s 1953 ‘postcolonial bildungsroman’ In the Castle of My Skin. Tempest references run throughout Pleasures of Exile, and one chapter elaborates an allegorical interpretation: Prospero represents the imperialist and Caliban the colonized, and Shakespeare’s story distorts their relationship in order to justify the colonial project. The goal is to remove the ideological ‘camouflage’ and uncover the underlying historical relations behind the mythic story. In this newly revealed view, Prospero is monstrous and Caliban heroic: Prospero is ‘an imperialist by circumstance, a sadist by disease; and, above all, an old man in whom envy and revenge are equally matched’ (Lamming 113), whereas ‘Caliban is a victim of mental torture … But the spirit of freedom never deserts him’ (101). Moreover, Caliban is the ‘universal’ and precondition for Prospero, who cannot survive without him (108). Pleasures of Exile returns to the early modern period, locating the play’s genesis at a pivotal moment of colonial expansion and the originary ‘myth of English supremacy’ that justifies modern capitalism (27). The storm itself becomes an allegory for the transatlantic slave trade. Although in the play ultimately no one on board the ship is killed or harmed in the wreck, Ariel’s ‘first-hand account of their suffering’ suggests the traumatic middle passage: ‘the unforgettable transport of slaves from Africa to the Caribbean’ (97). Caliban thus represents those enslaved who were essential to the plantation economy that fueled colonialism. Although in 1611 England was not yet a world power and the triangular trade had not been systematized, Lamming projects the subsequent history back onto the play, while recapitulating the concept of ‘past as prologue’: ‘Prospero has given Caliban

Independence  117 Language; and with it an unstated history of consequences, an unknown history of future intentions’ (109). The Tempest thus marks the birth of the European colonialism facing its demise in 1960. The most stirring dynamic of The Pleasures of Exile is its tremendous confidence in the global transformations then well underway. The tumultuous contradictions of Shakespeare’s age at the dawn of the system reverberate with the revolutionary upheavals of the present in its old age. Lamming insists of the play that ‘its meaning for us as well as its presence with us has never been more urgent in any previous century’ (63). Later, he declares: ‘a continuous process of change will allow no rest for evaluating the progress of change’ (84). The tumultuous and rapid transformations then and now are aptly registered with the metaphor of the storm (as quoted above): ‘thunder is talking a language which everyone understands’ (96). While Prospero has dominated the centuries since 1611, the future will be different: ‘the language of modern politics is no longer Prospero’s exclusive vocabulary. It is Caliban’s as well’ (Lamming 158). For all the reversals and obstacles of the coming decades, this assertion remains prophetic. But the text is also imbued with an uneasy sense of arrested decolonization. Colonial governments are being dismantled and replaced by new national regimes; the myth of English supremacy is exposed as a lie; and new creative forces are rewriting human history from the perspective of the formerly enslaved and colonized. Yet racism in England, in the wake of the murder of Kelso Cochrane, created for Black Britons a climate comparable to the blitz.7 On the other side of the Atlantic, legal segregation and racial violence continued to reign; and in the postcolonial world, new elites were confined to a model developed by their former colonial rulers. The old power structure acceded to adaptation while resisting the fundamental change sought by the oppressed majority: ‘Prospero doesn’t mind re-marking these frontiers provided Caliban … doesn’t ask for a new map altogether’ (Lamming 202). Lamming constantly returns to commerce and exploitation and elaborates on Marx’s account of the twin sources of profit for capitalism: labor and nature. Caliban is conventionally figured as ‘a child of nature’ but is better understood as a social instrument: ‘A slave is a project, a source of energy, organized in order to exploit Nature’ (15). The parable of Singh, Lee, and Bob, representing the Indian, Chinese, and African populations of the Caribbean respectively, describes a kind of primitive communism before the arrival of ‘Kings’ and ‘the secret o’ the gun,’ where ‘food was free’ and ‘lan’ didn’t belong to nobody’ (19–20). Both epitome of alterity and source of profit, Caliban is ‘seen as an occasion, a state of existence which can be appropriated and exploited for the purposes of another’s own development’ (107). These processes of expropriation begun in the Renaissance continue in the present: ‘Caliban’s descendant … has inherited a legacy of dispossession’ (83). The entire history of imperialism pivots on control of land, which Caliban both works on and is reduced to: ‘Like the earth he is always there’ (108).8

118 Independence And the sugar plantation is at the center of everything: ‘It sweetened, hot and black, the irretrievable cup of Prospero’s wealth’ (151). Both land and labor are at all times central. Lamming ends by stressing the shared interests that offer the potential for unity among West Indian writers of different racial heritage: ‘their common background of social history … a background whose basic feature is the peasant sensibility’ (225). Dispossession dominates the end of the text, which recounts the story of the young Lamming’s community mentor ‘Papa’ (the autobiographical source for the poignant character in the novel Castle of My Skin): property developers evict him from land that has been inhabited by his family for generations. Even in the ‘post-colonial’ era, ‘[t]o be colonial is to be in a state of exile’ (229). The Pleasures of Exile ‘distrusts’ The Tempest in its representation of the Prospero/Caliban dynamic understood as an allegory of the transatlantic slave trade, but does not read all aspects of the play against the grain. While Eric Williams’ insistence that ‘[u]nfree labor in the new world was brown, white, black and yellow’ (Capitalism and Slavery 7) allegorically positions Stephano and Trinculo as maligned indentured servants, Lamming’s text does not pursue this, but rather accepts that they are ‘scum’ and ‘bandits’ (115). And although raising questions about both Miranda’s absent mother and Sycorax, the text is constrained by sexism: as Sandra Pouchet Paquet observes in her introduction to the 1992 edition, here ‘creation is a male enterprise,’ though this is shortly to change. Lamming’s essays seem poised on the brink between the stultifying decadence of postwar London and a rejuvenated future (Paquet in Lamming Pleasures of Exile xxiv). This powerful sense of uncertain transition between a falling corrupt regime and an ambivalent new order becomes a pattern in contemporary uses of the play. Corrosive, decadent European power is indelibly associated with The Tempest as it appears in Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s 1967 novel, A Grain of Wheat, where Prospero is identified with the parasitical and venal colonial ruling class.9 Ngũgĩ was closely connected to many aspects of the global ­political revolt: he participated in Kenya’s war of independence of 1 ­ 952–62, and many he knew were detained during the brutal state of emergency ­imposed by the British authorities in their attempt to stem decolonization. His perspective was international, having studied at the famous Makerere University in Uganda, a vibrant meeting ground for radical writers and intellectuals, and then Leeds University in England, before working as a reporter and activist as well as lecturer in a range of African and American universities. He identified the jubilant expectations in independence and the elections of the great nationalist Jomo Kenyatta in 1963 and 1964. In a 1986 essay, he retrospectively described the mood for African writers in the 1960s: It was … the decade of a tremendous anti-imperialist and anti-colonial revolutionary upheaval occasioned by the forcible intervention of the masses in history. It was a decade of hope, the people looking forward to a bright tomorrow in a new Africa finally freed from colonialism …

Independence  119 everywhere on the continent, the former colonial slave was breaking his/her chains, and singing songs of hope for a more egalitarian society in the economic, political and cultural life. (Ngũgĩ ‘The Writer in a Neocolonial State’ 3) He describes the generalized dismay as the new elites of corrupt domestic regimes forged alliances with the imperial powers: The increasingly open, naked financial, industrial, (see Free Trade Zones), military and political interference of Western interests in the affairs of African countries with the active cooperation of the ruling regimes in the same countries, showed quite clearly that the so-called independence had only opened each of the African countries to wider imperialist interests. Dependence abroad; repression at home became the national norm. (7)10 These concerns inform the novel A Grain of Wheat which uses plural, interweaving narrative voices to dramatize Kenya’s state of emergency from the retrospective vantage point of the first Independence Day celebration. The racist and orientalist British colonial officer John Thompson aspires to write a grand history of imperialism called ‘Prospero in Africa.’ This becomes a recurrent point of reference, indicating the extent to which the play had become metonymic for colonialism by this time. The novel’s attempt to grapple with the colonial legacy as it is telegraphed in The Tempest is part of a global reckoning with empire. The liberatory appropriation reached its apotheosis in Aimé Césaire’s 1969 Une Tempête (A Tempest), which is a rewrite of Shakespeare’s play. This exhilarating drama casts Prospero as the modern colonizer, his ‘magic’ demystified as arsenal and riot gear, and Caliban as heroic anti-colonial freedom fighter.11 A Tempest continues the meta-theatricality of the original, opening with a scene where the actors are assembled and assigned their parts. The list of characters reads ‘As in Shakespeare’ but with ‘Two alterations’ to Shakespeare’s dramatis personae: ‘Ariel, a mulatto slave’ and ‘Caliban, a black slave’; and ‘An addition: Eshu, a black devil-god’ (Césaire ‘Characters’ in A Tempest). In what is an exemplar of the liberatory rewrite that must overhaul the original, Césaire had to make important further adaptations to the plot in order to make Shakespeare’s play fit the anti-colonial narrative: Prospero came to the island intentionally to colonize it; his rivalry with his European counterparts is downplayed, and they make common cause far earlier; Caliban quickly learns he cannot trust his coconspirators, declaring ‘I tell you about winning your dignity, and you start fighting over hand-me-downs! … To think I’m stuck with these jokers!’ (56). Initially, the shape of Césaire’s play corresponds with the original, but as the action proceeds the two depart further and further both in content and

120 Independence form. The unraveling of the familiar five act design—there are no Acts Four and Five but Act Three has five scenes—mimics the disruption of Prospero’s plot: foiled and infuriated by Caliban, this Prospero stays to fight on the island, only to be faced by a rebellion of the very flora and fauna amidst incipient climate change. The play anticipates the reclaiming of Sycorax that reaches fruition two decades later. In her 1991 essay ‘Caliban’s Daughter,’ Jamaican author Michelle Cliff focuses on Caliban’s defense of his mother in A Tempest, connecting the text with the work of Cuban artist Ana Mendieta as well as her own project: ‘Both Mendieta and I understand the landscapes of our islands as female. As does Aimé Césaire in his re-­ vision of The Tempest…’ (Michelle Cliff 46). One of the many distinctive qualities of Césaire’s Tempest is its seamless combination of political insight and humor. Caliban’s first line, in response to Prospero’s summons, is the defiant ‘Uhuru!’—the Swahili word translated into English as ‘freedom’ or ‘independence’ (Césaire 17). At each pivotal moment, the lines of Shakespeare’s Caliban are replaced with witty and cutting rejoinders and sometimes modern profanities. At the same time, as the translator Richard Miller writes in his note to the English translation, ‘[t]he literate English/American playgoer cannot help but “hear”, behind the language of the play, the original text resounding in all its wellknown beauty, its familiarity’ (Césaire A Tempest). In turn, A Tempest brought some new concepts that attach themselves to Shakespeare’s play from now on. It addresses the ecological consequences of industrial colonialism, which are combated by a form of animism in the island rebellion. It also figures Ariel as intellectual/poet to Caliban’s political activist, adding a scene featuring a comradely exchange between these two characters which evokes contemporary debates about moral suasion/pacifism as opposed to direct action/armed resistance as strategies for fighting systemic racism: ARIEL:  Poor Caliban, you’re doomed. You know that you aren’t the stronger,

you’ll never be the stronger. What good will it do you to struggle? what about you? What good has your obedience done you, your Uncle Tom patience and your sucking up to him. The man’s just getting more demanding and despotic day by day. ARIEL:  Well, I’ve at least achieved one thing: he’s promised me my freedom. In the distant future, of course, but it’s the first time he’s actually committed himself. CALIBAN:  Talk’s cheap! He’ll promise you a thousand times and take it back a thousand times. Anyway, tomorrow doesn’t interest me. What I want is (shouting) ‘Freedom now!’ (26) CALIBAN:  And

The exchange also recalls the line from Nina Simone’s famous 1964 protest song, ‘Mississippi Goddam’: ‘They keep on saying “Go Slow!”’ E ­ ngaging contemporary political debates in the satirical mode, the performative possibilities of Césaire’s play are rich, and even in script form it contains an electrifying energy and emotional charge.

Independence  121 Although in a very different mode and register, a kindred spirit of revolutionary iconoclasm animates another liberatory work from 1969: Edward Kamau Brathwaite’s Islands, a collection of poetry that combines ­a nti-imperialist politics and formal experimentation.12 While not central, The Tempest is a meaningful point of reference, and one poem is named ‘Caliban.’ The whole collection bursts with transformative creative energy anticipating a new reality, a new world, while systematically dissecting the current global system, ­exposing the deep connections between capitalism, imperialist war, and racism. In ‘Legba,’ named for the Vodou lwa, or spirit, who stands at the crossroads between this world and the next, the titular spirit is portrayed as a veteran from World War Two: ‘He had fought in the last war … His children eat dirt’ and ‘Those that are brown/enough, hobble//into a maimed world of banks, books, insurance businesses’ (175). Images of plantation slavery are coupled with those of modern war: ‘shell-less worms; the/sugar cane screams/swinging under the steel//cutlass;/bless us bless us/cries the shorn rain/cut from its thunder’ (175–6). Similar imagery pervades ‘Unrighteousness of Mammon’ where ‘hotels for tourists rise on the sites/of the old empire’s promenades of cannon … Such history we write/is stripped and torn/by whip, by wind, worn/by the wave from the heart’ (216). And ‘Negus’ decries the economic and military forces that have replaced formal colonialism with the repeated phrase ‘it is not enough’: ‘It is not enough/to pray to Barclays bankers on the telephone/to Jesus Christ by short wave radio/to the United States marines by rattling your hip/bones’ (223). With urgent rhythms and insistent and unexpected rhymes, the poems express both vertiginous change and fierce political and ethical anger. ‘Caliban’ celebrates the character as representative of the enslaved ­A frican in the middle passage and future descendants. A limbo dancer first described in the second person and then becoming the lyric voice, Caliban moves between the contemporary scene of Carnival and the historic ‘dark deck’ of an Atlantic slave ship. African cultural traditions are forms of empowerment: drums, Gods, music, connections with ancestors combine to praise, raise, and save the limbo dancer from drowning in the silence of historical and continuing oppression. The present day frames the history of plantation and slave ship. Class and race are intertwined—‘Ninety-five percent of my people poor/ninety-five percent of my people black’—and linked to modern commodity and finance capitalism: ‘the Chrysler stirs but does not produce cotton/the Jupiter purrs but does not produce bread’; ‘newspapers spoke of Wall Street and the social set’ (191). The poem imaginatively presents the tumultuous history of capitalism, linking new and old social convulsions: It was December second, nineteen fifty-six It was the first of August eighteen thirty-eight It was the twelfth October fourteen ninety-two. How many bangs how many revolutions? (192)

122 Independence The Tempest here is not only embroiled in a long and continuing history of exploitation but also contributing to those explosive bursts of revolutionary energy, ‘blasted out of the continuum of history’ signaled in Benjamin’s concept of jetztzeit or nowtime (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 86).

A tempest of dissent By the mid-1960s, the anti-establishment Tempest had reached across the world and even made its appearance in mainstream transatlantic academic literary circles: [Caliban] has the pathos of the exploited people everywhere, poignantly expressed at the beginning of a three-hundred-year wave of European colonization; even the lowest savage wishes to be left alone rather than ‘educated’ and made to work for someone else, and there is an undeniable justice in his complaint: For I am all the subjects that you have Which once was mine own king. Prospero resorts with the inevitable answer of the colonist. (John Wain in Hallett Smith 104) In 1964, Marxist literary critic Arnold Kettle published Shakespeare in a Changing World, a collection of essays that marked the profound contemporary experience of social transformation.13 Kettle’s introduction reiterates the link between Shakespeare’s era and the present: ‘his sixteenth-century world and our twentieth-century one have at least one characteristic deeply in common: the rate and the density of change is … exceptionally powerful’ (Kettle 9–10). The collection emphasizes historical contextualization that remains alert to the present: ‘the best way to emphasize the value of Shakespeare in our changing world is to see him in his, recognizing that the two worlds, though very different, are at the same time a unity’ (10). Robert Weimann’s contribution, ‘The Soul of the Age,’ underscores this: ‘The age into which Shakespeare was born was, to an extent that only the twentieth century can surpass, an epoch of transition’ (Weimann in Kettle 20). In this work, The Tempest is generically recategorized, no longer ‘­romance’ or ‘comedy’ but something closer to ‘history’ or ‘tragedy,’ and read as an allegory for the temporary balance of class forces in the transition to c­ apitalism. Kenneth Muir places it with the explicitly ‘political’ plays—particularly Coriolanus and Timon of Athens—and refers to Marx’s discussion of the latter in Capital, which ‘brings out Shakespeare’s insight into the nature of developing capitalism in which everything is a commodity’ (Muir 81).14 The Tempest ‘made a final comment on the political problem’ by juxtaposing Prospero ‘the philosopher prince’ with amoral and power-hungry new rulers (81).

Independence  123 Although Gonzalo’s speech evokes an ‘ideal commonwealth,’ ‘Shakespeare shows that a return to primitive communism is neither possible nor desirable. For the primitive reality is represented by the savage Caliban who desires freedom without morality; and human nature as it is, is represented by the murderous plots of Antonio and Sebastian and the drunken villain of Trinculo and Stephano’ (81, 82). While questioning the ‘sentimental’ reading of the play as fairy tale removed from historical forces, Muir reiterates conventional notions of ‘savagery’ and ‘human nature.’ The revolutionary re-imagining of The Tempest underway in the decolonizing present does not make much of an inroad into this collection. It would take more than a decade for these developments to substantially impact academic literary criticism. Shakespeare in a Changing World participates in a broader tendency to implicate the play in the nightmare of history, and in this way anticipates a wave of distinctly disintegrative visions. Jan Kott’s Shakespeare Our Contemporary ushered in a generation of critics and directors who connected early modern and modern anxieties about political conflict.15 In a 1965 review essay, Sidney Finkelstein noted the power of Kott’s Tempest to ‘get at our modern experience, anxiety and sensibility’ through an emphasis on cyclical brutality: ‘in our own time, to him, the feudal cycle of murder of kings has only been replaced by the “mushroom cloud”’ (483).16 In contrast to Kettle, Finkelstein sees Shakespeare on the side not of feudal constraint but of capitalist dynamism: Shakespeare saw feudal institutions and the feudal mentality as no longer capable of a constructive role, only destructive, because in the conflict between old and new, he stood with the new. He was one of those who helped fashion the humanist outlook. He had no blueprint for the future but if any lesson emerges from his work, it is the need to struggle, not the acceptance of despair. (486) Arguing that Kott ‘must read his own despair into Shakespeare’ by seeing the storm scene as ‘“violent confrontation of nature with the social order”’ Finkelstein instead understood the tempest as an expression of capitalist productivity: ‘Shakespeare is contrasting an aristocracy become parasitical to the powerful role that those who work with head and hands can play in coping with the forces of nature’ (486). Finkelstein’s reading of Prospero is at odds with Kott, for whom the epilogue represents ‘“the greatness, despair and bitterness of Galileo’s letter”’ (486). What these readings all share, however, is a strong sense of the relevance of the early stages of the transition to capitalism for contemporary social transformations. Peter Brook’s Tempest of 1968 epitomizes the disintegrative Tempest unmoored from a liberatory political vision even while the circumstances of its production were literally at the heart of the student revolt of that year. The play was ultimately performed in the London Round House, a converted Victorian railway station theater that housed Centre 42, the theater group

124 Independence founded by socialist playwright Arnold Wesker, but it had been incubated in a Paris workshop, in conjunction with the French director Jean-Louis Barrault and an international cast. In the period leading up to the rehearsals, the student revolt stormed the city. Brook did not interrupt the drama workshop, ignoring the call for a strike, though many argued in favor of supporting the protests. Then students took over the theater, the director Barrault lost his funding as penalty for refusing to condemn them, and the company regrouped in London where the production was staged. Brook’s is known as a powerfully iconoclastic disintegrative vision with the explicit goal of exploring ‘“whether The Tempest could help the actors find the power and violence that is in the play”’ (Brook qtd. in Croyden 125). Performed in a starkly lit space with rolling scaffolding, mirrors, and masks, all under a white tent, this hour-long show dispensed with most of the script and rearranged what was left, emphasizing violence, sexuality, and exploitation. It shared the discordant shock value seen in much contemporary avant-garde poetry and prose; Caliban and Sycorax were represented as monstrous and powerfully destructive. Sycorax, manifest as an enormous pregnant woman, gives birth on stage to Caliban, who proceeds to rape Miranda and Prospero. Reviewer Margaret Croyden noted the key innovations of this production: hitherto The Tempest ‘always appeared on the stage as something sentimental and pallid’ but Brook found ‘the power and violence that is in the play’ (Croyden 125). Eschewing literal representation, Brook accessed ‘abstractions, essences, and possible contradictions embedded in the text’ and in the process ‘the plot is shattered, condensed, deverbalised; time is discontinuous, shifting’ (126). Brook’s interpretation did not engage with contemporary critiques of Caliban and Sycorax as monstrous ‘others’ to Prospero’s moral center—rather, it reproduced racist and misogynist tropes—but it was indicative of the era in its iconoclastic, violent, and radically unsettling reimagining of the establishment Shakespearean play. Croyden’s comment that Shakespeare’s play ‘always appeared on the stage as something sentimental and pallid’ points to the normative integrative convention even at the height of the 1960s revolt; plenty of contemporary figures were using the play for explicitly conservative causes. Dean Ebner’s 1965 essay for the Shakespeare Quarterly, ‘The Tempest: Rebellion and the Ideal State,’ developed an overtly reactionary commentary both on the play and contemporary movements, linking past and present through the lens of unsanctioned dissent. According to Ebner, Shakespeare acknowledges that ‘evil men’ exist in ‘both primitive and civilized societies,’ thereby discounting the myth of the noble savage in favor of a Christian model of original sin corrected by enforced social harmony. Ebner recognizes that the ‘theme of rebellion’ is central to the play, but in contrast to those celebrating Caliban’s revolt, Ebner makes Shakespeare the voice of conservatism, delivering a cautionary tale against revolution. Caliban is a depraved ‘composite drawn from traditional demonology, the medieval wild man, and perhaps from Aristotle’s description of the bestial man,’ and is also ‘suggestive of a

Independence  125 New World savage, since Setebos, his “dam’s god”, was a malignant deity worshipped by the American Indians’ (Ebner 163). Ebner argues that Shakespeare, ­familiar with the latest travelogues from the new world, would have rejected the idealism of Montaigne. Prospero recognizes that man’s sinful nature is incompatible with ‘utopian perfection,’ but the play suggests that ‘some ­improvements in man’s nature and the social order can be made’ through the discipline of Christian virtue (171). References to ‘European decadence’ and various threats to ‘civilization’—and he is clearly not thinking of the imperial project—­link the upheavals of Shakespeare’s social context to those of ­Ebner’s America in the mid-1960s: ‘The Tempest … is really about a “tempest of Dissent,” such as those shipwrecked sailors made for themselves in the Bermudas’ (Ebner 173). In language virtually indistinguishable from John Dover Wilson or G. Wilson Knight (see Chapter 3), Ebner reclaims the play for defenders of the old order against the upstarts. The spirit of iconoclasm was embraced rather than fended off in England’s theater the following year in a disintegrative stage production that also took up the radical politics of the era. Jonathan Miller’s 1970 Tempest quoted Mannoni in the program and brought the anti-colonial critique to the theatrical avant-garde (Dymkowski 22; Griffiths 176).17 Staged at the Mermaid Theatre, two Black actors, Norman Beaton and Rudolph Walker, played Ariel and Caliban as class antagonists. This was registered as a landmark staging not only in taking up the cause of the colonized but also more broadly in evoking topical social upheaval and revolt. A contemporary review in The Spectator marked the significance of this break, again acknowledging a still-dominant integrative norm: ‘It will be hard after Mr. Miller’s production ever again to see The Tempest as the fairytale to which we are accustomed … a confrontation which, beginning in amazed delight, moves so swiftly to drawn swords and “bloody thoughts” that the opening storm seems only a prelude in a minor key to the “tempest of dissension” that sweeps Prospero’s island.’ (Hilary Spurling qtd. in Griffiths 178) Miller took contemporary decolonization as a point of departure for his reading of the play: ‘“I hoped to bring [the audience] into a closer relationship with the whole notion of subordination and mastery which I think is one of the things which Shakespeare is talking about with great eloquence in that play”’ (Miller qtd. in Nostbakken 142). This represents one of the more celebrated liberatory stage productions of Shakespeare’s play.

Arrested decolonization As the contradictions of the new postindependence capitalist states became increasingly sharp, and the hopes of genuine liberation morphed into disenchantment, a series of postcolonial readings associated the play with cynicism, anomie, and seemingly intractable contradictions. This broader spirit

126 Independence animates the 1971 collection, Frantz Fanon’s Uneven Ribs, by Taban Lo Liyong.18 The poems identify with Caliban as a rebel and also pick up other familiar symbols: the sea-storm as harbinger of political turmoil, the mad magician whose inventions have spun out of control, and the present as a moment of precarious balance between past and future. The title poem, which begins ‘Bill Shakespeare/Did create a character called Caliban,’ makes an explicit connection between the author, Taban, and C ­ aliban, turning the play into another kind of cautionary tale: those in power create subordinates who may escape the leash and turn against the system they have been taught to revere: ‘…those who would just stand/And tilt the world/And move it out of joint/By the mere power of words’ (41). The poem goes on to distinguish figures in history—from Voltaire to ­Mohammed Ali—who represent revolutionary energy against the stifling limits of tradition and the stultifying uniformity of mainstream bourgeois society, cast as ‘…the American/Of the executive species/Who slaves to keep his position/In society like a Babbitt’ (46). The iconoclasm extends to a call to ‘kill God’ and enthrone Satan, to champion Prometheus against Zeus, and to embrace ‘the power of sex’ against repressive social forces (48). A review in Books Abroad from 1973 found that the poet seems ‘impelled by genuine anger that independence had brought such a meager political and artistic harvest’ and, frustrated with the creeping pace of change: ‘More clearly and energetically than any other contemporary East African writer, Liyong calls for revolution’ (Green 201). The dominant mood indicates an esprit de corps of disenchantment rather than optimism: the conclusion signals regression and corruption rather than hopes for a fresh future. The last stanza of the title poem begins, ‘What mankind needs/Is the breakup of society’ and ends, ‘Let’s go back/To pre-society days’ (Liyong 51). This sense of arrested decolonization is indicated in a range of diverse contemporary works, including David Wallace’s play Do You Love Me Master? Like Césaire’s Tempest, this work adapts the characters and plot of Shakespeare’s play for the colonial context.19 But while Césaire’s play evokes the ongoing struggle for national liberation in Martinique, Do You Love Me Master? evinces the very different specificities of postindependence Zambia. The dramatic arts played a distinctive role in what had been known as Northern Rhodesia. Just as the extractive industry was under the jurisdiction of the British South African Company, so too did the colonial elite maintain a monopoly on artistic production: in the 1950s, a chain of ‘little theaters’ were established along the so-called ‘copper belt’ for the entertainment of the white settler community; during the 1960s, drama was also employed in the anti-colonial struggle. Independence in 1964 delivered the one-party regime of Kenneth Kaunda, representing the new Zambian elite, in collaboration with foreign capitalist interests against the peasant and working-class majority.20 While the little theaters retained their elite character even while they espoused cultural nationalism, various initiatives arose to challenge this model: The Chikwakwa Theatre aimed to provide

Independence  127 ‘“socially committed drama. The participants are aware of the need for a revolutionary theatre to present the problems of economic and social development in the on-going Zambian revolution”’ (qtd. in Crehan 296). This was a model of theater ‘in which modern dialogues were integrated with traditional performing arts such as dancing, singing and music, traditional elocution, masquerades…’ (Epskamp 161). Do You Love Me Master?, which Wallace notes ‘derives from The Tempest’ (vii), was first performed in 1971 at the Kitwe Little Theater against this backdrop of contestation. It was reportedly the first Zambian play to win the Theatre Association of Zambia’s National Drama Festival and was performed at the Lusaka Playhouse for President Kenneth Kaunda. Wallace took a stance against the Theatre Association of Zambia and set up theatre workshops in secondary schools. The play itself seems caught within these contradictions: it incorporates African dance and music, and satirizes colonial attitudes, but it also trades in racial stereotypes. The playwright notes that it ‘is ostensibly about the Colonial period, but it represents what I saw and heard in the years just prior to its writing’ which suggests that the a­ nti-colonial critique extends into the postindependence present ­(Wallace v). In this rendition, Prospero becomes ‘Prosper—European; fat; businesslike,’ Ferdinand is ‘Harry—European … University background,’ and Caliban ‘Zambian; houseboy; caught between not wanting to work for Prosper and not knowing what to do when he leaves’ (Wallace xii). The royal subplot is removed, with Trinculo and Stephano becoming ‘Twinkle, Step’—determined to ‘steal Prosper’s booze’—and ‘Lonny, Gonny, Sebby, Tony’ who are ‘spokesmen for the crowd’ (Wallace xii). Miranda becomes ‘Miranda Banda—Coloured; Prosper’s daughter’ (Wallace xii). Although the title Do You Love Me Master? comes from Ariel’s line, this character does not exist in the rewrite, and the words are given to Caliban. The main targets of the satire are the colonial figures, but the humor remains slapstick and panders to stereotypes. The Zambian characters are lampooned: Caliban is confused, emotional, and lascivious; the prisoners incompetent and laughable in their attempts to organize; Miranda-Banda is flirtatious and worried that her father will abandon her. There are some gestures toward contemporary satire: the ‘crowd’ are political prisoners under the surveillance of Prosper and Harry; Prosper’s power is signified throughout by his big stick, which he breaks in the face of a prison riot, noting ‘that’s only the symbol of power’; Prosper leaves, having ‘made all the money I’m likely to make’ and Harry ominously declares his intention to stay, saying, ‘you’ll be needing me for a bit’ (Wallace 43–4). Caliban has a breakdown when he realizes Prospero is leaving, but the final scene is of triumphant protest: ‘Crowd emerges from back and sides, brightly dressed, carrying banners, placards, proclaiming FREEDOM in English and African languages. There are full lights and this must look colourful and sound joyful’ (Wallace 55–6). Depending on how you read the time frame, this could either be a non-ironic celebration of Independence under Kaunda, or

128 Independence an anticipation of a future movement that could actually provide the ‘freedom’ that has not yet been achieved. Prosper rails at Caliban: I call you Caliban because it suits you, because long ago in the history of my great white tribe there was another Caliban, a monster, a hideous beast, a great hairy lump of a creature—no use for anything at all but chopping wood. That’s why I call you Caliban: because you’re a monster, only good for chopping wood. Now go and chop wood! (Wallace 14) Labor—chopping wood—is a running motif and perhaps the clearest indication of the postcolonial moment. As drama the work is leaden and clumsy, and a pale imitation of the more successful parodies of the era, but it is nonetheless suggestive of the by-now habitual association between The Tempest and arrested decolonization. The contradictions and tensions of the postindependence moment are powerfully evident in Lemuel Johnson’s innovative 1973 poetry collection (one of a trilogy), Highlife for Caliban. 21 The poet provided this retrospective account of the series: [My] concern in the poetry trilogy was to return in a way that would recover the years from the 1500s to the 1960s; and to do so by way of a strategic deployment of contexts in my Sierra Leone Krio heritage …. the volumes, Highlife for Caliban (1940s–1960s), Hand of the Navel (1914–1945), and Carnival of the Old Coast (1500s–1950s), would ride out and into the various filiations and languages of Sierra Leone’s creolization. (Highlife x) A contemporary reviewer caught the mood of the first of the three: ‘The verse crackles with scorn and vehemence. Yet this is not the poetry of simplistic posturing and polemic abuse, but sardonic parody: a witty contemplation of the absurd and damnable world that the poet inherits’ (Povey 86). The title places The Tempest at the heart of the collection although direct allusions to the play are otherwise scarce: the word ‘highlife’ evokes Caliban’s ‘freedom high day’ song while also punning on the idea of living the high life and evoking the musical genre that was by this time very popular in Sierra Leone. Highlife, along with calypso, can be felt in some of the rhythmic structures and musicality of the poetry, which is varied in tone and pace, and tends toward sharp contrast between tight control and chaotic freedom. The collection is divided into three sections: I. Election: A Fanfare of Men with Power; II. Exorcism; III. Viaticum. It concludes with an afterword by the Jamaican author and critic Sylvia Wynter, who went on to produce her own distinctive response to The Tempest in 1990, to be discussed in the next chapter. In the sequence of ‘Emperor poems,’ Caliban is reimagined as a representative of the neocolonial national bourgeoisie warned against in Fanon’s

Independence  129 ‘Pitfalls of National Consciousness.’ In prose that is itself richly figurative and suggestive, Sylvia Wynter provides interpretive commentary that highlights the money economy as a continuing link between the eras: Lemuel Johnson in this first group of poems gives us Caliban Agonistes, blinded by the white bone of instant power, tossed to him when he had once snapped and growled. But the bone had been shaped into dice. The dice were loaded. The obscenity of the neo-colonial experience … It is the neo-colonial event that finally divests Caliban of that which had kept him whole—a dream of revenge against Prospero. But how shall he now revenge himself upon himself?’ (‘The Poetics and the Politics of a High Life for Caliban’ 92) Of Part II, Wynter writes: ‘the momentous meeting between Europe and Africa is reduced to its real fact-barter … Out of this barter came Freetown. The land was bought for guns, cloth, rum, glass beads. A history of unequal exchange’ (92). The Third Part, ‘Viaticum,’ shifts to the more specific ‘poetic ecology of Northern Nigeria’ (105). ‘Calypso for Caliban,’ in Part II, contains allusions and references to Prospero, Miranda, and Sycorax, and evokes Caliban’s beautiful ‘be not afeard’ speech: it ends with the line ‘to wake and cry to dream again’ (Lemuel Johnson Highlife for Caliban 39–40) which reworks Shakespeare’s ‘when I wak’d/I cried to dream again’ (III.ii.142–3). But in contrast to the ‘isle … full of noises,/Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not’ (III.ii.135–6), this Caliban’s inheritance is a brutal wasteland: a chain of leached bones… a chain of leached stones airless quays dust that rises to coast on water. (Johnson Highlife for Caliban 39) Prospero has become ‘papa prospero/atibo legba’ (39), which is another reference to the Vodou crossroads figure, Papa Legba, the gatekeeper who mediates between the mortal and divine worlds. Miranda is now ‘MaryMiranda and mother/and holy virgin’ (40); the poem turns on the ‘virgin/ whore’ antithesis. In this, it draws attention to the sexist and racist paradigm of Miranda/Sycorax as representatives of the two sides of femininity while simultaneously delivering a pattern of disturbing misogynistic images of sexual and racial commodification. At its heart is the naked reification of consumer capitalism in the postcolonial era: ‘…Caliban can dress himself in Prospero’s hair. Here fabricated, ready-made men are for sale’ (Wynter ‘Poetics’ 108). Sardonic and profane, Highlife to Caliban combines the iconoclasm of Peter Brook with the politics of Frantz Fanon. Aimé Césaire and George

130 Independence Lamming are both acknowledged in a culturally expansive introduction that moves between Aristotle, Joseph Conrad, Ralph Ellison, and beyond. The poetry continues this dynamic range, jumping between eclectic allusions to global culture high and low, and emphasizing the syncretism exemplified by Vodou. Shakespeare is referenced, particularly Othello and Hamlet, and the English Renaissance is identified as the crucial point of origin for capitalist modernity. Wynter elaborates this analysis in the afterword: ‘The Christian ships came to trade. They traded gold and slaves’ (Wynter ‘Poetics’ 85); ‘the Caribbean islands were settled as plantations in which the forced labor of the slave was to produce that initial capital that would enable Europe to “take off” into the dynamic paradise of ­capitalist development’ (86). Freetown is a special case, established for l­iberated slaves—but it too is a ‘Creole island’ inhabited by the ‘“exiled sons of ­A frica”’ (87). The ‘primitive accumulation’ of capital is at the heart of the system that continues in the present. The poems frequently link current and prior moments of capitalist dispossession: one begins with the Krenakore of Brazil who ‘rest in fear of men with power’ and ‘wait … full/of a supplication of axe and glass beads’ (13); a footnote refers to a contemporary protest by the Krenakore against a highway construction project (14). Capitalism is omnipresent: the first poem of the first section is ‘Put Your Money,’ the first of the second is ‘Economy of Cloth,’ another is named after the African Timber and Plywood Company, ‘A.T & P. (LTD.)’ The language of commodification and trade is everywhere. In ‘Visas,’ history itself is reduced to prostitution: ‘History hangs loose here; and for ten cents,/and sent for before midnight,/winks behind a slotted cage’ (69). At this point, the anti-imperialist critique is directed not primarily at the old colonial empire, but against the new forms of militarism, commodification, and dispossession that have replaced it. In blunt contrast to the optimism of the previous decade, the disintegrative Tempests of this period reject the idea of history as linear progress. While coming from dissimilar political and aesthetic locations, Derek Walcott’s inventive exploration of history and poetry in the landmark essay ‘The Muse of History’ shares some keynotes with Johnson and Brathwaite. 22 First published in the groundbreaking collection Is Massa Day Dead? Black Moods in the Caribbean in 1974 (Brathwaite was also one of the several editors), the essay develops a complex investigation of the limits and possibilities of reciprocal understandings of the past and present.23 Walcott rejects both the ‘literature of revenge’ (that of the ‘descendants of slaves’) and of ‘remorse’ (that of the ‘descendants of the masters’) and posits instead a ‘New World’ poetry centered on ‘the new naming of things’ (Walcott ‘Muse’ 37, 48). The Tempest, along with Robinson Crusoe, is positioned as a foundational ‘New World’ text—its characters supplying the symbols of both populations: ‘It is this elemental privilege of naming the new world which annihilates history in our great poets, an elation common to all of them, whether they are aligned by heritage to Crusoe and Prospero or to Friday and Caliban’ (40).

Independence  131 The essay offers some haunting and powerful impressions of a society founded on genocide, dispossession, and enslavement: ‘The pulse of New World history is the racing pulse of fear, the tiring cycles of stupidity and greed’; ‘For us in the archipelago the tribal memory is salted with the bitter memory of migration’ (39, 41). Turning to language as the ‘living element’ that provides an alternative, Caliban becomes the archetypal poet. Walcott refutes those who portray Caliban as tragically trapped in the ‘language of the master:’ Their view of Caliban is of the enraged pupil. They cannot separate the rage of Caliban from the beauty of his speech when the speeches of Caliban are equal in their elemental power to those of his tutor. The language of the torturer mastered by the victim. This is viewed as servitude, not as victory. (38, 41) This recognition that Caliban has the best poetry in the play is a running theme in Walcott’s work, one that he often evoked in readings and interviews. 24 For Walcott, the shipwreck at the heart of The Tempest takes on central symbolic significance: (40): To such survivors, to all the descended tribes of the New World who did not suffer extinction, their degraded arrival must be seen as the beginning, not the end, of our history. The shipwrecks of Crusoe and of the crew in The Tempest are the end of an Old World. It should matter nothing to the New World if the Old is again determined to blow itself up, for an obsession with progress is not within the psyche of the recently enslaved. That is the bitter secret of the apple. The vision of progress is the rational madness of history seen as sequential time, of a dominated future. (41) In this paradigm, so resonant with Benjamin, the series of mythical isles offered as paradise are reconfigured as so many shipwrecks. With its insistence that ‘it is not the pressure of the past which torments great poets but the weight of the present,’ Walcott’s vision sees in The Tempest the template for a brutal and irrational world system that can only be countered by ­poetry of the most elemental beauty and power (39).

The end of the boom The long postwar economic expansion came to a decisive end in 1973 with the most severe economic crisis since the 1930s and the return of the boom/bust cycle. The ruling class responded with austerity, backlash, and free market ideology, opening the door to the neoliberal era. Many 1970s Tempests are haunted by a creeping sense of doom, as the liberatory mode was superseded by the disintegrative. A grimly ominous example can be

132 Independence found in a 1973 poem by Michael Hamburger, who had written a cynical and unpleasant poem in 1944, ‘The Tempest: An Alternative.’25 The later poem, ‘Gonzalo: Afterthoughts,’ responds to the earlier work with an even more bleak outlook: ‘A happy ending? Well, we might have carried/Corpses away, as usual, clamped into doom’s/Machinery’ (287). Gonzalo, impatient with his optimistic ‘prattle’ reflects on the mythical Prospero, and by implication Shakespeare: …when he was lord of the book, Lord of illusions, godlike as our maker— An island’s, a whole world’s—who now will sleep, Known by his works, the authorship in doubt. But can we sleep? (288) Having registered the toppling of both Prospero and the Bard from their pedestals, the poem presents an eternal struggle between the dreamed-of commonwealth—Gonzalo’s ‘cloud-cuckoo land’—and the nightmarish reality: The gist’s familiar: innocence, Love that lets be, a mind at peace with nature— Your nightmare, grabbers and manipulators. I who have served and suffered your designs Know how you dread the dream; but melt in it, Vanish, go down. As I do, into sleep, One with the dream that was before I waked And will be though the fabric of this earth Yields to your blasting. There can be no end. (Hamburger 287–8) Again echoing lines from Caliban’s ‘Be not afeard’ speech—‘when I wak’d/I cried to dream again’ (III.ii.142–3)—as well as words and images from Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ lines—‘melted into air,’ ‘baseless fabric,’ ‘stuff/As dreams are made on’—the poem also evokes the nightmarish milieu of Auden and before him Eliot and Markham, now reconfigured into an ambivalent response to the postcolonial moment. Unsettling notes of alarm were sounded by Edward Bond’s play The Sea, though with a spirit of hope for continued change, rather than cynicism and despair. Bond held that this original play, which opened at the Royal Court Theatre in 1973, was ‘structurally influenced’ by The Tempest. 26 Indicating the prevalence of the integrative norm, Bond’s biographer Peter Billingham writes: ‘Pastoral harmony is often assigned to Shakespeare’s final tragicomedy … Bond … dramatizes the class structure of that harmony … dreams and drunkenness hover on the outskirts’ (59). The Sea is marked by conflicting impulses. It inherits the tremendous legacy of radical British theater: the left-wing agitprop touring companies and diverse examples of

Independence  133 ‘robust popular people’s political theatre,’ as Billingham puts it. 27 Bond was himself a product of the postwar settlement: A ‘new generation of writers (some of them, like Bond and Arnold Wesker, from working-class backgrounds) and directors. … grew out of the economic optimism of the period’ (Billingham 2). The playwright traced the connection between contemporary revolutionary foment and that of the Renaissance, writing that Shakespeare, ‘lived on the edge of a political revolution, and his plays still work for those who live in this later time of revolution, the twentieth century’ (Bond xi). In the play Bingo, a dramatization of Shakespeare’s life, the Bard is shown to be ‘aware of the cruel greed of the rising capitalist class’ but nonetheless ‘acquiesces to enclosures’ (Bond 59). Bond’s work thus apprehends the shift in the balance of class forces toward ‘the cruel greed’ of the capitalists facing an intractable crisis in the present. Set in a small town on the East Anglia coast of Britain in 1907, with war on the horizon, The Sea’s acerbic dissection of class society combines naturalism with surreal elements. Unlike Bond’s Lear, this is not a rewrite of Shakespeare’s play, but the structural connections with The Tempest are unavoidable for anyone attuned to both, even without Bond’s explicit acknowledgment: opening storm; tragicomic mode; signature use of ­music and song with an emphasis on contrasting harmony and cacophony; dramatic monologues meditating on change and mortality; performance of a ‘play within a play’; a small cast of characters representing a cross-­section of an ‘island’ community; references to Greek myth. The characters are archetypal: Mrs. Rafi the Grand Dame of provincial bourgeois society; Mr. Hatch the paranoid and proto-fascist petty bourgeois draper; Rose and Willy the young working-class couple seeking a more ethical world; Evens the alcoholic drifter and visionary. The main dramatic action explores the fallout on the village of a young man’s death by drowning, while the overarching tension is between the rival claims of competitive individualism and faith in the common good. It is called ‘a comedy,’ but as one reviewer of a 1975 New York City production commented, ‘“Eerily menacing” would be a much better description’ (Gussow 53). Attempts to map the characters and plot too neatly onto Shakespeare’s play do not work. Some have understood Evens, for example, as a facsimile of Prospero (and in extension, given the autobiographical reading, Bond), though he more closely resembles Stephano when he stumbles onto the beach drunk and singing in the first scene. But deeper continuities can be located in both plays’ meta-theatricality and preoccupation with mutability. Evens gets two of the most luminous monologues, which inevitably echo Prospero: We sit here and the world changes. When your life’s over everything will be changed or have started to change … There’ll be no more t­ ragedy. There’s no tragedy without grass for you to play it on. Well, without tragedy no one can laugh, there’s only discipline and madness … We’re becoming the strange visitors to this world. (Bond 168)

134 Independence That sense of ‘becoming the strange visitors,’ amplified by Hatch’s fears of alien invasion, recalls The Tempest’s long-standing link to science fiction while highlighting its preoccupation with alterity and other worlds. The Sea emphasizes all that is unsettling and contradictory, but its final scene projects hope for continuing struggle: Evens tells Willy and Rose, ‘I’ve told you these things so that you won’t despair. But you must still change the world’ (Bond 169). 28 In this way, the play straddles the liberatory and disintegrative modes. Bond’s interest in the allegorical potential of Shakespeare’s Tempest for exploring class antagonisms found some echoes in literary criticism in this period. A special issue of Science and Society addressing Shakespeare’s location in the Renaissance world rehearsed many of the critical debates that marked criticism in the coming decades. The contributions tend to read the play through the lens of the Tudor/Stuart balancing act between the old feudal lords and the rising capitalists. Paul Delaney holds that while King Lear represents a radical critique of the current order, The Tempest offers instead a reinvestment of ruling class power, which could only be envisioned in the ‘mystical’ mode in 1611. Robert Weimann elaborates the argument that The Tempest, like all great art, is on the side of progress and displays the ‘civilizing potential in history’ (‘Shakespeare and Marxist Methodology’ 6). Bruce Erlich reads it as a fairy tale that smooths over the intra-class conflicts of the era: while contests between failed and usurping rulers appear with some regularity, ‘only Prospero unites these opposites: he is at once, dethroned ruler and usurper, Richard and Bolingbroke’ (Erlich 44). In the transition, colonial ventures united royal patronage and mercantile wealth, and in the play the marriage between Ferdinand and Miranda ‘will establish a new future for both Milan and Naples by reuniting the old order of inheritance with the new order of political currency’ (Erlich 52). And Thomas Metscher argues that all of Shakespeare’s plays reach toward resolution of intractable problems, and this is exacerbated in the late period: The Tempest is ‘an exploration of possible solutions none of which proves to be entirely satisfactory’ (23–4). While addressing the political impasse of Jacobean England, these essays are infused with a sense of the precarious socioeconomic climate of the present. A concrete sense of intractable crisis resonating with economic instability pervades Kamau Brathwaite’s return to the play in 1977: ‘Caliban, Ariel, and Unprospero in the Conflict of Creolization: A Study of the Slave Revolt in Jamaica in 1831–32.’ By this time, The Tempest’s associations with slavery, anti-colonial movements, and neocolonialism were well established, and Brathwaite is drawing on these recent sources as much as on the original play.29 The essay uses The Tempest as a device for understanding slavery and resistance in the Caribbean. The central characters become prototypical for broader social dynamics of class and race: Alonso represents the metropolitan political system; Prospero/Unprospero the slave-owning plantocracy; Ariel the ‘educated slave or freedman open to “white” creolization’;

Independence  135 Caliban ‘the black slave/rebel’; and Sycorax the African ‘ancestral heritage’ as alternative (Brathwaite ‘Conflict’ 43). The essay delivers a historical analysis of the Christmas Rebellion of 1831/32. This historical event, which germinated in the wake of the French and Haitian revolutions and in the context of industrial development in the region, was ‘not only of colonization but also of modernization’ and ‘the most widespread and significant revolt in Jamaica’s history … which led to the almost immediate emancipation of Caliban by Alonso’ (‘Conflict’ 43, 44). While Brathwaite explores the broader context of ‘what had become a crisis’ in the ‘mercantilist/plantation system’ in the early-mid nineteenth century (‘Conflict’ 46), his historical investigation is very clearly writing in and for the current context of incomplete political and cultural decolonization. As Brathwaite makes connections between disparate moments of revolutionary upheaval, drawing lessons for the present, he delineates two models of creolization: the ‘Euroculture missile’ which spreads across the globe through conquest and domination; and the ‘African capsule or circle culture’ based on ‘equilibrium … not designed for conquest, but survival’ (‘Conflict’ 56). Despite the immense destructive power of the former, the latter nonetheless ‘brought miraculously intact … the culture of the slaves’ to the modern Caribbean, leaving a rich legacy of cultural and political alternatives to the dominant system (56). Throughout history, at key moments of transformative crisis, identification among the colonized shifts to the latter model, and Caliban surpasses Ariel. Although Brathwaite does not extend his study to the period of Shakespeare’s original Tempest—his earliest referenced moment of crisis is 1720—the work is richly suggestive for an understanding of the 1611 play. Notably, he sees Prospero, and in extension slavery, as antithetical to Renaissance ideals, and argues that the plantation system, representing a continuation of feudal relations, was shut out of the progressive aspects of capitalist modernity. Those missionaries who sided with the abolitionists in the later period (Brathwaite refers to them as ‘white Ariels’) were the ‘product of the metropolitan plantation: the great, crowded, spreading wastelands of the burgeoning industrial ghettos of midland and northern England’ (Brathwaite ‘Conflict’ 48). This dynamic is picked up later in a description of the imperial project: ‘projectile nation states, stratified into national classes specialized into “warhead” of government/monarchy, aristocracy (warrior/ military), bourgeois and proletarian/peasant fuel chambers: labor and taxable wealth’ (55). Brathwaite both positioned The Tempest at the start of a process of uneven and combined capitalist development and periodic crisis and found in the play an allegory for the economic convulsions of the contemporary moment. And those convulsions were ushering in a new period: the end of the decade saw the transformation of the storm from a symbol of revolution to a salient metaphor of reaction. Conjured by a powerful and dangerous magician, this storm was both provoked by and precipitated seismic shifts

136 Independence in global capitalism. The ‘Volcker shock’—which responded to stagflation by raising interest rates—ushered in the era of global recession, debt crisis, and neoliberalism. Sudhir Sen’s description of this landmark moment evokes shipwreck, storm, and a vengeful ‘financial wizard’ responding to economic turmoil with structural adjustment maelstrom: It was a time of exceptional turbulence: inflation was raging … bond and stock markets were sinking. Against this bleak background stood the towering figure of Paul Volcker, then chairman of the Federal Reserve Board of New York … On a Saturday evening, October 6, 1979, at a special press conference Volcker hurled his thunder-bolt. (Sen 1799) Neoliberalism emerged as the ruling class economic and political strategy to restore profitability, roll back the gains of the liberation movements, and alter the balance of class forces in favor of the capitalists. These changes set the stage for the next contradictory and abundant era of Tempests.

Notes 1 Apartheid was the official policy and practice of racial segregation and discrimination that was in effect across South Africa from 1948 until the early 1990s. 2 The revolutionary upheavals of half a century earlier gave rise to the Marxist theory of ‘permanent revolution,’ stemming from Marx and Engels and developed by Leon Trotsky. This described the process in which anti-colonial struggles in the less-developed world could foster revolutionary struggles for international socialism. The 1960s generated the term ‘deflected permanent revolution,’ which described the pattern of anti-colonial revolutions that led not to working class self-emancipation but rather to new national regimes that were part of the capitalist world system, whether explicitly identified with Washington or Moscow. The term ‘deflected permanent revolution’ was coined by ­British Trotskyist Tony Cliff in 1963. See Neil Davidson How Bourgeoise? 144–8; 458–65. 3 An article in Business Week from 1974 acknowledged the recovery strategy: ‘“It will be a hard pill for many Americans to swallow—the idea of doing with less so that business can have more … Nothing that this nation, or any other nation, has done in modern economic history compares in difficulty with the selling job that must now be done to make people accept the new reality”’ (qtd. in Cockburn and Silverstein 8). 4 Critical discussions of postcolonial appropriations include Charlotte H. Bruner, ‘The Meaning of Caliban in Black Literature Today’; Thomas Cartelli, ‘After The Tempest’; Stephen Greenblatt, Learning to Curse: Essays in Early Modern Culture; Trevor R. Griffiths, ‘“This Island’s mine:” Caliban and Colonialism’; Rob Nixon, ‘Caribbean and African Appropriations of The Tempest’; Jyotsna Singh, ‘Caliban Versus Miranda’; Ania Loomba, ‘Seizing the Book,’ in Gender, Race and Renaissance Drama; Vaughan and Vaughan, ‘Colonial Metaphors,’ in Shakespeare’s Caliban; Chantal Zabus, Tempests After Shakespeare. See also Brinda Charry’s useful overview ‘Recent Perspectives on The Tempest’ in Vaughan and Vaughan 2014. 5 The Anglophone examples that are considered in this study were, of course, part of a far larger multilingual development. Many anti-colonial giants from this era made use of The Tempest: Frantz Fanon responded to the French psychologist Octave Mannoni, whose 1950 book Prospero et Caliban established the classic colonial allegory, in Peau Noire, Masques Blancs (White Skin, Black

Independence  137 Masks 1952); Cuban Roberto Fernández Retamar embraced Caliban as a figure of colonial resistance in his poem ‘Caliban’ and essay ‘Cuba hasta Fidel’ (1969). In Quebec, Haitian-born Max Dorsinville expanded Caliban’s symbolic significance to a broader swathe of racially and culturally oppressed peoples in his Caliban without Prospero: Essay on Quebec and Black Literature (1974), while Pierre Seguin explored similar themes in his novel Caliban (1977). 6 Lamming was born in 1927 in Barbados, won a scholarship to one of the foremost secondary schools, and was mentored by his teacher, the writer Frank Collymore. He left Barbados as a young adult, first teaching in Trinidad before emigrating for England, where he worked in a factory before taking up a position with the British Broadcasting Company. 7 In 1959, a white street gang murdered Antiguan immigrant Kelso Cochrane. Despite evidence of widespread racist violence against the Afro-Caribbean community of London’s Notting Hill, the murder was categorized as a robbery and no one was charged. This, following organized racist activities in the neighborhood the previous year, generated a wave of anti-racist organizing. 8 These lines resonate with the Romantics, particularly Coleridge’s early account of Caliban as ‘a sort of creature of the earth’ (see Chapter 2). 9 Ngũgĩ was born in 1938 and grew up in Kamĩrĩĩthũ under British rule. His father was a peasant farmer who, like so many others, became a ‘squatter’ on his own land after the British Imperial Act of 1915 sanctified white settler control over the best lands. He was educated in Christian mission schools at a time when the British government made English instruction mandatory—in his ‘Farewell to English’ essay he writes movingly of the humiliating experience of being punished for speaking Gikuyu, his mother tongue. 10 Ngũgĩ protested the brutal regime that was to have him imprisoned in 1977 for his politically radical theater. 11 Césaire (1913–2008) was born in Martinique during French colonialism, studied in Paris and returned to Martinique to become a world-famous poet, dramatist, and politician. One of the founders of the Negritude movement, and a member of the Communist Party until 1956, he is one of the most influential Caribbean figures of the twentieth century. Even though A Tempest was originally in French, I am making an exception to the Anglophone policy in order to include it here, given its exceptional influence on Anglophone writers and the broad availability of the excellent translation by Richard Miller. It is also cited by several of the Anglophone authors considered here. 2 Born Lawson Edward Brathwaite in Barbados in 1930, the author published 1 Islands under the name of Edward Brathwaite but as his publications increased and his fame spread, he became known as Edward Kamau or more often Kamau Brathwaite. Islands is anthologized in The Arrivants: A New World Trilogy, with Rights of Passage (1967) and Masks (1968). 13 Born in Britain in 1916, Arnold Kettle fought in World War Two and from 1948 was an English lecturer at the University of Leeds. He also taught at the University of Dar es Salaam and for the Open University. He published many works of literary criticism, most famously his Introduction to the English Novel. He was an active and prominent member of the Communist Party from the 1930s to the 1960s. He died in 1986. 14 For an interesting discussion of Marx’s commentary on Timon of Athens, see Ledwith’s 2016 essay, ‘Marx’s Shakespeare.’ 15 Kott (1914–2001), born in Warsaw, for a time was a Communist but left the Communist Party in 1957. He was granted political asylum in the United States in 1967 where he became an influential director and critic whose influence on Shakespeare performance is legendary. British theatre critic Michael Billington, for example, says ‘I can’t think of anyone today who influences production in quite the same ways as Kott’ (‘K is for Jan Kott’).

138 Independence 16 Finkelstein (1909–74) was an American journalist who served as a major arts critic for the Communist Party USA. He was called to testify by HUAC in 1957. 17 Jonathan Miller (born in London 1934) is one of Britain’s foremost opera and theatre directors. His early career was in the 1960s world of Beyond the Fringe. 18 Taban Lo Liyong was born in Uganda in 1939, and traveled widely during his lifetime; he is often identified as the first African to complete the MFA at the University of Iowa in 1968. He coauthored with Ngũgĩ and Henry Owuor Anyumba the famous declaration ‘On the Abolition of the English Department’ in 1968 at the University of Nairobi. 19 Born in London in 1937, the English expatriate David Wallace was a teacher in Zambia from 1967, and chairman of the state-sponsored Theatre Association of Zambia in 1972; he also set up the Mukuba Theatre Workshop and ‘founded the Theatre Circle which often used Zambian folklore, dance, music, and ethnic fables and parables’ (Epskamp 162, citing S.J. Chifunyisé). 20 See Timothy M. Shaw ‘Zambia: Dependence and Underdevelopment’ for an analysis of these dynamics. 21 Johnson was born in Northern Nigeria to Sierra Leonean parents in 1941, grew up and was educated in Sierra Leone and then the United States, and pursued a successful academic career at the University of Michigan. 22 Walcott’s interest in The Tempest was lasting. The poem ‘A Sea-Change’ appears in his elegiac 2010 collection, White Egrets. 23 The essay also appears in Walcott’s 1998 collection, What the Twilight Says. 24 See for example his 1988 interview with Bill Moyers. He elaborated this point in a reading at St. Michael’s College in Vermont in the early 2000s. 25 German born, Hamburger (1924–97) was educated and settled in England having escaped Nazi Germany with his family in 1934. In addition to his original poetry, he was acclaimed for his translations from Italian and German. 26 Edward Bond was born in 1934 in London to a working-class family. Not formally educated, he started writing plays when young, and joined a writers’ group at Royal Court. He described art as a crucial part of the struggle for socialism, and went on to became one of the most important British playwrights of the twentieth century. 27 The clearest expression of the political radicalization in British theater can be seen in these agitprop companies that flourished in the 1960s and 1970s, including Red Ladder (founded 1968), The General Will (1971), Belt and Braces (1973), Hesitate and Demonstrate (1975), Gay Sweatshop (1975), the Black Theater Co-op (1978), and Theater of Black Women (1982). The online research project Unfinished Histories has documented this history: www.­ unfinishedhistories.com. 28 The Sea was an assigned text for my A Level Theater course at Gordano School and we also staged a production in the early 1980s. The play fell out of fashion for a period of time but was restored to the public eye with a successful revival directed by Jonathan Kent and starring Eileen Atkins at the Theater Royal Haymarket in 2008. 29 Brathwaite notes ‘certain (well known) symbols from Shakespeare’s The Tempest already used by several Third World writers and representative here of certain throats or throttles (forces) within slave society’ (43); ‘This literature includes the work of José Rodó, Mannoni, George Lamming, Aimé Césaire, and Roberto Retamar. The work of Frantz Fanon should also be included in this category’ (Brathwaite 44). The Uruguayan writer José Rodó’s tremendously influential 1900 work Ariel counterposed a model of Latin American culture (symbolized by the idealized Ariel) to the crass materialism of the United States.

5 Overproduction

What things are these … Will money buy em? Sebastian V.i

Neoliberal backlash: 1980–99 The final decades of the twentieth century witnessed global imposition of the economic and political orthodoxy known as ‘the Washington consensus.’ The assault came on many fronts. American imperialism reasserted itself, putting to rest its colossal defeat in Vietnam. The formal system of colonialism was dismantled, but the ‘Third World’ was now opened up to multinational plunder under the auspices of IMF and World Bank imposed structural adjustment.1 A reignited cold war concluded with the collapse of the Stalinist regimes, leading to both conservative triumphalism—­ epitomized by Francis Fukuyama’s pronouncement of the ‘end of history’— and also left-wing melancholia over the downfall of the Soviet Union. By the turn of the new century, the central features of neoliberalism had been enforced: ‘the rule of the market,’ ‘cutting public expenditure for social services,’ ‘deregulation,’ ‘privatization,’ and ‘eliminating the concept of the “public good” or “community”’ (Martinez and García). These developments entailed persistent backlash against the practical and ideological gains of the social movements of the previous decade. Economic and ideological forces were deeply connected, as Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor writes of the context in the United States: At the precise moment when the Black movement was demanding enormous infrastructural investment to renew urban enclaves, the booming American economy of the postwar era was grinding to a halt. With its end came a relentless ideological assault on the kinds of public expenditure needed to attend to deep economic deprivation … This counteroffensive, launched by the business class, would affect not only Blacks but everyone who benefited from the expansion of social welfare. (Black Liberation 53–4)

140 Overproduction The ‘counteroffensive’ was global, a generalized onslaught of capital against labor. A targeted war against trade unions resulted in epic defeats for labor in signature battles such as the PATCO Strike (United States 1981), the Mumbai Textile Strike (India 1982), and the Miners’ Strike (Britain 1985). In political, cultural, and ideological fora, capitalism was rehabilitated and re-naturalized. This fin de siècle landscape produced new twists in the ongoing Tempest culture wars. The spirit of 1968 had established a dissident liberatory tradition that continued to influence performance and criticism as the century closed. Simultaneously, the period of political disillusionment ushered in both triumphalism on the right and postmodern skepticism on the left. Contestation over the play’s ideological purchase intensified to the extent that it became metonymic for political affiliation. This dichotomized climate produced a restoration of the integrative norm, variations on the disintegrative version unmoored from any revolutionary or progressive politics, and new iterations of the liberatory alternative. Anti-colonial appropriations belatedly found their way into the world of academic literary criticism: A series of critical readings variously explored the play’s involvement in the history of colonialism, registering what one Shakespeare Quarterly article of 1985 neatly dubbed ‘Prospero’s fall from theurgic dignity’ (Corfield 48). Alden Vaughan found that ‘Caliban’s current role of rebellious and resilient survivor of western imperialism appears to be widely accepted and deeply felt throughout the third world and beyond’ (‘Caliban in the “Third World”’ 308). But with postmodern culturalism and the ideological ‘retreat from class’ now ascendant in the neoliberal academy, these ‘colonial readings’ looked very different from their antecedents.2 The anti-colonial Tempests of the 1960s and 1970s engaged with the material forces of capitalism and were imbued with revolutionary optimism. Academic postcolonial readings of the 1980s, in contrast, emphasized discourse and tended toward political pessimism. The postmodernist moment was marked by a disconnect from the terrain of political struggle, the influence of Althusser and Foucault evident in an overarching emphasis on ideology critique and/or discourse analysis.3 Edward Said identified ‘an unadmitted dichotomy between two kinds of “Politics”: (1) the politics defined by political theory from Hegel to Louis Althusser and Ernst Bloch; (2) the politics of struggle and power in the everyday world’ (‘Opponents’ 133). While the former was well represented, the latter was all but invisible in academia. As contemporary commentators noted at the time, the ‘cultural turn’ or ‘shift to discourse’ involved a retreat from the centrality of the working class and projects of emancipation, a move away from historical materialism, and an emphasis on the relative autonomy of ideology, which involved both suspicion toward historical enquiry and a removal of textual analysis, even of the most political variety, from questions of ‘everyday world’ politics. As Said wrote, these tendencies, ‘reduced and in many instances eliminated the messier precincts of “life” and historical experience.’ (‘Introduction’ xviii–xix).4

Overproduction  141 The Tempest was swept up in the 1980s culture wars, becoming a marker of political ideology. It played a leading role in the new ‘radical Shakespeare’ that gained critical traction in the 1980s, but the long history of oppositional appropriations and political contestation surrounding the drama was often unacknowledged. While in some areas capital accumulation and dispossession were emphasized as key contexts for the play, the era laid the groundwork for what came to be known as the ‘new economic’ Shakespeare criticism, which departs from Marxism in fundamental ways. Approaching money in terms of semiotics rather than systems of production, as David Hawkes writes of this development: ‘Some of the new economic critics differ from their Marxist forebears in another important regard: they lack an ethical critique of capitalism’ (Hawkes ‘review’ 272). Even as the influence of Marxism and anti-imperialism declined, the newly visible ‘postcolonial’ and ‘revisionist’ approaches to Shakespeare were targeted by conservatives as part of a broad right-wing attack on ‘political correctness’ that became de rigueur as the era of global rebellion gave way to neoliberal backlash. Opposition to what came to be known as the ‘colonial reading’ was launched from many fronts. Drawing attention to the play’s involvement in violent histories was held to be optional or frivolous, inevitably anachronistic and reductive, disrespectful of the Bard, or all of the above.5 At the center of the conservative attack was the absurd notion that this was a novel politicization of a play that somehow was hitherto above politics. Paradoxically, the most striking development of this period was the remarkable wave of feminist/womanist revisions that focalized Miranda and then Sycorax and drew attention to the structural centrality of racism and women’s oppression to the play at its moment of production and subsequent reception. In a period that saw the systematic rollback of the gains of the civil rights and women’s liberation movements, this development represented both a delayed expression of the achievements of the preceding era and a working through of the problems of the new one. As I argue elsewhere, the literary voices of Caribbean women at the turn of the century, often discussed in criticism as ‘less political’ than the predominantly male literature of resistance connected with national liberation, in fact was both enabled by the era of decolonization (in which women played a far greater role than is often acknowledged) and represented a fierce engagement with the new vectors of inequality that came with neoliberal globalization.6 These forces gave rise to a powerful liberatory Tempest in an overwhelmingly disintegrative environment. In the words of Abena Busia, ‘the systematic refusal to hear our speech … does not and never actually could render us silent’ (103–4). The ‘Sycorax school’ emerged over two decades against a backdrop of eclectic and politically dichotomous interpretations on the stage and page, and somber and unsettled associations in the broader culture. In mainstream and fringe theater, a series of dystopic productions registered both the anti-imperialist legacy and the new economic climate, emphasizing ­dynamics of race and empire and often presenting authoritarian Prosperos

142 Overproduction and sympathetic Calibans and Ariels. In broader cultural references, a dystopic ‘fin de siècle’ mood spoke to the bleak realities of structural adjustment and austerity. And by the end of the century, a renewed awareness of the play’s location in the world capitalist system resonated with the rising global justice movement. Landmark twentieth-century responses to the play, particularly those of Eliot, Auden, Plath, Brathwaite, Césaire, Lamming, and Walcott, became tangible points of reference for, and appeared as echoes and traces in, the fin de siècle Tempest.

Shipwreck The neoliberal Tempest first emerged in a succession of disintegrative and dystopic visions emphasizing the theme of the wrecked ship of state. While works of the 1960s and 1970s had linked the early modern and the contemporary as times of social regeneration, now the present was seen as the grim conclusion of a path started in the Renaissance. The dystopian possibilities of The Tempest were explored amid a gnawing sense—fueled by economic crisis—that the enlightenment project inaugurated in the age of Shakespeare was approaching its demise. Derek Jarman’s dissident 1980 Tempest exemplified this tone, while both echoing the aspirations of the 1960s and anticipating the next wave of liberatory Tempests that would interrogate sexuality and gender.7 Shot in a decaying gothic Abbey, starring punk icon Toyah Wilcox as Miranda, and featuring nudity and transgressive sexuality, the film snubbed its nose at conventional morality. Sycorax acquired a physical role, though there was no attempt to rehabilitate or elevate Caliban or his mother. The play both tapped into the raw radical potential of Shakespeare appropriation and channeled the deep despair experienced by many in the face of Thatcher’s reign. Jarman’s vision is not relentlessly bleak—it contains much camp humor, and a spectacular cabaret rendition of ‘stormy weather’—but from the opening wild storm on, it has a distinctly nightmarish quality that is redolent with the tensions of neoliberal Britain. As Shakespeare on film scholar Kenneth Rothwell has observed of Jarman’s film, the AIDS crisis exacerbated this generalized sense of looming disaster: Behind all the gaiety and frivolity, the brave front, is the dark agenda in Jarman’s life, an endless struggle to locate funding for his films, a vision of a western civilization on the edge of apocalypse, and the ultimate calamity of AIDS … In this nightmare world, Prospero’s name might better be changed to Impecunero, a conclusion covert in Shakespeare’s play but made overt here. (History 198) Rothwell’s observation that these apocalyptic implications are ‘covert in Shakespeare’s play’ indicates the continuing dominance of the integrative approach, but he also draws attention to a long-standing disintegrative

Overproduction  143 tradition. Citing contemporaries who found the film ‘“perverse”’ and ‘“ugly,”’ Rothwell traces these transgressive elements to Jan Kott’s earlier vision: ‘his dream becomes nightmare, after the style of Jan Kott’s “Shakespeare our Contemporary,” … which redefined The Tempest as a play about power rather than forgiveness’ (History 195–6). Jarman’s film marked the definitive shift from the prosperity and optimism of the postwar boom to the perilous climate of global capitalist crisis, while connecting with earlier ‘impecunious’ Tempests. Jarman’s apprehension of looming apocalypse was registered more broadly in a range of mainstream as well as fringe adaptions. The BBC’s ambitious plan to screen Shakespeare’s complete works included John Gorrie’s leaden televised Tempest that aired the same year as Jarman’s film. Despite a luminous cast including Michael Hordern as Prospero and Nigel Hawthorne as Stephano, The Tempest was among the least successful of this project. Perhaps in part because of this, it succeeds in capturing the dissonant spirit of the moment. As with Jarman’s film, while there is no attempt to rehabilitate Caliban, Prospero is unsympathetic—cross, distracted, irritable, and pompous—and the themes of redemption and forgiveness are downplayed. Michael Hordern explained his interpretation of the role: ‘“[Prospero] has recently seen an apocalyptic vision of the fate awaiting humanity. My Prospero saw the mushroom cloud [of Hiroshima] as he spoke”’ (qtd. in Lindley Shakespeare at Stratford 74). Here, we can see the influence of Tempests from the post-World War Two era, such as Forbidden Planet and the poetry of Plath, on the disintegrative interpretations of this later era. The set, inspired by Gustav Doré’s etchings for Dante’s Inferno while inescapably also evoking the original Star Trek’s iconic rendition of hostile alien planets, further contributed toward this dual image of the historical bookends of cataclysmic change in Shakespeare’s age and the present. The dystopic preoccupation with shipwreck was, at times, explicitly registered in criticism, as in a 1981 special issue of Contemporary Literature called ‘Marxism and the Crisis of the World.’ In his contributing essay, ‘Familiars in a Ruinstrewn Land: Endgame as Political Allegory,’ Seán Golden connected Becket’s play to The Tempest via Eliot’s Wasteland, emphasizing the rise and fall of capitalist imperialism and bourgeois culture: The consummation of the English Renaissance was also the dawn of the modern imperial adventure that would lead to the industrial revolution and the rise of the bourgeoisie. Caliban, that subhuman anagram of cannibal, was the native there to be exploited (though Shakespeare also registers the earliest tremors of the threat the exploiter must have of rebellion of the exploited). (459–50) If Eliot’s response to The Tempest in the Wasteland represents ‘the death of the English literary tradition as a live cultural tradition, post-world war 1’

144 Overproduction as one of many ‘works associated with the decadence and demise of bourgeois imperialism and its culture,’ the process of decay has only accelerated with the aging century (Golden 450). Unease, dichotomy, and ambiguity became key terms in commentary from a range of political perspectives. Colin Manlove’s 1981 study The Gap in Shakespeare questions the integrative reading of the hard-to-­categorize late plays and identifies Lytton Strachey as the originator of this view: [Strachey] first argued that, far from being easily serene in these plays, Shakespeare retained a strong sense of the destructive force of evil. Strachey’s point, however, was that the plays were broken apart by this, and that behind them we had a Shakespeare who was ‘Half enchanted by visions of beauty and loveliness, and half bored to death’…. (191) Arguing that the late plays represent a ‘split between the insecure joys and beauties of the romances and the frequent pessimism of the political plays that precede them,’ Manlove mines the deep-seated tensions and contradictions that seem to him to be laid bare in The Tempest: Shakespeare has not convincingly reflected or overborne the deep schisms that characterized his previous work; and the motif of irritation, disturbance and disquiet that runs through The Tempest, possibly the last of these plays, seems further to expose his sense of this. (Manlove 192) As this indicates, while the ‘sentimental’ version was ascendant, it also was coming under assault from many directions in Shakespeare criticism as the changed social climate highlighted new elements of the play. Stephen Mike in 1982 observed that ‘it is difficult to accept either Prospero’s or Shakespeare’s manipulations as a series of exalted gestures’ (2) and noted that ‘besides the usual “romance” themes of forgiveness, reconciliation, and regeneration, I would put a list that has a negative cast’ (4). Lynda Boose argued that in these works, ‘the shattered human world, through obsessive reenactments of broken rituals, strives to recapture what has been lost’ (‘Father’ 338). And Stephen Orgel in 1984 held that The Tempest ‘seems a story of privatives; withdrawal, usurpation, banishment, the loss of one’s way, shipwreck’ (‘Wife’ 3). For those dismayed by the age of austerity, it was difficult to see the play as other than an expression of crisis and dissolution. The sense of decadence and loss embedded in the image of the shipwreck took on an overtly environmental significance in productions emphasizing imperialism’s planetary damage, anticipating what would become a far more dominant theme in the next century. Liviu Ciulei’s production at the Guthrie, for example, ringed the stage ‘with a moat of blood-red water’ and ‘artifacts expressing western man’s impact on the world’ (Linda Tolman 544).8 Allowing the possibility of Prospero’s redemption through renunciation of his magic powers, Ciulei telegraphed contemporary apprehensions

Overproduction  145 of an unstable civilization while gesturing also toward the postcolonial impasse: ‘at the play’s end Prospero willingly gives up the island to Caliban, who truly loves it, but seems baffled by what to do with the remnants of Western civilization that Prospero is leaving behind’ (Linda Tolman 545). The program notes further emphasized the meeting of old and new, and the echoes of the early modern in the current age: ‘“In our time, more than ever before, the traditional and the new coexist, creating an eclectic landscape of forms … Once we are freed from outdated images, it may be possible to shed light on the amazing modernity of this work”’ (qtd. in Linda Tolman 544). This self-conscious juxtaposition of tradition and modernity animated transatlantic performances that reiterated the connection between instability and dislocation in both early modern and contemporary worlds. After a period of relative scarcity—Michael Billington was able to say in 1982 that ‘“Not since Peter Brook’s production 25 years ago has there been a first-rate revival of this stubbornly undramatic play in the main house at S­ tratford”’— numerous high-profile British productions appeared, r­ epeatedly registering the anti-colonial paradigm while projecting the current mood of crisis (qtd. in Lindley Shakespeare at Stratford 31). At the RSC, Ron Daniels (1982) famously constructed a set depicting a ruined ship of state; Nicholas Hytner (1988) presented Prospero as a ‘“Freudian wreck”’ (Billington qtd. in Lindley Shakespeare at Stratford 32); and Sam Mendes (1993) emphasized the themes of enslavement and rebellion. The latter cast Simon Russell Beale as a recalcitrant Ariel who famously shocked the audience by spitting in Prospero’s face in the farewell scene. The pattern continued beyond the RSC. Peter Hall (National, 1988) focused on the power conflict, depicting Prospero as a very harsh ‘“Mediterranean Faust”’ (­ Billington qtd. in Dymkowski 23); Jonathan Miller (Old Vic, 1988) emphasized the master/ slave dynamic, casting white actors as the humans and Black actors as the enslaved spirits. Similar patterns were evident in performance on the other side of the Atlantic. Kenneth Rothwell’s review of a sunny and optimistic production from the 1983 Champlain Shakespeare Festival in Vermont indicates that even while the integrative mode remained normative, a diabolical alternative was a stubborn absent presence. Rothwell writes of the performance: ‘The darker elements of bondage and suppression that mark Prospero’s domination of Caliban and Ariel were simply not in evidence. The island’s atmosphere remained more benign than malign’ (Review). The disintegrative mode was sufficiently prevalent to draw attention to performances that conformed to the integrative model. This paradigm was registered in a 1985 piece in Theater Review. Titled ‘No more happy endings,’ it described a performance steeped in disenchantment, retrenchment, and lost hope for the possibility of social transformation: The action explodes any dreams for the future, and one can not sustain even to the end of the play, the brave hopes evoked by Prospero’s

146 Overproduction benevolent magic … suddenly, it is the same old world the same old people are going back to, love and forgiveness have not transformed anyone … Prospero’s farewell to Ariel cannot, after Antonio’s action, celebrate and confirm what had seemed, until then, a comedic ending. (Collins 222) The ironic ‘brave new world’ of mid-century is both alluded to and superseded: the neoliberal moment revives the association with dystopic privations, adding deep disenchantment and dashed hopes for social reconstruction. This mood is encapsulated by the weary recapitulation of ‘the same old world the same old people are going back to.’

A new age of dispossession The polarized political climate frequently generated dichotomous creative and critical responses that (mostly without acknowledgment) re-activated earlier debates about the play’s ideological currency. The neoliberal version gave the familiar conservative reading some new variations. A 1984 article in The Massachusetts Review by Peter Lindenbaum unoriginally described Caliban as the epitome of ‘intractable and ineducable human nature’ and a ‘constant reminder of man’s fallen state’ but added a contemporary flourish (165): Prospero has ‘brought the island from a savage state in which an Ariel is imprisoned and a Caliban allowed to run free to one in which the good spirit carries out an enlightened (if frequently angry) ruler’s commands and a Caliban is controlled and put to work’ (169). This latter statement is the epitome of neoliberal rollback as seen through the lens of the play: ‘Caliban is controlled and put to work.’ Thatcher and Reagan would have been delighted by this rendition, which echoed their concerted attack on the welfare state, advocacy for workfare programs, denunciation of powerful labor unions, and imposition of structural adjustment programs via the IMF and the World Bank. The neoliberal 1980s, witnessing both Fukuyama’s ‘end of history’ and Thatcher’s ‘there’s no such thing as society,’ gave rise to pervasive amnesia about The Tempest’s history. The Tempest was inherently political from its inception. As we have seen, Renaissance drama was both state-sponsored and censored, is indelibly marked by the contradictions and tensions of the transition from feudalism to capitalism, and has been subject to vehement ideological contestation for centuries. The Tempest makes particular reference to contemporary social and political forces and developments, and is surrounded by a long and particularly heated tradition of ideological claims and counterclaims. And yet in the last decades of the twentieth century, conservatives chided radical critics for ‘politicizing Renaissance drama’ (Pechter 298), while New Historicists and Cultural Materialists gave some credence to this idea as they heralded a new ‘political Shakespeare’ that

Overproduction  147 would depose ‘the Bard.’9 Pervasive amnesia about the play’s radical critical history marked the criticism of this period. The Tempest was at the center of claims that historical investigation and close reading—shorthanded as ‘politics’ and ‘aesthetics’—are incompatible. This went with the tide of academic anti-Marxism, but it also came in left-wing variants, as the neoliberal backlash produced an overwhelming skepticism toward materialist understandings of history and especially the concept of the working class as agent of revolution. Annabel Patterson identified these dynamics in a 1988 article tracing the influence of Foucault and Althusser in contemporary Renaissance studies: she identifies both an ‘outright attack on historical criticism’ and a veiled projection of ‘social despair’ (94). Within the new generation of ‘postcolonial’ Tempests, the ‘shift to discourse’ and ‘linguistic turn’ marked a move away from the mid-­ century anti-colonial readings that explicitly acknowledged the play’s engagement with capitalism past and present.10 Questions of capitalism and labor were nonetheless explicitly registered in some criticism of the period. In their influential 1985 essay, ‘“Nymphs and Reapers Heavily Vanish”—the Discursive Con-texts of The Tempest,’ Francis Barker and Peter Hulme draw attention to Trinculo and Stephano as ‘masterless men,’ recognizing dispossession and exploitation as central to the action. Peter Hulme’s 1986 Colonial Encounters, which traces the centrality of colonialism to Renaissance drama, and of the Caribbean to The Tempest, keeps sight of the material dynamics of domination that gave rise to discursive formations. The long history of capitalist accumulation is a constant point of reference for his nuanced and attentive close readings of literary texts, including The Tempest, whose characters become emblematic of residual and emergent ideologies. In a discussion of John Smith and ­Pocahontas, Hulme writes, ‘Smith … belongs to the world of Antonio rather than that of Gonzalo; he is, in other words, fully at home within that ideology of individualism so essential to a developing capitalism, which insists that all actions are singular and unrepeatable’ (Hulme Encounters 155). The Virginia Company and related questions of both domestic and colonial labor were highlighted in critical responses haunted by the contemporary one-sided class war being waged in the present, whether or not the latter is explicitly named. Patrick Coby noted that the plot centers around ‘various usurpations of conventional political authority’ (216), and in the first scene ‘it must be clear to the reader that the boatswain is totally within his rights due to the natural authority of the storm’ (217). John Gillies explored the play’s engagement with its historical moment through the wreck of the Sea Venture which ‘marked the nadir in the affairs of the Virginia Company’ (675), and emphasized labor’s centrality, remarking that the True Declaration ‘qualifies Barlowe’s myth of a Virginian paradise with a plea for the necessity of labour: “god sels us all things for our labor, when Adam himself might not live in paradise without dressing the garden”’ (689). Kenneth Lincoln saw

148 Overproduction indigenous dispossession as both the key to the play and the link between Shakespeare’s age and the present: ‘Civilization’s “ruins” make up Caliban’s rags, as our postmodernist poets patch up language, all the catastrophes of misnaming, at the heart of western history’s wasteland’ (92). While ‘wars, mechanization, taxation, racism, and nationalism have devastated Europe many times over’ (93), ‘we have been tracking Caliban in print, as he has been dispossessed in person’ (98). This essay encapsulates the moment, calling out the depoliticizing impact of postmodern thought and anticipating a revitalized opposition to capitalist dispossession.

This island’s ours While the academic radical Tempests of the 1980s mostly focused on colonization and dispossession in the past, some innovative theatrical productions launched full-frontal attacks against neoliberalism in the present. One exemplar was the anarchic ‘Tempest on Snake Island’ performed by the British theater company Welfare State International in 1981. Originally established as Welfare State in 1968, this was one of the many agitprop companies that flourished in England in the 1960s and 1970s. These touring groups, which germinated in the climate of flourishing labor and ­social movements, benefited from the reforms won by class struggle: most received Arts Council grants that gave them relative autonomy from the constraints of the box office or corporate sponsorship. Critical of Thatcher in the 1980s, many such companies had to disband in the face of Conservative government cuts in arts funding.11 Affirming the buoyant belief in public entitlement fostered in the postwar era of social reconstruction, Welfare State was founded on the radical premise that imagination should be a right, along with education, healthcare, and housing. By 1981, the company had scaled down from its earlier heights, but the spirit of ‘theater for the people’ still animated their production of The Tempest, its first attempt at Shakespeare, performed on an island near Toronto. Reminiscent of the work of Peter Schumann’s Bread and Puppet Theater (established in New York City in 1963), this was an outdoor, mobile, participatory, and carnivalesque spectacle featuring giant puppets, flaming torches, cacophonous music, and sets and props made from reclaimed garbage.12 With winks to The Forbidden Planet, the central theme is the threat of planetary destruction due to technological overreach: Prospero’s delusional attempts at space travel lead to intergalactic war and apocalypse. The broader premise is that art has a vital role to play in ‘stopping the planet being destroyed’ (Interview in Michaelson); yet again the arts are seen as antidote to the destructive and dehumanizing forces of industrial capitalism. Some akin productions in Britain included an explicit anti-Thatcher ethos. One such was Declan Donnellan’s highly metatheatrical 1988 version with Cheek by Jowl company, which presented a monstrous Prospero and added a Queen of Naples with a distinct resemblance to Margaret Thatcher.13

Overproduction  149 Perhaps the most overt of the anti-capitalist Tempests of this era in Britain was Philip Osment’s play This Island’s Mine, first performed in 1988 by Gay Sweatshop Theater Company, which straddled Britain’s great era of socialist theater and the age of austerity for the arts.14 Like Bond’s The Sea, to which it owes some debts, This Island’s Mine is not a rewrite or update but rather an original play set in contemporary England that foregrounds Shakespeare’s Tempest not only in the title, references, allusions, and scenes of rehearsals for a production, but also in a deeper set of structural affinities that encourage us to see the original and its contemporary uses in terms of social exclusion, dispossession, and capitalist exploitation and oppression. The main plot follows a gay teenager, Luke, who flees his working-class Yorkshire home for London to stay with his ‘out’ uncle Martin. Luke’s story intertwines with several other plotlines dealing with oppression and class inequality. I attended a performance in London in 1988 in The Drill Hall. The venue with minimal sets, no proscenium arch, and a diverse audience evoked the spirit of Jacobean public theater even while the production remained alert to the movement against the anti-gay legislation ‘Clause 28’ and other contemporary political causes.15 The defeat of the Miners’ Strike of 1984–85, Thatcher’s victorious battle in the ongoing war against the organized working class, is at the heart of the play. In the opening scene, Luke surveys the ‘closed down factories where our/Dad used to work’ and later worries about ‘male pride battered by lack of work’ (Osment 85/88). While Luke’s parents Maggie and Frank previously had disowned Martin because of his sexuality, their attitudes are transformed by the experience of solidarity mobilization for the strike by the group Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners.16 Later, when the young gay character Mark gets fired from his job, he learns how few rights he has and makes an ironic note to himself: ‘Should have been member of union’ (Osment 113). Immediate political contexts are foregrounded: Clause 28; racist and homophobic police brutality; environmental racism. While in outline description this sounds like it could be heavy-handed political theater, the script is creative and innovative, full of funny and touching details that come to life in performance. Third person narration is integrated into first person dialogue: so, for example, the play opens with lines spoken by Luke: ‘The bell rings for the end of school/Luke packs up his books/Decides/With nervous resolution that tonight will be the night…’ (85). In the performance I saw, clever, innovative, and fast-paced stage work, including doubling of roles—seven actors covered eighteen parts—and imaginative music and singing combined with plausible realism to great effect. Connecting back to the anti-imperialism of the previous decades, and also to the longer tradition of radical appropriation, This Island’s Mine represents an innovative liberatory Tempest straining against the neoliberal present. This tradition of community-oriented radical theater produced another anti-neoliberal Tempest almost a decade later: Michael Bogdanov’s Welsh community production The Tempest in Butetown, made for BBC Wales

150 Overproduction in 1997, confronted the grim consequences of relentless capitalist restructuring for Cardiff’s working-class neighborhood of Tiger Bay. The ­project used a large multiracial cast of nonprofessional actors to dramatize the dispossessions caused by ongoing gentrification and exacerbated by a planned dockland development project. This liberatory adaptation took creative and irreverent liberties with the play, reimagining the royal party as capitalist developers, and Ferdinand and Miranda as a Somali couple who marry in the local mosque. In a reversal of the usual trouncing of the conspirators, in this version local youths chase the developers into the mud. Echoing the radical bardolatry of the 1864 Tercentenary (Chapter 2), and anticipating twenty-first-century political protests of RSC productions (Chapter 6), participants drew attention to the contradictions between the idea of Shakespeare as a ‘playwright for the people’ and the reality of elitism in mainstream theater. A former church that was hitherto a community meeting place had been converted into an upscale arts center, one actor explained to a journalist: ‘When we arrived to film there a few days ago, there was a professional production of The Tempest on inside. So you had us, the people who live here, locked outside, and the middle classes inside. That’s what it’s like now. It’s an arts centre, but it doesn’t cater for us. So you get the middle classes coming to Tiger Bay, into the church, then they’re off again, without seeing anything here.’ This island’s mine which thou tak’st from me. (Logan) An optimistic spirit of resistance animated the entire operation even as it acknowledged the hardships of austerity. Another actor commented: ‘“There’s a lot of misery and apathy in this world, especially among poor black families … if I was writing an article on this … I’d emphasise the hope. There’s got to be hope”’ (qtd. in Logan). Here the multiracial ­working-class community, assaulted from all sides, makes a bid to reclaim the ‘cultural treasure.’

The rise of Sycorax In the face of relentless neoliberal backlash against gender and racial equality, the period gave rise to a remarkable wave of feminist/womanist reinterpretations of The Tempest, focused first on Miranda and then overwhelmingly on Sycorax, in both disintegrative and liberatory modes.17 This overwhelming focus on Sycorax, by authors and artists writing simultaneously and often in isolation from similar projects, is a stunning example of the broader recurrent pattern whereby distinct periods give rise to clusters of conspicuously similar cultural developments, collectively ‘meaning by’ The Tempest according to the esprit de corps.

Overproduction  151 Ann Thompson in 1983 had asked how feminists could approach this male-authored canonical work that seemed to discount women. Five years later, Laura Donaldson remarked that ‘the relationship between Miranda and Caliban has been virtually ignored’ in an essay that explored the complicated relation between the two, understood as representatives of gender and colonial oppression. Donaldson rejected any reading that ‘privileges one oppression over another,’ and promoted a womanist approach that ‘affirms the simultaneity of oppressions and incorporates sexual, racial, cultural, national and economic considerations into any politics of reading’ (68, 71). Within a decade, countless articles, books, and cultural works—critical analyses, allusive deployment, creative adaptation, and appropriation—had explored the play’s deep involvement in structures of patriarchal and racist reproduction. The play’s contexts, characters, plotlines, figurative motifs, and language were all scrutinized through the lens of gender. A by no means exhaustive chronological list of titles gives a vivid indication of this new attention to the female figures in the play: Laura Donaldson, ‘The Miranda Complex’ (1988); Abena Busia, ‘Silencing Sycorax’ (1989); Sylvia Wynter, ‘Beyond Miranda’s Meanings’ (1990); Michelle Cliff, ‘Caliban’s Daughter’ (1991); Leah Marcus, ‘The Blue-Eyed Witch’ (1996); Jyotsna G. Singh, ‘Caliban Versus Miranda’ (1996); Consuela Lopez Springfield, Daughters of Caliban (1997); Lemuel Johnson, ‘Shakespearean Imports: Whatever Happened to Caliban’s Mother?’ (1998); May Joseph, ‘Sycorax Mythology’ (2002); Sylvia Federici, Caliban and the Witch (2004); Suniti Namjoshi, Sycorax (2006). With women of color leading the way and writers with connections to the Caribbean playing a key role, over this period The Tempest became a testing ground for exploring the politics of gender and intersectional oppressions. These works represent a broad spectrum of critical positions, some seeing the play as a foundational expression of Western and patriarchal discourse, and others emphasizing the traces of resistance extant in the original and animated by the anti-colonial readings of the 1960s and 1970s. They similarly reflect a range of political influences and allegiances. Continuity with the liberation movements of the earlier era can be seen in radical attempts to give expression to the lived experiences and aspirations of Black women, even though this was in a climate where the gains of those movements were being rolled back, a new conservatism dominated the mainstream, and a pervasive culturalism was ascendant in academia. While some of the scholarly debates remained abstract, others drew attention to the gap between theory and praxis and advocated a social engagement beyond academic analyses. Contemporary political debates around ‘identity politics’ play out in this Sycorax school, explicitly in critical and theoretical essays, and in more diffused ways in creative works.18 Characters in The Tempest were taken to be representative of different identities: white men (Prospero), Black men (Caliban, Ariel), white women (Miranda), and Black women (Sycorax).

152 Overproduction Some readings projected an incommensurability of interests between these figurative male and female oppressed subjects, portraying the prior elevation of Ariel and Caliban as antagonistic to the claims of Miranda and Sycorax. Others found common cause between the attempt to ‘restore’ Sycorax and those pioneering rehabilitations, emphasizing continuities with earlier anti-colonial and anti-capitalist appropriations even while they forged vibrantly innovative and iconoclastic new creations. These speak to the contemporaneous development of theories of intersectionality, ‘an analytic strategy to address the interrelation of multiple, crosscutting institutionalized power relations defined by race, class, gender, and sexuality (and other axes of domination)’ (Johanna Brenner 293).19 This theoretical development owes much to scholars and activists who elaborated an analysis of the specific oppression of Black women under capitalism, the intersections of race, gender, and class on a global level, and a politics of solidarity. 20 Both explicit connection to the period of decolonization and espousal of a politics of solidarity are evident in the 1991 essay ‘Caliban’s Daughter’ by Jamaican author Michelle Cliff. This poetic work accesses The Tempest via Roberto Retamar and Aimé Césaire as part of a probing exploration of the literary canon, colonialism, gender, and sexuality as they have impacted the author’s life. Cliff refers to herself as ‘both Caliban and Ariel. And underneath it all, the granddaughter of Sycorax, precolonial female, landscape, I(s)land: I land’ (40). Evoking Jane Eyre’s Bertha Mason/Rochester, transformed by Jean Rhys in Wide Sargasso Sea from madwoman in the attic to colonized female subject, ‘Caliban’s Daughter’ links reclamation of the canon to that of the very land: ‘the landscape of the Caribbean is Caliban, the realm of his mother Sycorax, savage, witch—wild woman’ (41). Cliff’s essay credits Césaire with recognizing the female presence in the Caribbean, citing Caliban’s response to Prospero in his play: ‘“I respect the earth, because I know it is alive, and I know Sycorax is alive. Sycorax. Mother”’ (Cliff quoting Césaire 46). 21 In Cliff, Sycorax becomes the empowering ancestor for generations of dissenting women, from Pocahontas to Nanny of the Maroons to Cliff’s own fictional character Claire Savage, the protagonist of her novel No Telephone to Heaven. While the demonization of Jane Eyre’s Bertha evokes ‘the notion of the lesbian as monster, marauder, the man/woman in the closet’ (48), this female inheritance from Sycorax is the enabling force behind authors such as Dionne Brand and Cliff herself, who are finding new language to answer the question: ‘What does it mean to love another woman—psychically and physically—in the Caribbean landscape?’ (48). A kindred combination of re-vision, reinvention, and intersectional politics found its way into Shakespeare scholarship in this period. Ania Loomba’s chapter on The Tempest in her 1989 book Gender, Race, Renaissance Drama explores the complex nexus of economic structures, gender and racial ideology surrounding the play. Loomba takes up the figurative uses of Miranda within the colonial project and places Sycorax in a broader historical excavation of ‘connections between witches and transgressive women,

Overproduction  153 between witch-trials with the process of capital accumulation, and between the economic, ideological and sexual subordination of native women by colonial rule’ (152). This investigation of the play and its reception history finds that ‘[t]he colonial conflict intersects with others—those of class, gender, caste and ethnicity—and the colonial subject is not a simple being’ (157). Her conclusion cites Marxist scholar Benita Parry, who critiques postmodern postcolonial studies for its ‘“exhorbitation of discourse and … related incuriosity about the enabling socio-economic and political institutions and other forms of social praxis”’ (Parry qtd. in Loomba Gender, Race, Renaissance Drama 157). Loomba reiterates this stance when she returns to the play: Whereas in The Tempest Caliban is simply left on his island, we know that in reality Prospero rarely simply sails away. To curse in ‘your language’ is not to appropriate the European text on its own terms or to limit ourselves to the spaces allowed by it. Not only will it center around a disclosure of the similarity and dissimilarity, usefulness and irrelevance of the Western text, but it must extend to the economic, sociopolitical and institutional realities in which our academic practice exists. (335) Loomba’s reading of The Tempest emphasizes the material contexts for theoretical debates, including the modes of imperialist domination that survived formal colonialism and intersected with class, racism, and women’s oppression. This emphasis on praxis as a corrective to a pervasive culturalism—­ restoring those ‘messier precincts of “life” and historical experience’ (Said ‘Introduction’ xviii–xix)—is a palpable current. One forceful example is Ghanaian writer and feminist Abena Busia’s ‘Silencing Sycorax: On African Colonial Discourse and the Unvoiced Female.’ Published in the 1989/90 issue of Cultural Critique, this work of creative nonfiction situates The Tempest at the beginning of a long social and literary history that has marginalized and silenced Black women. The Tempest is presented as the template and paradigmatic illustration of the inseparability and stubborn materiality of sexism, racism, and imperialism: In the tempest of storms generated by the literary and sociopolitical interpretations of this play, the still point remains that of an imperial patriarchal control dramatized as conquest—conquest over race and territorial space—while, subsumed beneath these two violations, inscribed in various ways as an inexorable will to power and manifesting itself as the conquest over native female ‘space,’ lies the violence of a conquering masculine sexuality. (Busia 84–5) Drawing attention to the pervasive masculinity of previous anti-colonial appropriations, Busia takes up the women who are missing from the play: ‘They are absent from the drama on the stage and are identifiable only by

154 Overproduction their relationship to the males present: “Prospero’s Wife” and, especially, “Caliban’s Mother”’ (86). Busia develops an account of the silencing of Sycorax—the ‘disembodied symbol of the men’s most terrible fears’—which she evocatively describes as a ‘symbolic laryngectomy’ (90): ‘Having lost her language altogether, Caliban curses in the language of the master rather than in his “mother tongue.” The black woman’s voice has been made to “disappear”’ (94). Seeking to restore this ‘historical subjectivity,’ Busia responds to Gayatri Spivak’s ‘shocking conclusion, that “the subaltern cannot speak”’ by changing the terms of reference. Those who are oppressed and marginalized need to go beyond ‘the master’s texts’ and toward other areas of selfhood and practice: ‘The systematic refusal to hear our speech which colonial literature mirrors, though it has historically removed us from the nexus of certain kinds of power, does not and never actually could render us silent … We women signify: we have many modes of (re)dress’ (Busia 103–4). Busia highlights the violent dynamics of dispossession and silencing that surround the history of The Tempest, while also deploying it in service of a defiant vocalization of Black female subjectivity. This emphasis, surfacing in the 1980s, continued into the final decade of the century. The Tempest is at the heart of Sylvia Wynter’s contribution to the groundbreaking 1990 collection Out of the Kumbla: Caribbean Women and Literature, edited by leading Africana/Caribbean literature scholars Carole Boyce Davis and Elaine Savory Fido. Wynter’s essay, ‘Beyond Miranda’s Meanings,’ takes up the play-text as a foundational moment in the rise of European hegemony and problematizes the absence of Caliban’s female equivalent: ‘the most significant absence of all, that of Caliban’s woman, of Caliban’s physiognomically complementary mate’ (Wynter 114–5). ­A rguing that The Tempest was a signature expression of the ‘epochal threshold shift’ from a religious to a secular worldview when race supplanted gender as the dominant ideological and social primary divide, Wynter seeks to access the ‘hitherto silenced ground of the experience of “native” Caribbean women and Black American women as the ground of Caliban’s women’ (119). This necessitates an entirely new ‘frame of reference’—a second ­epistemological and ontological shift ‘beyond Miranda’s meanings’ on to ­‘“demonic ground”’ (122). For Wynter, the current era offers the possibility of beginning such a shift. The final years of the twentieth century saw several works that in different ways elaborated on this expanded understanding: Jyotsna G. Singh’s 1996 ‘Caliban versus Miranda: Race and Gender Conflicts in Postcolonial Rewritings of The Tempest’ explored the sexual politics of the anti-­ colonial Tempest typified by Aimé Césaire and concluded that it ‘fails to address adequately the relationship between liberation movements and the representations of sexual difference’ (206). Kim Hall’s Things of Darkness (1996) took Prospero’s line addressed to Caliban at the end of the play as the starting point for a wide-ranging exploration of the intersection of race and gender in the conditions of emergent capitalism in the early modern

Overproduction  155 period. Consuela Lopez Springfield used the title Daughters of Caliban for her 1997 interdisciplinary anthology of essays exploring issues of race, class, and gender as they impact Caribbean women. These works also anticipate the liberatory spirit that exploded onto the scene at the end of the millennium with the global justice movement.

Capitalist accumulation then and now The fall of the Soviet empire had brought prognostications about the ‘end of history’ and the triumph of capitalism. By century’s end, however, anti-­ capitalism had returned with a vengeance. What came to be known as the global justice movement was punctuated by epic events. In the ‘Cochabamba Water Wars,’ indigenous and labor groups fought off plans to privatize municipal water supplies in Bolivia. In the ‘Battle of Seattle,’ a mass coalition of organized labor and environmental activists protested against the World Trade Organization, giving rise to the slogan ‘teamsters and turtles united at last.’ As the global rebellion against neoliberalism gathered momentum, it found its way into millennial responses to The Tempest excavating the global linkages between capital accumulation and exploitation past and present, and hailing a recovering resistance. Kamau Brathwaite’s return to The Tempest in 1992 exemplifies this distinct cluster while continuing the restoration of Sycorax, imagined here as mother, African healer, Vodou lwa, and muse. In ‘Letter SycoraX,’ Caliban discovers the word processor and writes to his mother in playful lowercase free verse replete with visual and audible puns, a form Brathwaite dubbed ‘Sycorax video style.’ This expressive mode joins Brathwaite’s ‘Nation language’ and ‘Calibanisms’ as essential elements of Caribbean signification. Opening with a reference to the ‘mercantilists,’ the poem deconstructs the ‘self-help’ ideology of the age with a recurrent image of Caliban trying to climb up a hill or staircase but repeatedly sliding back down. At the top, a whole rash a economists pullin we up by we boot straps & smo. Kin pot bellied ha/ha/ha/ha/Havana cigars & grand master sergeant doe & brand new imperial corporals smiling of cordite & leather strap…

156 Overproduction Brathwaite’s evocative and innovative poetry rehabilitates Sycorax from evil crone to global justice activist, refurbishing the liberatory mode for the neoliberal present. 22 In the 1990s, The Tempest again is conceptualized as an emblematic cultural product of the transition to capitalism that has clear consequences for the subsequent history. Ronald Takaki’s landmark 1992 reading, ‘The Tempest in the Wilderness: The Racialization of Savagery,’ elaborates a sustained account of the connections between past and present as they are activated by Shakespeare’s play. Emphasizing the emergence of modern racial categories during the era of colonial expansion in Ireland and the Americas, the essay traces the links between the English colonial construction of the Irish and Native Americans as ‘savages,’ and the economic motives at the heart of the enterprise. Takaki describes ruling class attempts to prevent contact between English settlers and Native Americans: ‘Interracial cavorting threatened to fracture a cultural and moral border—the frontier of Puritan identity. Congress of bodies, white and “tawney,” signified defilement, a frightful boundlessness’ (910). By the middle of the seventeenth century, the English war against the peoples living on the land they intended to colonize had triumphed. Takaki writes: They had also expanded the market, making New England a center of production and trade. The settlers had turned ‘this Wilderness’ into ‘a mart.’ Merchants from Holland, France, Spain, and Portugal were coming to it. ‘Thus,’ proclaimed Johnson, ‘hath the Lord been pleased to turn one of the most hideous, boundless, and unknown Wildernesses in the world in an instant … to a well-ordered Commonwealth.’ (911) Takaki’s account of this pivotal moment in the history of the American colonies reverberates with his critique of the uses of racism and xenophobia to divide and conquer the multiracial working class in the twentieth century, and with the broader movement against neoliberal hegemony. 23 Edward Said registered a generative global understanding of the play in Culture and Imperialism, published in 1993, while his discussion of anti-­ colonial appropriations of Caliban identified a distinctive twist in this post colonial moment. Citing Fanon’s ‘Pitfalls of National Consciousness,’ he observes: ‘Merely to replace white officers and bureaucrats with coloured equivalents, he says, is no guarantee that the nationalist functionaries will not replicate the old dispensation. The dangers of chauvinism and xenophobia … are very real’ (Said, Culture and Imperialism 214). Confronting the postindependence development of dictatorships and client states for U.S. imperialism, Said calls for an expanded understanding of power dynamics that goes beyond the narrow colonizer/colonized dichotomy. He offers a reconfigured Caliban as the global representative of all oppressed people: ‘it is best when Caliban sees his own history as an aspect of the history of all subjugated men and women, and comprehends the complex truth of his own social and historical situation’ (214).

Overproduction  157 One germinal text that encapsulates this widened vision is the 1992 novel Indigo by British author and critic Marina Warner. Developing several ­consecutive plotlines that all circle back to the reconstructed historical encounter behind Prospero, Caliban, Ariel, and Sycorax, Warner draws on the longer tradition of liberatory Tempests, new critical histories of global capitalism, and the ongoing rehabilitation of Sycorax. This imaginative and experimental work of narrative fiction situates the colonial encounter firmly within the history of capitalism, which it accesses through The Tempest’s preoccupation with sea-change. In a later essay, Warner uses a simile reminiscent of Ariel’s ‘Postscript’ in Auden’s Sea and the Mirror to comment on the stubborn presence of Sycorax: She does not appear in the play, and is given no lines, but ‘her mysterious, indeterminate story and character suffuses The Tempest; the “foul witch Sycorax” occupies the drama like a prompter who accompanies the action throughout, hidden and unheard, beneath the stage’ (‘“The foul witch”’ 97). In an act of recovery that is reminiscent of H.D.’s By Avon River while connecting with the contemporary Sycorax school, Indigo recasts the ‘foul witch’ as an indigenous woman and healer, and moves her to the ethical and emotional center of the story. Indigo dramatizes the play’s involvement in primitive accumulation and dispossession and revives the ‘many-headed hydra’ of rebellion against the planter class. The unsettling narrative structure and syncopated story lines draw attention to the unreliability of historiography, and the entire novel resonates with postmodern skepticism about the project of recording the past. The overall trajectory is not so much to abandon the attempt, however, but rather to dismantle the history of the oppressor and construct in its place tangible alternatives. The most compelling of the interwoven plotlines dramatizes the inhabitants of a fictional Caribbean island prior to, during, and after European invasion in the seventeenth century; the others follow the descendants of this early modern historical encounter in England and the Caribbean during three tumultuous periods of the twentieth century: World War Two, the 1960s, and 1983.24 The seventeenth-century story imaginatively conjures an inside perspective on the profound and wrenching transformations wrought by mercantilism on indentured laborers, enslaved Africans, and indigenous populations of the Caribbean. The process of producing dye from the indigo plant initiates a dense figurative chain signifying metamorphoses, evoking Ovid and Virgil as well as the discourse of alchemy that is so central to Shakespeare’s play. Sea-change forms the central metaphor for an earlier concept of chronology that contrasts with capitalist time: organic matter ossifies into mineral; men are turned into animals; green leaves transform into the color blue. Initially in search of gold in Surinam, the explorers soon discover the productive possibilities of the land, which through alchemy can be turned into money: ‘There was a fortune to be made. The first ship to sail with a cargo of tobacco brought them a handsome profit, enough to provision two more ships to make the return journey’ (112). Gold and

158 Overproduction tobacco are ultimately supplanted by sugar, which, making an appearance in every chapter, becomes metonymic for the profit system. In an accelerated chronology, the colonizers look to British laborers and Arawaks before they settle on Africans to provide the labor necessary to create a profitable plantation. Sycorax, reconfigured as an Amerindian healer, rescues Dulé from the dying body of his mother, an enslaved African thrown into the water from a slaving ship. Dulé, who is renamed ‘Caliban’ by the colonizers, goes on to build a multiracial ‘fledgling society’ of those dispossessed by the new processes of primitive accumulation: ‘fugitives from the settlements, pirates from foreign ships run aground for careening who had decided to stay, and some people of her own tribe who responded to Dulé’s anger’ (119). Racism both serves to justify the enslavement of Africans and to divide and conquer the laboring classes: ‘After the Africans arrived, it was they who worked, while the Englishmen, who had previously labored, now drilled under two army sergeants’ (177). For a period, however, the laborers remain united against their common enemy: Dulé could promise a force nearly two hundred strong of a mixed crowd of men: a core of maroons from islands in the archipelago colonized already; some redlegs, or tallow men, renegades to their own people and the more ardent to fight for that very apostasy (some of them former prisoners and others who had been press-ganged into sailing service). (175) The defeat of this rebellion provides the novel’s harrowing emotional apex, as the motley crew is mown down by the settlers’ advanced weaponry. Echoing the depiction of Trinculo, Stephano, and Caliban’s conspiracy, the British colonizer describes the attack as ‘a most fiendish and treacherous Enterprise, namely to do every man among us fatal harm while we were still sleeping in our beds. A villainous raid’; eliding their own treachery and military advantage, he claims that only ‘the Grace of God’ and ‘mighty Providence’ led him to victory (197). While the twentieth-century stories trace the legacies of this moment in time for both the 1960s and the 1980s, these plotlines lack the emotional power of the original encounter; the stymied revolt of the motley crew forms the heart of the narrative, and is the story line that resonates most powerfully with the neoliberal present.

Brave new galaxies At the turn of the millennium, The Tempest became a template for mapping the linkages between early modern and contemporary dispossessions and resistance. This can be seen perhaps most vividly as a motif in fin de siècle popular culture. Myriad references crop up in science fiction and fantasy television and literature during the 1990s. With an emphasis on

Overproduction  159 looming planetary disaster, often connecting back to the ur-texts, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and Fred M. Wilcox’s The Forbidden Planet, they also evoke Marx’s capitalist as the ‘sorcerer who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells’ (Gasper 47). This figure is often deployed as a warning against the dangers of unfettered economic and technological developments resulting from deregulation, and prefigures the anti-capitalism of the rising global justice movement of the late 1990s. Star Trek, which has a long history of engagement with Shakespeare, returned to The Tempest toward the end of The Next Generation in the 1994 episode ‘Emergence.’25 The action begins with the android Data— who aspires to be human—playing Prospero in rehearsal under the direction of Captain Picard. Soon the holodeck is disrupted and the entire ship is threatened by an unexpected storm. With a gesture toward the unpredictable outcomes analyzed in complex systems theories, the crew lose control of the ship for a period, during which time it generates a new life form. The episode’s conclusion asserts the principle of respect for all life-forms, and ponders what it means to be human. In aspiring to the best of human accomplishment, while simultaneously presenting a more ethical compass than most, Data is poignantly reminiscent of Ariel, who in Shakespeare’s play counsels forgiveness and declares that he would feel sympathy for Prospero’s enemies ‘were I human’ (V.i.20). The entire episode is suggestive of a slogan coined by the global justice movement: ‘don’t fear technology; fear those who control it.’ A particularly rich treatment of the play in the genre of fantasy came in 1996 with the last installment of Neil Gaiman’s award winning comic book series: The Sandman. The final book, ‘The Tempest,’ tells the story of Shakespeare writing his supposedly last work, caught between the quotidian demands of earning a living, and the influence of the Sandman, who is here credited with responsibility for Shakespeare’s phenomenal creativity. The entire text is suffused with an elegiac sadness, which stems from and speaks to the closing of the series, the end of Shakespeare’s days as a playwright, and the approaching close of the millennium. Gaiman’s close attention to the materiality of the dramatist’s labor and the physical conditions of early modern life is in tension with strains of bardolatry. The choice of The Tempest to conclude the series also is ripe with significance for a project that is overwhelmingly concerned with questions of empire and power more broadly: Throughout the series Gaiman underscores the fact that, with few exceptions, his rulers are unable to meet the demands of maintaining an empire, often doubting the very necessity of their domains yet almost universally lacking the ability or means to put an end to their growth and expansion. (Mellette 327)

160 Overproduction This again vividly recalls Marx’s magician run amok and, for some commentators, evokes Hardt and Negri’s 2000 Empire, which was a touchstone for many opponents of capitalism in the global justice movement. The spirit of this movement left a trace on responses to the play in the coming decade, but it was to be at least temporarily overshadowed by two momentous developments at the turn of the millennium: the advent of the ‘war on terror’ and urgent evidence of the dire consequences of global climate change. 26 These historical developments activated new ways of meaning by The Tempest, drawing attention to the motif of incarceration and focusing new attention on lines that now seemed ominously prescient of perpetual war and environmental damage. The twenty-first-century Tempest intensified fin de siècle apprehensions concerning the brutal consequences of untrammeled development and rising inequalities, and it added a new axis of anxiety: the threat of ecological catastrophe.

Notes 1 For a global account of the political and economic consequences of ­neoliberalism, see Eric Toussaint’s Your Money or Your Life, first published in 1998. 2 See Ellen Meiksins Wood, The Retreat from Class. 3 In 1990, Howard Felperin referred to new historicism as ‘a late and weakened version of that unmasking of the historical interestedness of the text—of “high culture”—whose strong form has traditionally been Marxism,’ noting its characteristic ‘“textualizing” of history and culture’ and suspicion of ‘the pseudo-­ objective “facts” of an older historical empiricism’ (Felperin vi–vii). Richard Halpern wrote the same year, ‘there is still a general assumption among both new historicists and poststructuralists that the “metanarrative” of Marxism is a hopeless antique’ (Poetics 2). A few years later, John Zammito extended the diagnosis: ‘the old language of determinism, with its categories “mode of production” and “class,” has been debunked for its crude substructure/superstructure model’ (793) and offered the prognosis, ‘the very idea of objectivity has been eviscerated’ (797). Ivo Kamps’ 1995 anthology Materialist Shakespeare: A History has a different emphasis, portraying the developments of the previous decade as a triumph for materialism ‘which until the early to mid 1970s basically meant traditional Marxism’ and ‘has been transformed into an omnipresent and thriving mix of materialist practices’ (1). In his postscript to the collection, Fredric Jameson reiterates the division between a ‘“traditional” Marxist approach’ and the forms following ‘the Derridean attack on the temptations of “truth”’ and other ‘such shifts in recent times’ (in Kamps 324). Jean Howard’s 2001 Marxist Shakespeares argues that ‘it is time to put aside narratives of Marxism’s demise and put its resources to use in new forms of intellectual production.’ She also contrasts ‘traditional Marxist concerns’ with ‘a newer insistence on the relative autonomy of superstructural elements and the subsequent move away from a base-driven, bottom-up model of historical development’ (Howard 8). 4 Said writes: ‘By the time “theory” advanced intellectually into departments of English, French, and German in the United States, the notion of “text” had been transformed into something almost metaphysically isolated from experience. The sway of semiology, deconstruction, and even the archaeological descriptions of Foucault, as they have commonly been received, reduced and in many instances eliminated the messier precincts of “life” and historical experience…’ (Introduction Reflections on Exile xviii–xix). Significant Marxist analyses of

Overproduction  161 these trends globally include Ellen Meiksins Wood’s The Retreat from Class (1986), Paul Bové’s In the Wake of Theory (1991), and Aijaz Ahmad’s In Theory (1995). Mark Netzloff in 2003 registered the absence of sustained consideration of class and capitalism in early modern literary studies, which he argues ‘have largely overlooked issues of class or economics’ (6). 5 Harold Bloom was a leading figure in the attack on ‘politicized’ Shakespeare at this time. His 1994 book The Western Canon coined the term ‘School of Resentment’ to characterize Marxists, feminists, postcolonialists, postmodernists, and others who challenged the idea of Shakespeare’s universality and greatness. It may reasonably be pointed out that Bloom’s own position itself, in refusing to see the ‘barbarism’ behind the cultural treasure, represents a specific political worldview. 6 Helen C. Scott, Caribbean Women Writers: Fictions of Independence. 7 Derek Jarman was a British film director recognized as a fellow of the British Film Institute. Born in 1942, Jarman studied at the famous Slade School of Fine Art in London in the 1960s and became a vocal advocate for gay rights, participating in the campaign against Clause 28 in the 1980s (see footnote 15 below). He was diagnosed with AIDS in 1986 and died of related conditions in 1994. His most celebrated film was the 1986 Caravaggio. 8 Liviu Ciulei (1923–2011) was a significant Romanian theater and film director whose work achieved international acclaim. He became Director of the Tyrone Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis in 1980. 9 Dollimore and Sinfield’s 1985 edited anthology, Political Shakespeare: New ­E ssays in Cultural Materialism, which included Paul Brown’s essay on The Tempest, was a seminal text for this movement, also referred to as the ‘new radical Shakespeare.’ The censorious response is exemplified in a 1987 essay by American Shakespeare scholar Edward Pechter that charges Marxists of addressing ‘colonial discourse’ at the expense of specificities of ‘circumstances— author, audience, chronology’ (298). 10 In the Wake of Theory by Paul Bové and What’s Wrong with Postmodernism? by Christopher Norris both elaborate Marxist analyses of the shift to discourse and the linguistic turn. Paul Brown’s trend-setting analysis ‘“This Thing of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine:” The Tempest and the Discourse of Colonialism’ appeared in the anthology Political Shakespeare: New Essays in Cultural Materialism in 1985. Brown presented the play as an intervention into colonialist discourse: ‘a radically ambivalent text which exemplifies not some timeless contradiction internal to the discourse by which it inexorably undermines or deconstructs its “official” pronouncements, but a moment of historical crisis’ (48). Historical crisis is simultaneously evoked and de-materialized: the object of critique is the ‘euphemization’ of power, not power itself, which now seems beyond analysis. 11 See Chapter 4 footnote 27. Some companies survived in the UK, and others moved abroad. The Footsbarn company, for example, successfully relocated to France. In collaboration with the Abhinaya Theatre Research Group the troupe produced a global tour of an ‘Indian Tempest’ in 2013. www.thehindu. com/news/cities/Thiruvananthapuram/footsbarn-is-back-in-city-with-indian-­ tempest/article4339265.ece. 12 For more information about the company, see Kershaw and Coult, eds., Engineers of the Imagination. Live footage of the performance can be seen on Vimeo, posted by Jon Michaelson. 13 The character was described as ‘“a handbag-clutching Margaret Thatcher doppelganger in navy and pearls”’ (qtd. Dymkowski 134). 14 ‘This Island’s Mine’ was published with three other works in 1989 in the antho­ logy Gay Sweatshop: Four Plays and a Company, edited by Osment and other members of the company. Gay Sweatshop visited Gordano Comprehensive

162 Overproduction

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17

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School when I was doing A Level Theater Studies there, and a fellow student and I went to London to research the group and interview playwright Noël Greig. Clause 28, also known as Section 28, was an amendment to the Local Government Act of 1988 specifying that local governments ‘shall not intentionally promote homosexuality or publish material with the intention of promoting homosexuality’ or ‘promote the teaching in any maintained school of the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship.’ While the measure provoked widespread political opposition, it passed in to law and was not repealed until 2003 (Scotland repealed it in 2000). Two important films marked the 30th anniversary of the miners’ strike: the drama Pride and the documentary Still the Enemy Within. Both films acknowledge the scale of the defeat, which set in motion decades of setbacks for labor. They also demonstrate that this monumental working-class struggle, which involved deep and wide solidarity efforts, had some lasting positive political consequences. The efforts of the groups Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners, and Lesbians Against Pit Closures, significantly challenged homophobic ideas and advanced the cause of LGBTQ rights in the labor movement and beyond. In recognition of the support shown by the group, the National Union of Miners subsequently had an organized presence at Gay Pride parades. See http://lgsm. org/about-lgsm. Susan Faludi’s landmark 1991 book Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women documented the systemic attacks on the gains of the women’s liberation movements that characterized this era. For global perspectives on the impact of neoliberalism on women’s rights, see Afshar, ed. Women and Adjustment Policies in the Third World. One strand of identity politics that has been particularly influential in academia posits separate competing identities—understood in isolation from capitalism— and emphasizes incommensurable difference and separatism over commonality and solidarity. The 1988 essay ‘White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack’ by Peggy McIntosh exemplifies this type of class-blind ‘privilege’ politics. A contrasting tradition can be seen in the anti-capitalist Black Feminism of the Combahee Collective. Their landmark 1974 statement analyzed racism, sexism, and heterosexism as interconnected oppressions deeply embedded in the capitalist system and inflected by class, and projected a revolutionary politics of solidarity as a means to global emancipation (Taylor, How We Get Free). This approach anticipated and informed theories of intersectionality that would receive more prominence in coming decades, pioneered by Kimberlé Crenshaw (1991). See Crenshaw’s 1991 ‘Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color.’ Foundational moments in this tradition include Angela Davis, Women, Race, and Class and the work of the Combahee River Collective. How We Get Free: Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective, edited by Keeanga-­ Yamahtta Taylor, offers illuminating interviews with some of its founders and an insightful introduction by Taylor providing an analytical overview of the group. Irene Lara’s essay ‘Beyond Caliban’s Curses: The Decolonial Feminist Literacy of Sycorax’ (2007) presents a different take. Her reading of Césaire’s approach to Sycorax is in sharp contrast with that of Cliff: ‘In representing Sycorax as “Mother. Serpent, rain, lightning” as Earth that never dies, Césaire is also participating in the nationalist discourse that idealizes women as only spiritual mothers and the source of their sons’ (or lovers’) strength and legitimacy, at the cost of not recognizing their complex materiality, sexuality, and subjectivity’ (Lara 87–8).

Overproduction  163 22 Elaine Savory’s ‘Returning to Sycorax/Prospero’s Response: Kamau Brathwaite’s Word Journey’ offers a detailed exploration of this work. 23 See also Ronald Takaki’s A Different Mirror: A History of Multicultural America. 24 Connections can be made between Marina Warner, who counts among her ancestry the first colonial governor of St Kitts, and the character Miranda Everhope, descendant of the first English governor of the fictional island, ­Enfant-Béate (Li 85). Warner has discussed these parallels: ‘Because our family was involved in an enterprise that so resembles Prospero’s theft, that foundation act of Empire, I felt compelled to examine the case, and imagine, in fiction, the life and culture of Sycorax, and of Ariel, and Caliban’ (Warner ‘Between’ 203). 25 Episode 5 of the third season of the original Star Trek, ‘Is There in Truth No Beauty,’ takes names and themes from The Tempest. With an obvious debt to The Forbidden Planet, the USS Enterprise comes under threat when the crew attempt a mind-link with the dangerous Medusan, Kollos, in order to improve their technological capacity. Deep Space Nine alludes to the play in the title of its first episode, ‘Past Prologue,’ which is repeated in the title of a story written by a character in another episode, ‘The Ascent.’ 26 Gabriel Egan’s 2004 Shakespeare and Marx, which explores the influence of Marxism on Shakespeare studies (The Tempest is not one of the works he considers), addresses the impact of both the fall of the Soviet Union and the global justice movement. His conclusion speaks to the ‘broad coalition of eco-­ warriors, anarchists, animal rights protesters and anti-capitalists that has become visible in the past few years’ (151). In contrast to my account, Egan sees the period after ‘the fall’ as empty space when it comes to Marxist theory: ‘The aim here is … to trace the progression of ideas that originate with Marx, and for that reason there is little to say about the period after the mid-1980s. In political practice everything changed with the collapse of the communist states in 1989–90, and Marxist theory has yet to produce any coherent response to this that might illuminate Shakespeare studies’ (Egan, 2004, 70). Egan thus equates Stalinism with communism with Marxism. An alternative schema is offered by Isaac Deutscher, who distinguished the ‘Classical Marxist’ tradition from ‘vulgar Marxism,’ which he described as ‘the pseudo-Marxism of the different varieties of European social–democrats, reformists, Stalinists, Krushchevites, and their like’ (‘Marxism in Our Time’ 18). Perry Anderson’s ‘Western Marxism’ further separates the classical tradition from late twentieth-century academic varieties.

6 Deregulation

I have bedimm’d/The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds,/And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault/Set roaring war. Prospero V.i

The Tempest in the twenty-first century: 2000–11 In the new century, the fruits of neoliberalism were seen in widening social inequality and a marked decline in the fortunes of workers.1 Twenty-first-­ century capitalism presented a ‘new age of accumulation by dispossession’ that innovated processes identified by Marx over 150 years earlier: [T]he commodification and privatization of land and the forceful expulsion of peasant populations; the conversion of various forms of property rights (common, collective, state, etc.) into exclusive private property rights; the suppression of rights to the commons; the c­ ommodification of labour power and the suppression of alternative (indigenous) forms of production and consumption; colonial, neo-­colonial, and imperial processes of appropriation of assets (including natural resources); the monetization of exchange and taxation, particularly of land; the slave trade; and usury, the national debt, and ultimately the credit system as radical means of primitive accumulation. (Harvey The New ­Imperialism 145–6) These processes were inseparable from further horrors, some consolidated and others freshly minted. With mounting evidence of warming oceans, melting ice caps, receding glaciers, rising sea levels, and ever more extreme weather conditions, the dire consequences of global climate change took on a new urgency. Exacerbating the ecological crisis, this was a new era of perpetual war, featuring the U.S. American-led invasions and occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq and the sustained and wide-ranging ‘war on terror.’ The financial crisis of 2007–08, the worst since the 1930s, led to the prolonged and devastating global Great Recession, and in response capital launched a broad class-based attack, within which oppressed groups faced

Deregulation  165 particular hardships. The impact of the recession—financial loss, absorbing the squeeze placed on all workers to be more productive and make do with less, and coping with a reduced social safety net—disproportionately hit people of color and women, while the ongoing drive to ‘get tough on crime’ intensified the criminalization and social exclusion of a generation of overwhelmingly working class and disproportionately black men.2 The experience of disability was also heightened, as the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan brought injury and trauma both to the civilians of those countries and to the soldiers on all sides, while cuts in benefits and services left many disabled populations with fewer of the resources necessary for individual well-being and social inclusion.3 Evidence of the play’s by-now indelible association with capitalism could be seen in the titles of economic reports in the news media, such as a March 2001 headline from the Financial Times quoting Prospero’s description of Caliban in the final scene: ‘This thing of darkness: Is this a time to invest in equities or flee from the tempest…?’ (Budden and London 01). These correlations only intensified in the wake of the Great Recession when The Tempest was evoked in myriad arenas: political commentary on the war on terror, the financial meltdown, and the anti-capitalist movement; p ­ opular culture—especially science fiction and also music—evoking apocalypse and atavism; new histories of accumulation by dispossession. The Tempests of the new century were haunted by military occupation, incarceration and torture, and bespoke the deep capitalist connections between resource extraction, the global war on terror, ecological rift, race and gender oppression, and indigenous dispossession.4 The century that witnessed the complete globalization of capitalism presented an equally globalized Tempest, and as the play traveled across the world, both literally and imaginatively, it frequently encountered local manifestations of dispossession and resistance. With the ‘de-naturalization’ of capitalism, the balance of integrative, disintegrative, and liberatory was recalibrated. The new age of dispossession and resistance tapped into the play’s deep and integral involvement in the intertwined compulsions of economic processes and colonial plunder beyond the formal period of European colonialism, giving rise to novel and expanded renditions of disintegrative anti-capitalist Tempests. While the play became metonymic for capitalism and anti-capitalist resistance, forms of expropriation and exploitation encroached on the conditions of production of even the most spangled of mainstream performances. In this context, Caliban’s flexibility as a symbol of both oppression and rebellion continued to expand, as did the nexus of intersectional signification surrounding Sycorax. The tenor of this twenty-first-century Tempest was captured by May Joseph in 2002: ‘Sycorax … emerges cannibalized by the systems of capital’ (212). Anti-colonial readings hitherto had tended toward the disintegrative, but this period saw the emergence of the ‘postcolonial integrative,’ combining

166 Deregulation a postcolonial aesthetic with elements of the sentimental reading. Some performances and literary appropriations nostalgic for the era of national ­liberation located the play in the colonial past, bypassing continuing dynamics of capitalist imperialism and allowing for a ‘happy ending’ belying the messy contradictions of the original play and out of joint with the disintegrative present. The postcolonial integrative is the appropriate mode for neoliberal multiculturalism which celebrates difference in identity and symbolically incorporates the language of liberation while intensifying oppression and exploitation. Simultaneously, the ideology of ­‘post-postcolonialism’ expressed weariness for the ‘colonial reading,’ occasionally calling for a less rosy engagement with the postindependence present, but more often restoring the sentimental Tempest as timeless meditation on the human condition. Prior to these new integrative twists, however, the broad erosion of civil liberties produced a widespread disintegrative milieu, evident in dystopic appropriations and a marked revival of the phrase supplying the title of Huxley’s novel, ‘brave new world.’5 The period refurbished the Romantic metaphor of the storm as social crisis—‘the tempest that is contemporary history’ as Terry Eagleton put it in 2002—and refashioned the motifs of metamorphoses and sea-change into warnings of planetary disaster resulting from patriarchy, militarism, unchecked industrial development, and climate catastrophe. Tangible ecological disaster focalized Gonzalo’s lines from the end of the first scene: ‘Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground: long heath, brown [furze], any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death’ (I.i.65–8). These words now appeared to address the perilous position of coastal and island communities threatened by encroaching oceans and land submersion. Prospero’s reworking of Medea’s lines—‘I have bedimm’d/The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds,/And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault/Set roaring war’ (V.i.41–4)—now seemed an ominous evocation of the devastating consequences of perpetual war, while his ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech—particularly ‘ … the great globe itself,/Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve’ (IV.i.153–4)—vocalized contemporary apprehension that indeed the very globe itself was under dire threat.

The great globe The new century opened with the publication of a collection edited by Peter Hulme and William H. Sherman, The Tempest and Its Travels. While the entire edition pays tribute to the play’s global range, the contribution by Crystal Bartolovich explicitly locates it in the evolution of capitalism. Drawing on David Harvey’s account of early modern globalization, the essay begins with a reference to a 1999 article bemoaning changes in B ­ ritain—‘devolution, globalization, the European Union, and immigration’—and responds by underscoring London’s long history as a ‘global’ city: ‘even at the moment

Deregulation  167 of the emergence of capital, the world was “in” London and London in the world in novel ways in the seventeenth century as labour and trade practices transformed, rendering it “baseless”, in the sense of dislocated’ (Bartolovich ‘Baseless Fabric’ 13, 20). While the play ‘offers a powerful fantasy of control for an unsettled London in the throes of massive change,’ it also reveals that ‘early modern subjects, too, were struggling to come to terms with a rapidly growing and bewilderingly dispersing city’ (25). The drama indicates that ‘the “West” could not exist without the Calibans who “serve[d] in offices that profit[ed]” it (I.ii.312–3)’ (26). This essay inaugurated a new era of engagement with the play’s long-standing entanglement with global capitalism at the sites of both production and reception. Diverse critical works variously signaled the play’s relevance to early modern and contemporary questions of class, labor, and money. In the 2000 book Class, Critics, and Shakespeare, Sharon O’Dair read The Tempest through the lens of capitalist class relations, with an emphasis on the contemporary ramifications for widening inequalities in education, employment, and wages: ‘Such a reading is of special importance in America at the turn of the millennium, where the pain of working-class Americans is drawing increased attention’ (37). Melissa D. Aaron’s 2005 Global Economics, which explores Shakespeare’s theater company as a business, acknowledges the ‘vexed question of whether the economic system in the Early Modern era can strictly be called capitalism’ and concludes that ‘[w]hat matters is that the English stage was a commercial enterprise, and like the other commercial enterprises of the day, depended upon investment and speculation’ (30, 31). Her reading of The Tempest emphasizes the commercial dynamics of its Jacobean production, considers its dual location between patronage and profit, and argues that Prospero’s ‘authority is, for a theater poet, measured in money, and of course, applause’ (Aaron citing Bevington 107). This sense of the theater as an institution marking the growth of an economy based on money is shown to permeate the play at every level. In a conspicuous departure from postmodern orthodoxy, the era thus saw a ‘return to class’ as a central point of reference for cultural analysis.6 Mark Netzloff’s 2003 England’s Internal Colonies: Class, Capital, and the Literature of Early Modern English Colonialism argued specifically for engagement with class and capitalism in the field of early modern studies. Maintaining that scholars ‘have generally neglected to recognize class as an important factor in early English colonial projects’ (6), Netzloff explores the early formation of capital within a Marxist historical framework: England’s Internal Colonies presents a critical method that foregrounds questions of class conflict, capital, and labor, a form of analysis that is attentive to the inextricable links between the domestic and the foreign, ‘home’ and ‘the world,’ inquiring into the formative domestic impact of early English colonial enterprise as well as the global repercussions of class relations in early modern England. (15)

168 Deregulation Netzloff reads The Tempest against the backdrop of social upheaval in early modern England that displaced the laboring classes. Taking up the burlesque gabardine scene, in which Trinculo seemingly ‘vents’ Caliban, he argues that dispossessed laborers were ‘vented’ to the colonies as part of the broader process of social control. The book is interested in recovering voices of the dispossessed while emphasizing the connections between colonial and domestic contexts and tracing the play’s connections to the Virginia colony: drawing on Strachey’s True Reportory, The Tempest ‘buttressed a centralization of capital and erosion of laborers’ customary rights’: This appropriation of labor culminated a process of capital formation that had successfully eroded the customary rights of laborers in England, one that replaced models of the commonwealth and body politic with the forced production of the workhouse. The failure of these domestic forms of social control gave rise to an advocacy of practices of venting labor to the colonies, policies that effectively drew attention away from the crises embedded in domestic class relations following an early period of capitalist accumulation. (Netzloff 133) While not explicitly addressing debates about neoliberalism and the new imperialism, Netzloff’s emphasis on accumulation and dispossession resonates with contemporary critiques of capitalism, and marks the return to class. Elsewhere the play’s origins with the birth of capitalism were sharply framed by current as well as historical collective resistance to global dispossession. This is exemplified in the expansive sociocultural history, The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic by Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker, published in 2000. Traversing a broad span of time, the book recovers a submerged history from below and charts opposition to transatlantic capitalism. It begins with a lengthy and stirring account of the wreck of the Sea Venture and Shakespeare’s mis-appropriation of that story. Shakespeare is associated with the rising class: ‘His play both described and promoted the rising interest of England’s ruling class in the settlement and exploitation of the New World’ (Linebaugh and Rediker 14). But the drama also offers glimpses of the struggle for the commons and visions of collective alternatives. Resonating with Marina Warner’s fictional treatment in Indigo, Linebaugh and Rediker go behind the scenes of Shakespeare’s play to take the viewpoint of the motley crew: from this perspective, the comic ­‘conspiracy’ of Caliban, Trinculo, and Stephano becomes a distorted version of the multiracial rebellion by dispossessed and exploited laborers who wanted to stay in the Bermudas to pursue a collective alternative way of life. This rebellion was met with harsh class discipline from the Virginia Company authorities, suggested in the storm scene by the nobles’ insistence that the disobedient Boatswain is fated for the gallows.

Deregulation  169 Linebaugh and Rediker highlight the links between the twenty-first and seventeenth centuries. Published before the events of 9/11 and the war on terror, the spirit of the vibrant global justice movement and its promise that ‘Another World is Possible!’ pervade this work, in ways that are reminiscent of V.J. Jerome’s ‘Caliban Speaks’: ‘The globalizing powers have a long reach and endless patience. Yet the planetary wanderers do not forget, and they are ever ready from Africa to the Caribbean to Seattle to resist slavery and restore the commons’ (Linebaugh and Rediker 353). The Tempest is thus once more associated with an ascendant liberation movement of global horizons. This and other contemporary works opened up the possibility of a new wave of liberatory Tempests. However, this promise and the anti-­capitalist movement itself were interrupted by the global war on terror, and the consequences quickly reverberated in a return to the disintegrative mode.

All the devils are here From cultural criticism to performance to stand-up comedy, works in the coming period highlighted the play’s deep involvement in the violence and exploitation accompanying the global nexus of race, gender, class, and capital, with a heightened awareness of the structures of dispossession, incarceration, and torture connecting the seventeenth and twenty-first centuries. One of the most vivid articulations is May Joseph’s ‘Sycorax Mythology,’ a contribution to the 2002 edited collection Black Theatre. Engaging with the diverse history of colonial and anti-colonial Tempests, Joseph explores the play as a symbol of the violent dispossessions that ushered in modernity and endured in the present. Drawing on Caribbean writers, especially women such as Marlene Nourbese Philip, Michelle Cliff, and Suzanne Césaire, ­Joseph’s reading continues the rehabilitation of Shakespeare’s ‘foul witch,’ placing Sycorax at the center of the play and indeed of modernity itself. Emphasizing her ‘absent presence,’ and stubborn ‘aurality’ which escapes erasure and ‘ruptures the narrative of visual modernity,’ Joseph identifies Sycorax as the epitome of the incarcerated, tortured, and maligned indigenous woman whose dispossession is the precondition for capitalism (209): As a key to unraveling the psychic boundaries of power, gender, and nationalist sentiment, Sycorax is simultaneously native woman and modern subject of the new nation. Her screams unleash the unspoken economics of exchange. She forces on the pragmatism of emerging capitalist world systems a nervousness of subaltern agency and resilience. Her presence creates growing unease in the colonial occupier. (210) While Sycorax remained largely unheard even as Caliban and Ariel were taken up as figures of nationalist and socialist emancipation by an earlier generation, a vibrant female Caribbean tradition, as embodied by the Jamaican community theater Sistren Collective, ‘generate a history of the modern Sycorax’ (Joseph 223).

170 Deregulation One of the more striking aspects of Joseph’s ‘Sycorax Mythology’ is its deployment of the trope of cannibalism as a metaphor for capitalism. Combining Brazilian modernist Oswald de Andrade’s ‘Anthropophagic Manifesto,’ which ‘complicates economic theories of use value and exchange,’ and British postcolonial critic Peter Hulme’s ‘extensive genealogy of the term Cannibal’ developed in ‘Prospero and Caliban’ (in his Colonial Encounters), Joseph draws out the complex and contradictory implications for Sycorax (211, 212). Prospero projects all of the barbaric violence of European modernity onto its victims: Sycorax ‘emerges cannibalized by the systems of capital through which her enslaved pregnant black body is consumed as free labor. She is the expendable commodity of an unmarked island in the outer peripheries of Europe’s imagination’ (Joseph 212). Sycorax, ‘both cannibal and cannibalized,’ is the key to understanding material and ideological practices: ‘Through the deployment of cannibalistic logic, of devouring and being devoured, a colonial, pre-industrial and yet very contemporary theory of use/exchange value can be read in the play’ (Joseph 212). In Joseph’s hands, Sycorax mythology is reworked, and a new witch comes into being as an archetype for a multitude of poetic and practical forms of resistance and regeneration. While the iconoclastic rhetorical flare of Joseph’s treatment was unique, the play’s association with exploitation and oppression was evident more broadly in the world of theater. In high-profile performances, Ariel and Caliban’s valence as figures of the oppressed expanded apace. (Sycorax still remained an absent presence more often than not, though the character would occasionally appear on stage in the coming years). Michael Boyd’s acclaimed 2002 production for the Round House, as critics noted, emphasized the ‘very topical theme of racism’ (Fisher) while highlighting class invective: ‘once the storm breaks, all hell is let loose as the usurping lords threaten the mariners’ (Billington 2002). The production cast black actors for both Ariel, played by a woman, and Caliban, who, ‘tethered by a long rope, is both exploited racial victim and angry avenger’ (Billington 2002). The production also drew analogies between political machinations then and now: critics noted that ‘[t]he plotting between Brian Protheroe’s wicked Antonio and Tom Beard’s evil Sebastian over the sleeping King of Naples (Keith Bartlett) tells as much about politics today as in the 16th century’ (Fisher); and ‘Brian Protheroe’s Antonio and Tom Beard’s Sebastian remind us The Tempest is not just an island fling but a dark study of power’ (Billington 2002). The moment was ripe for the disintegrative mode. Caliban’s symbolic range continued to diversify and expand. The creative, satirical, and poignant one-person dramatic monologue ‘I, Caliban’ by British dramatist Tim Crouch reimagined Shakespeare’s ‘slave’ as a representative of disenchanted British youth.7 In the opening years of the new century, the show’s touring performances—staged in a wide range of improvised spaces such as schools and pub gardens—used puppets and well-chosen minimal props to tell a distinctly contemporary story. Caliban’s physical appearance, archetypally registered as deformity and monstrosity,

Deregulation  171 is here couched in terms of nonconformity to idealized norms of appearance and the vagaries of a deprived life. Caliban addresses the audience: ‘You’re thinking, what an ugly man … WELL YOU’D BE UGLY IF YOU HAD A LIFE LIKE MINE’ (Crouch I, Shakespeare 55). Crouch explained the thinking behind his retelling: I had thought long and hard about poor old Caliban … and I thought I would like to think about the Tempest from Caliban’s point of view … Caliban has sympathy with any young person in an audience. He has his rights removed from him, he is very poorly treated by Prospero, and so I thought there might be some connection. I made a connection with Caliban and wrote a piece about an angry, ugly man, with a life jacket and two suitcases hoping that the boat might take him back to Naples. (Interview) Caliban here stands in for the dispossessed generation, those who inherit the precarious employment and shredded social safety net of Austerity Britain. This performance is also firmly in the tradition, pioneered by Césaire, of taking the comic dynamics of the original, which are invariably directed at the oppressed, and re-directing them to target the powerful. In the period around the financial crisis and Great Recession, the royal party and crew jumping from the wrecked ship became a central point of reference, particularly Ariel’s description of Ferdinand leaping into the ocean, ‘…the King’s son, Ferdinand,/With hair up-staring (then like reeds, not hair),/Was the first man that leapt; cried, “Hell is empty,/And all the devils are here”’ (I.ii.212–5). These lines supplied titles for two radically different artifacts: an album by the British death metal band Anaal Nathrakh: Hell is Empty and all the Devils are Here (2007) and a high-profile book studying the causes of the financial meltdown by American journalists McLean and Nocera, All the Devils are Here: The Hidden History of the Financial Crisis (2010). Contrasts in genre and affect notwithstanding, both works use the play to associate capitalism with maelstrom and devilry, suggesting the profoundly tarnished reputation of the capitalist elite soon to be broadly trounced as the feckless and greedy ‘one percent.’

Permanent war, torture, and mass incarceration Over the course of the decade, the play became associated with incarceration, in a sustained emphasis on what New Critic Reuben Brower identified as the play’s thematic ‘continuity’ surrounding ‘slavery-freedom’ (see the discussion in the Preface.) Increasingly, the invasions and occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq, the ‘war on terror’ and associated surveillance state, particularly the arbitrary criminalization of Arabs and Muslims post-9/11, emerged as both explicit and implicit touchstones for a play that now seemed inescapably to address themes of involuntary confinement and torture. This became especially pointed in the wake of global public exposure of the brutalization

172 Deregulation and humiliation of prisoners in Abu Ghraib, human rights abuses in Guantanamo, and growing evidence of both Islamophobia and more broadly the racial and class inequalities at the heart of the U.S. American system of mass incarceration.8 The substantial repertoire of anti-colonial and anti-capitalist appropriations can be heard ‘behind’ these twenty-first-century allusions, reworkings, rewrites, and performances, which also take on this distinct set of anxieties.9 Perhaps surprisingly, one of the first explicit deliveries of these new concerns arrived in the comic mode in Rob Newman’s inspired touring act, ‘From Caliban to the Taliban: 500 Years of Humanitarian Intervention,’ which debuted in Brighton, England in 2003. This routine places The Tempest in the context of the long history of capitalist imperialism, returning in fierce satirical mode to the wreck of the Sea Venture and England’s first colony in Virginia.10 Newman takes up the cause of the ‘many headed hydra’ excavated by Linebaugh and Rediker and dramatized by Marina Warner: the ‘vented’ dispossessed English laborers, Native Americans, and religious subversives who tried to make common cause before Sir Thomas Gates and George Summers had them hung for mutiny. In Newman’s telling Shakespeare is an influential shareholder who echoes the propaganda of the Virginia Company in condemning the ‘tempest of dissension’ and slandering the rebels as the monstrous Caliban. The terror and violence deployed to create a ‘safe place for the accumulation of profit’ are mirrored in the current attack on the ‘monstrous’ Taliban, here seen as another incarnation of imperialism’s creations assuming the mantle of threat to civilization. The torture of Caliban is figurative for the inhumane practices in the prisons of Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo and elsewhere, and the policy of ‘extraordinary rendition’ which was revealed in the news media at the time. Again, we see the humor of Shakespeare’s play explicitly reversed, as the imperialists past and present are lambasted and their victims championed. The narrative of imperial conquest recounted by Newman is given scholarly treatment by historian Silvia Federici in her 2004 study of the long process of capital accumulation, Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation. Anti-colonial appropriations of The Tempest and, in particular, rehabilitations of Caliban and Sycorax, are reference points in this account of the violent processes of dispossession. Federici places the global subordination of women, and specifically the persecution of witches, at the very center of capitalism’s early development, therefore emphasizing the symbolic centrality of ‘the witch’: Caliban represents not only the anti-colonial rebel whose struggle still resonates in contemporary Caribbean literature, but is a symbol for the world proletariat and more specifically, for the proletarian body as a terrain and instrument of resistance to the logic of capitalism. Most important, the figure of the witch, who in The Tempest is confined to a remote background, in this volume is placed at the center-stage, as

Deregulation  173 the embodiment of a world of female subjects that capitalism had to destroy: the heretic, the healer, the disobedient wife, the woman who dared to live alone, the obeah woman who poisoned the master’s food and inspired the slaves to revolt. (11) Federici draws out the temporal parallels between struggles for the commons then and now: ‘we are again seeing a process of “primitive accumulation,” which means that the privatization of land and other communal resources, mass impoverishment, plunder, and the sowing of division in once-cohesive communities are again on the world agenda’ (239). Here, in ways reminiscent of May Joseph, once more Sycorax becomes the symbolic lynchpin for the violent global dispossession of working class, poor, and racially oppressed women from capitalism’s infancy to its senescence. Federici understands the play as the crystallization of a pivotal moment in the emergence of capitalism that also reveals resistance by the oppressed, albeit in distorted form. The multiracial rebellions that presented a constant threat to the social order are recognized in The Tempest’s alliance between ‘native rebel’ and ‘European proletarians,’ although ‘the conspiracy ends ignominiously’ (Federici 106). Prospero is an archetype for the emergent bourgeois subject who ‘combines the celestial spirituality of Ariel and the brutish materiality of Caliban,’ anticipating the historic project of the ruling class ‘to remold the subordinate classes in conformity with the needs of the developing capitalist economy’ (134, 135). The Tempest is strongly associated with the violent disciplining of the working-class body as a crucial source of labor power and therefore profit: Prospero’s reminder to Miranda about Caliban—‘“We cannot miss him/He does make our fire/ Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices/That profit us”’ (qtd. in Federici 137)—once more is paramount, and ‘Prospero’s exploitative management of Caliban … prefigures the role of the future plantation master, who will spare no torture nor torment to force his subjects to work’ (Federici 155). Again, the connection is made between the mechanisms of incarceration and torture of the early seventeenth and early twenty-first centuries. In the same vein, Marxist historian Peter Linebaugh’s haunting 2004 essay ‘Torture and Neo-liberalism with Sycorax in Iraq’ traces the connections between the longer history of imperialist violence and contemporary war and military occupation. He juxtaposes an account of the recent ­‘Order 39’ with ‘Chapter 39’ of the Magna Carta. ‘Order 39’ allowed privatization and foreign ownership of Iraqi assets, representing the breach of sovereignty and seizure of resources enabled by the U.S. American-led war on Iraq. Chapter 39 of the Magna Carta, which prohibits torture, was contravened in the abuse of prisoners at the Abu Ghraib prison. Indicating the proximity of intimate physical brutality and resource plunder, the essay draws heavily on Federici’s reading of The Tempest, concluding that ‘the mutilation of the human body and the globalization of commerce are two sides of capitalism, empire and torture’ (Linebaugh ‘Torture’).

174 Deregulation The period activated the play’s preoccupation with punishment and incarceration and also forgiveness and freedom. These were the keynotes in the 2005 documentary Shakespeare Behind Bars (directed by Hank ­Rogerson), which tells the yearlong story of a production of The Tempest in a Kentucky prison. While Linebaugh and Federici both highlight the disintegrative elements of the play in this regard, here the integrative emphasis on clemency, prompted by Ariel’s appeal to Prospero’s humanity, is given a new cast. Implicitly it is Caliban, representative of the incarcerated and abused, who receives the pardon, rather than Prospero’s noble enemies. Prisoners are routinely stripped of their humanity, denied human rights, excluded from civil society, and, in the era of mass incarceration, serve as public enemy number one. The achievement of Shakespeare Behind Bars, which splices scenes of rehearsal and performance with interviews that reveal the back stories of the incarcerated, is to rehumanize and ­individualize the nameless ‘inmates,’ while insisting on the unifying and restorative ­potential of art. Emphasizing the motif of confinement/liberation that runs throughout the play, the film deploys The Tempest in the case for rehabilitation and forgiveness and against the ‘get tough on crime’ creed. The contradictory push and pull of confinement/freedom and punishment/forgiveness are at the heart of Prospero’s Daughter, a 2006 novel by Trinidadian author Elizabeth Nunez that forms something of a bridge between Tempests of the earlier period of decolonization and the current era of dispossession. The work both refers and alludes to Shakespeare’s play while integrating many of its plotlines and characters into an original story set in Trinidad on the verge of independence. Prospero is reimagined as John Gardner, a vicious and dishonest English doctor who is conned by his brother and forced into exile with his young daughter, Miranda. He uses first trickery and then force to appropriate land and a home on the island and former leper colony Chacachacare. Caliban is reconfigured as Charles Codrington, son of a Black Caribbean fisherman and a white socialite who turns her back on her wealthy colonial background. The most significant plot departure—echoing V.G. Jerome—is that the attempted rape accusation against Caliban/Carlos is false. Far from being a victim of an assault by Caliban, this Miranda loves him against the wishes of her father, who is reimagined as a predatory patriarch. In a role reversal, Prospero/Gardner is, in fact, the rapist—he has been sexually abusing his servant Ariel/Ariana and his own daughter. The novel thereby makes common cause with the earlier generation of anti-colonial Calibans and later feminist appropriations of Miranda and Sycorax. While solidly in the tradition of anti-colonial appropriation, the novel’s provenance in the twenty-first century betrays some new and interesting contradictions. In returning the play to the era of formal European colonialism, the text was in the sight lines of post-postcolonial critique. For those weary of the ‘colonial allegory,’ the central plot seemed passé, and the combination of Tempest adaptation, dense reference, and allusion

Deregulation  175 overly reiterative. The narrative is also integrative, however: it confines anti-­colonial politics to the past, gives one of the central characters, the English colonial police officer Mumsford, a redemptive role, and offers a ‘happy ever after’ ending. In these ways, the novel is an exemplar of the ‘postcolonial integrative’ Tempest. Beyond the central plot, however, the novel also offers some implicit entanglement with current issues that connect it with disintegrative evocations of Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib. Early in the narrative, echoing Caliban’s lines addressed to Prospero—‘you sty me/In this hard rock’ (I.ii.342–3)— Caliban/Carlos is held captive by Gardner/Prospero in a rocky, unprotected patch of ground enclosed by a chain-link fence: ‘sitting on a rock in the scorching sun, penned in an area hardly more than six feet by six…’ (Nunez 59). The horrified Mumsford afterward reflects: ‘the boy had been tortured. When he replayed Gardner’s words, he thought tortured for nothing … Did intent warrant such torture?’ (Nunez 61). The tableau, which calls to mind these wider debates about twenty-first-century torture, offers the most memorable narrative sequence, outshining the melodramatic conclusion. In refusing the representation of Caliban as irredeemable criminal, the novel builds on earlier interrogations of the myth of the black rapist—pioneered in Abena Busia’s ‘Silencing Sycorax’—and tacitly connects these to contemporary political issues. The period intensified the play’s ongoing association with mass incarceration, which was to be taken up a decade later by Margaret Atwood in her moving novel Hag-Seed, one of the more successful among Hogarth’s series of narrative rewrites, that features a redemptive staging of The Tempest in a prison.11 As for other periods in which systemic atrocities were in the public eye, these largely disintegrative renditions highlighted the discordant elements of Shakespeare’s work, particularly those pertaining to imprisonment, violent coercion, and torture. A critical work from 2009, for example, found that Shakespeare’s late plays ‘look explicitly to the relation between past suffering and crime and future reconciliation and regeneration’ (Moseley 49). In laying bare the intimate relationships between profit, military power, and the abuse and confinement of human bodies, this moment accessed these dynamics in Shakespeare’s play, throwing new light on the disturbing scenes of power and torture that belong to the tragic rather than comic or pastoral genre.

Ecological rift The setting of Prospero’s Daughter was itself implicated in global structures of capitalist development and environmental degradation. At the time of the novel’s publication, Trinidadians organized against, and at least temporarily defeated, plans by the U.S. American-based multinational corporation Alcoa to develop an aluminum smelter for a mega industrial site that threatened to displace local communities.12 Alcoa had already become

176 Deregulation the focal point of global protests against industrial projects in Iceland that would have lasting social and ecological impacts, and these struggles found their way into diverse imaginative responses to The Tempest, including Rupert Goold’s production for the RSC discussed below. In the United States, the dense net of associations connecting incarceration and torture, the war on terror, capitalist development, and indigenous dispossession took on a new distinct emphasis in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. This unprecedented U.S. weather disaster exposed the deep continuities between racial and class inequalities and global climate change. While, as we have seen, environmental issues had been evoked in productions as early as the 1970s, these previous associations were reanimated and acquired urgency and depth in a decade awakening to the cataclysmic consequences of social activity for the natural world, and understanding ecological crisis as an intrinsic feature of capitalist development.13 Central elements of The Tempest—the maritime story and island location, the rebellion of the motley crew, images of dispossession and imagined u ­ topias, and above all else, that tantalizing figure of a sea-change into something rich and strange—now audibly addressed the ecological crisis. They also more clearly signaled the politics of disability, both drawing attention to the impact of environmental damage on people’s physical and mental health, and also underscoring the social forces that transform impairment into ‘disability.’ The human as well as ecological consequences of capitalist collapse were elaborated in a 2006 article by Antonis Balasopoulos, scholar of ‘comparative utopian studies’ at the University of Cyprus. ‘“Suffer a Sea Change”: Spatial Crisis, Maritime Modernity, and the Politics of Utopia’ places The Tempest at the heart of an evocative historical investigation of the material and figurative importance of the maritime to global modernity. Balasopoulos traces the evolving concept of metamorphosis: ‘the philosophical tradition of modernity has testified to the rich metaphorical potency of what was originally a question of metaphora—of transportation through an element that lies beyond the cognitive limits of worldly knowledge’ (Balasopoulos 135). This continuity between metaphor and metamorphosis has rich significance for a play long identified as the most metatheatrical of Shakespeare’s work. In developing this reading, Balasopoulos draws on Linebaugh and Rediker, affirming the centrality of Marx’s concept of accumulation by dispossession to early modern social and cultural developments. The article identifies the traces of these processes in The Tempest, particularly its treatment of the wreck of the Sea Venture and the projection of ‘tragic disinheritance and revolutionary transformation’ (144). These patterns are closely identified with unfolding contemporary processes: A number of recent developments—the dismantling of the welfare state, the economics of deregulation, the advent of climate change and environmental degradation, the waning of civil liberties and the globalization of terror—suggest that the ground on which ‘society’ currently

Deregulation  177 stands is not more stable or secure than it was during that long interval between the collapse of the feudal world and the crystallization of a capitalist one that shaped the hopes and delusions of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. (Balasopoulos 148) The profound linkages between the two eras are suggestive of the Zeitgeist: ‘what brings late and early modernity into dialectical constellation lies in their shared predication on the disjointed experience of an interregnum, a no man’s land between “no longer” and “not yet”’ (150). This reiterates the apprehension of unmoored beginnings and endings registered in the Shakespeare biographies from this period cited in my Introduction: In the wake of the collapse of the modern capitalist order that was only just emerging for the men and women of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, we too are drifting uncertainly, caught between the vanishing terra firma of a political society to which it is too late to return and the shores of a form of community whose coordinates mere intellect will not suffice to fix. (150) We are returned to the liminal and littoral space ‘between things ended and things not yet begun’ that haunts moments of crisis and is particularly acute at the start of the twenty-first century. Hurricane Katrina sharpened this sense of ‘vanishing terra firma,’ and drew out the correspondences between contemporary weather disasters and the play’s discourse around nature. These were explored in a special issue of the journal Borrowers and Lenders titled ‘Shakespeareans in the Tempest: Lives and Afterlives of Katrina,’ inspired by a 2007 conference of that name at the University of Alabama. William Boelhower’s contribution, ‘Owning the Weather,’ articulates the play’s many points of relevance for this catastrophic event. Drawing attention to the two sixteenth-century genres behind the play—the utopia and the naufragium (shipwreck)—­Boelhower argues that Katrina activated new dimensions of the drama, most importantly ‘the system of signs that specifically encodes the island’s physical environment and weather’ (Boelhower NP). While Miranda and Gonzalo’s utopic depictions are suggestive of those ‘nature preserves’ that today offer the illusory prospect of saving pristine samples of the natural world, Prospero is a capitalist ecoterrorist, wielding his power over the climate and land to control his enemies and subordinates: as happens repeatedly in the history of imperialist war, he ‘has totally militarized the island’s ecosystem’: ‘by the end of the play Prospero looms as a very modern figure—the forerunner of a Robert Oppenheimer or an Edward Teller, two scientist-­ technicians who knew a great deal about terror in the air’ (Boelhower). Echoing themes from other contemporary Tempests, Boelhower references the 9/11 attacks and subsequent developments, mass incarceration, the extractive industries, surveillance, and biochemical weapons. As antithesis to Prospero, Caliban is associated with the indigenous populations

178 Deregulation whose remains leave traces in the Louisiana landscape and cast as the figure who both understands and cares for the island environment. Boelhower evokes emblematic twentieth-century Tempest commentary including ­Eliot’s ‘Wasteland’ and, in particular, Kott’s Shakespeare, our Contemporary: ‘From a post-Katrina perspective, Shakespeare is once again our intimate contemporary, as the Polish émigré Jan Kott observed in the mid1960s’ (Boelhower). This sense of the inherited tradition runs through many of the re-imaginings of this era, even in the absence of such overt acknowledgment of antecedents. The image of ‘sea-change’ in Ariel’s ‘Full Fathom Five’ song focalized the play’s seeming prescience about ecological crisis: Ariel is no longer expressing grief for a lost loved one, but for an entire planet decimated by a system that treats natural resources as ‘free’ and expendable in the endless drive to accumulate. A lengthy quote from the song serves as epigram for a 2008 Canadian Wildlife Federation essay called ‘Climate Change; Sea Change.’ The article then draws out the implications: Since Shakespeare first coined the expression ‘sea-change’ it has come to mean profound transformation. Indeed climate change is a global shift in climatic conditions on land and at sea … Longer, hotter summers. Shorter, milder winters, rising sea levels. Lowering lake levels. Shrinking mountain glaciers. More frequent and violent storms. Radical swings between deluge and drought … Key habitat elements—food, water, shelter, and space—are declining or disappearing. (Canadian Wildlife Federation) These scientific observations were given poignant artistic expression in American poet Jorie Graham’s 2008 Sea Change. The collection, which has aptly been called ‘poetry as oceanography,’ powerfully connects with these contemporary anxieties and also alludes to the Tempests of both T.S. Eliot and Sylvia Plath. This is from the title poem: … Who shall repair this now. And how the future takes shape too quickly. The permanent is ebbing. Is leaving nothing in the way of trails …. (Graham 3) The poem ‘Full Fathom’ rewrites Ariel’s song: those were houses that are his eyes—those were lives that are his eyes—those are families, those are privacies, those are details—those are reparation agreements, summary

Deregulation  179 judgments, those are multiplications on the face of the earth that are—those are the forests, the coal seams, the carbon sinks that are his— as they turn into carbon sources… (Graham 31) These haunting, elegiac, stuttering lines struggle to express the ­unthinkable. ‘Full Fathom’ refigures the play’s obsessive fixation with metamorphosis and dissolution into a lament for capitalism run amok on a globe facing land erosion, rising sea levels, and loss of biodiversity as a result of uncontrolled exploitation of its mineral and human resources. Graham’s poems, with their recurrent use of the body as both tenor and vehicle of a running metaphor, are illustrative of works that evoke The Tempest to track the deep continuities between economic forces, social practices, and corporeality. The body became central to contemporary responses to the play raising questions of disability. As discussed earlier, The Tempest marks an important moment in the shifting history of what comes to be known as ‘disability.’ At the start of the twenty-first century, materialist analyses of intersecting oppressions have been elaborated further by disability activists and theorists who have both drawn on and contributed to the broader tradition, pioneering new ways of thinking about capitalism and corporeality, challenging essentialist dichotomies around ‘ability’ and ‘disability,’ and understanding both to be as much social as individual or biological categories.14 These areas of investigation entered into Shakespeare studies in this period: the 2009 special section of Disability Studies Quarterly, ‘Disabled Shakespeares,’ marked a discrete line of inquiry into the representation of physical difference in Shakespeare’s plays and what this suggests about the historically variable categorization of ‘disability.’ The Tempest was not one of the plays featured in this issue, but it has been a reliable point of reference in work exploring these issues in the context of a renewed consolidation of both scholarship and activism around disability rights. In his 2006 book Aesthetic Nervousness: Disability and the Crisis of Representation, Ato Quayson asserts the meaningful connections between postcolonial and disability studies and explores their mutual implications for literary and cultural analysis. The Tempest has significance for Quayson’s excavation of disability paradigms in the literary canon: Caliban is the focus for disability-as-otherness and moral-conundrum. Whereas Ariel is a genial and androgynous shape-shifter whose freedom, as promised, is delivered, Caliban, on the other hand, is described as a ‘savage and deformed slave.’ The question remains open whether Caliban is congenitally evil, having been born that way by Sycorax, or becomes warped because of his loss of the island and his mistreatment at the hands of Prospero. We shall designate this category of representation, disability as moral deficit/evil. (Quayson 42)15

180 Deregulation In the course of the reception history, as we have seen, Caliban has variously been portrayed as ‘congenitally evil,’ a figure whose ‘disability’ is in the eyes of the prejudiced beholder, and one who has been damaged by oppression. The invisible but much-described and maligned body of Sycorax, pathologized and punished, both evokes the exploitation of indigenous and enslaved women and foregrounds paradigms of idealized and demonized productive and reproductive bodies. These patterns become newly visible in this period.

Stages of dispossession David Harvey’s 2005 The New Imperialism dubbed this the ‘new era of dispossession,’ as decades of neoliberal privatization and untrammeled capitalist accumulation resulted in a generalized decline in the fortunes of the working class and widespread displacement of indigenous populations globally. These realities were registered in a series of mainstream and fringe performances in the five years leading to the 400th anniversary of the play’s initial appearance. The examples I consider below are suggestive on multiple levels. Both physical and imagined locations—where the performances take place and where the action of the play is set—represent a remarkable global diversity, from Arctic North to Sub-Saharan Africa, to New Zealand, to Palestine. Their political moorings are varied, some heralded for their uncompromising anti-imperialist stance and others drawing criticism for reproducing racist and colonialist ideology. They approach the play’s involvement in dispossession from contrary angles—some highlighting its continuing relevance for contemporary battles for indigenous rights, and others rejecting the ‘colonial reading’ as overly simplistic or outdated. While the integrative, disintegrative, and liberatory modes are all represented here, as is the ‘post-postcolonial’ position that was in circulation throughout the decade, this moment also consolidated the ‘postcolonial integrative.’ This term describes performances that have an obvious affinity with the anti-colonial tradition, but in placing the action in the colonial past and emphasizing reconciliation and closure, are incongruous with the disintegrative present. Beyond the political implications of each specific staging, this series of productions collectively reveal the myriad ways that the world of theater is itself implicated in global structures of capitalist ­accumulation and dispossession that make up the new imperialism. Rupert Goold’s high-profile 2006 Tempest with the RSC placed questions of ecological catastrophe and indigenous rights at the thematic heart of the production. It was distinguished by its setting, which felt shockingly new, in a nonspecific Arctic North—critics variously suggested Greenland, Iceland, Alaska, and North Canada. It thus evoked regions that have been directly impacted by global climate change and embroiled within battles over sovereignty and the extractive industries: home to a good quarter of the world’s known gas and oil resources, some of the most pristine and endangered ecosystems, and dozens of distinct indigenous populations.

Deregulation  181 Themes familiar to contemporary appropriations returned here. War and dispossession were the major refrains of Goold’s Tempest: the opening storm scene was dramatized as a radio shipping broadcast reminiscent of World War Two, accompanied by projected images of crashing waves and a sinking ship as seen through a porthole. The action took place in a bleak icy landscape that suggested both the Arctic North and the postindustrial apocalyptic vision of contemporary speculative fiction: the main set pieces were a log cabin and a dustbin-brazier, the characters were garbed in furs and snow boots. The Playbill for the performance raised themes of indigenous dispossession, images of whaling expeditions and melting glaciers juxtaposed with Prospero’s lines: ‘I have bedimm’d/The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds,/And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault,/ set roaring war…’ One of the most memorable scenes was the betrothal masque, which featured the corpse of a whale and an intense sequence of ceremonial chanting and dancing broadly referred to by critics as ‘tribal’ or ‘Inuit.’ Critical commentary on these choices was mixed, with some noting the evocation of indigenous dispossession approvingly, and others charging exploitative cultural appropriation.16 The production also picked up on the incarceration motif, the Program featuring extracts from prison narratives, among them Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom and Blake’s engraving of a cowering figure, ‘Earth.’17 As the invocation of Blake would suggest, the interpretation was largely disintegrative. The dominant note of Patrick Stewart’s Prospero was erratic anger expressed in bouts of unprovoked violence toward Caliban, who was presented not as a monster but as a stubbornly human laborer, though one treated like an abused animal constrained by a heavy rope. Miranda was portrayed as a youth unschooled in feminine decorum, quite at home in the hostile landscape; the scenes between father and daughter had an exceptional emotional intensity. But the principal figure of the production was Ariel, played by a tall white actor as a creeping Nosferatu: slow-moving, impassive, black-cloaked, clutching an hourglass, and exuding quiet hostility. Gesturing toward the play’s frequent affinity with both horror and science fiction genres, this presence further heightened the unsettling, nightmarish mood of approaching apocalypse. Marina Warner’s Program commentary emphasized the tension between the play’s humane instincts and Prospero’s ‘near fatal reliance on one-man tyranny’—­suggestive of Boelhower’s vision of Prospero as ecoterrorist—while arguing that the final reconciliation is troubled: ‘enigmas linger … in the aftermath’ (Goold Program). Evoking battles over industrial development in the Arctic region, Goold’s production also suggested some of the connections between the geographically disparate regions that formed the backdrop for Tempests in this period. Iceland was tied to Trinidad, the backdrop to the novel Prospero’s ­Daughter, because both islands were facing far-reaching development projects by Alcoa. Despite mass protests, in September 2006, one of the last areas of pristine wilderness in Iceland’s Central Highlands, replete with fjords, waterfalls, and diverse flora and fauna, was destroyed when major rivers were dammed and

182 Deregulation a large area flooded in order to supply Alcoa through the new Kárahnjúkar power station. While none of these developments were explicitly referenced in the production, the Arctic setting inevitably evoked contemporary struggles around land and dispossession in the region. Battles over indigenous rights and ecological crisis were overtly addressed in the uncompromisingly disintegrative Tempest Without a Body by Lemi Ponifasio, Samoan-born choreographer and founder of the company MAU (which is named for the Samoan independence movement). The production premiered in New Zealand as ‘a theatrical meditation on life after 9/11’ and toured globally in the following years (Gladstone). The star performer was Tame Iti, member of the Maori Tuhoe tribe and longtime indigenous rights campaigner. Lemi Ponifasio explains the significance of this casting choice: ‘“Tame’s involvement and knowledge of the history of the Maori and Tuhoe struggle … was invaluable. He is the living face of that struggle today. He is the living face of colonization, of the dangerous shifting nature of power of the state in our democracies”’ (qtd. in Caird). The performance itself has been described as a total emersion experience: dance and movement performed in claustrophobic darkness with isolated illuminated areas of the stage and projected images, incessant discordant music punctuated by terrified human shrieks, barking dogs, and other nerve-wracking, jarring noises. A series of tableaus communicate a sense of imminent terror, violence, and disaster: Tame Iti’s almost naked, powerful tattooed body gesticulating and shouting in Maori; a beautiful winged figure crumpled on the stage; a mesmerizing choreographed troupe of Samoan men with shaved heads and ceremonial robes using their bare feet and hands to create rhythmic ritualistic movements back and forth across the stage. The immediate circumstances around the production were themselves indicative of the political conflicts being staged: Iti was among 18 people arrested on counterterrorism charges for their involvement in a nonviolent action for Maori sovereignty. The case was eventually dropped, but only after a prolonged campaign for his release and repeated delays of the tour. It speaks to the rich layers of signification attached to Shakespeare’s work that Ponifasio found within it inspiration for his exploration of neoliberalism in the South Pacific and beyond, focalizing indigenous dispossession, incarceration, torture, and looming environmental catastrophe. Ponifasio also returns us to Walter Benjamin, citing as another central inspiration the meditation on Paul Klee’s Angel of History in Thesis IX of On the Concept of History. Benjamin’s understanding of history as a series of catastrophes is central to the production, while the angel of history is closely identified with the figure of Ariel. ‘Tempest without a body’ is the most abstract of the responses considered here, and far removed from the play-text, but it is part of this broader farflung twenty-first-century engagement with the play’s resonance for the new imperialism. A high-profile 2009 staging of The Tempest continued the global dance by placing the action in ‘an enchanted place somewhere off the coast

Deregulation  183 of Africa’ (Honeyman Director’s Note). Janice Honeyman, with the South African Baxter Theater Company in conjunction with the RSC, delivered an uplifting spectacle that formed a striking contrast to the dour visions of both Goold and Ponifasio while also highlighting colonial contexts and themes. The sets and costumes evoked a hot and arid African landscape, and the performance made dazzlingly creative use of African music, dance, and brightly colored puppets and masks. It established colonization as the central context for Shakespeare’s play: ‘The Tempest was written in the Age of Discovery and Exploration, the spring of the British colonizing campaign. When first seen in 1611 it was a contemporary work, relevant and topical, speaking directly of and to the world of the playwright’ (Honeyman Director’s Note). The setting could conceivably concur with the play-text’s geographical coordinates, given that the royal party is returning to Milan from Tunis (though not if, as many suggested, the location was South Africa). The production was distinguished by certain innovations indicative of contemporary developments, including the Sycorax school and Shakespeare and disability criticism. Sycorax was physically represented on the stage, not as a human character but as an ensemble of oversized disconnected body parts manipulated by puppeteers. The centrality of the witch here became manifest in the looming and inarticulate presence of breasts, hands, eyes, and lips, suggesting not only the commodification and objectification, but also the power and indispensability, of black femininity, as theorized by May Joseph and others. The characterization of Caliban also brought a distinctive approach to the issue of disability. Breaking with the logic of the play, which would make Caliban closer to Miranda’s age than Prospero’s, the acclaimed Black South African actor John Kani’s Caliban was an elderly and much-abused servant whose ‘monstrosity’ was literalized as human physical impairment requiring the use of two walking sticks. Prospero, as played by the equally acclaimed white British actor Anthony Sher, was an archetypal, albeit conflicted, abusive colonial officer. Caliban’s mistreatment has caused bodily harm that then becomes a marker of his lack of humanity, thus suggesting a form of disability oppression. The tone was intermittently disintegrative, highlighting violent colonial subjugation and evoking the long history of Western exploitation of African lands and peoples. The erratic, unhinged Prospero comes close to shooting Caliban, prevented only by Ariel’s physical intervention. The performance accessed the dialectic between domination and redemption embedded in the deep themes of the play: The Tempest ‘is about greed, exploitation, dispossession of land, cultural plundering, power struggles, slavery, racism, corruption, revenge, forgiveness, reconciliation and freedom’ (Honeyman). This was unapologetic advocacy for anti-colonial politics at a moment when mainstream rehabilitation of colonialism was rampant, and more politically conservative productions eschewed engagement with the play’s imperialist implications. Not surprisingly, while broadly receiving critical acclaim, the production drew some opprobrium from the ­‘post-postcolonial’ wing.

184 Deregulation But this was also a ‘spangled’ production: spectacular music, lighting, and puppetry (for some reviewers recalling ‘The Lion King’), combined with an emphasis on redemption, forgiveness, and reconciliation to generate an integrative milieu. Prospero undergoes a genuine conversion in the final act, recognizing the error of his ways and leaving the island. In one of the most powerful and innovative moments, Prospero addressed the epilogue not to the audience but to Caliban, directly asking his forgiveness. This scene inevitably evoked the ANC’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which acknowledged the crimes of apartheid, effectively asking ‘forgiveness’ from those who suffered under the regime and focusing on amnesty rather than justice.18 Caliban, freed from the yoke of servitude and oppression, stood tall for the first time and threw off his crutches. This moment, while figuratively important and problematic as a gesture of self-determination, is also fraught when it comes to disability politics, as it both mystifies the impairment while equating liberation with the ability to walk. In all of its conflicting impulses and affects, the production exemplified the ‘postcolonial integrative’ Tempest that captures so well the contradictions of the new century. The triumphant conclusion as much as the focus on the colonial past distanced the action from contemporary fault lines of inequality: The interpretation sat comfortably with the ruling ideology of postapartheid capitalism, which relegates struggles for justice to a previous era. Some dissenting voices found that the production missed an opportunity to engage with current realities by returning to the earlier period. For reviewer Anston Bosman ‘[t]he narrow and outdated allegory into which the Baxter and the RSC have shoehorned The Tempest has no room for the pressing questions of South African politics today: greed, corruption, anarchic violence, the threat of autocracy’ (Bosman 116).19 The question of what kind of Tempest would be relevant to postapartheid South Africa was taken up by Ashwin Desai in his Reading Revolution: Shakespeare on Robben Island, first published in 2012. Desai’s fascinating exploration of political prisoners’ uses of Shakespeare points toward a disintegrative interpretation that engages with ongoing vectors of domination. In a final chapter called ‘The Sixth Act?’ Desai returns to Rob Nixon’s suggestion in 1987 that The Tempest would lose relevance in the postcolonial age because it ends with Prospero’s departure, figuratively indicating the end of colonialism. Discussing the brutal tectonics of inequality that define a contemporary South Africa ruled by former freedom fighters now imposing neoliberal orthodoxy, Desai reaches for the play’s most suggestive metaphor: ‘these once militant struggles, if not siphoned into the labyrinth of the state machine, have flattered only to “melt into air”’ (119). His final reference to the play suggests the outlines of an alternative reading of the Prospero/Caliban relationship: ‘In scenes reminiscent of Caliban giving allegiance to a new master, “How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe”, the people pledge to vote one more time for those that they think can provide the possibility of a better life’ (Desai 119). With Caliban representing the Black working class, here Stephano is indicative of the Black political

Deregulation  185 elites presiding over neoliberal South Africa, who have inherited Prospero’s minority white government. This vision of arrested decolonization is contiguous with, and updates, that offered decades earlier in Lemuel Johnson’s Highlife for Caliban. A performance marking the 400th anniversary further concentrated the unresolved politics of dispossession surrounding this twenty-first-century Tempest. Jonathan Holmes’s 2011 production for the Jericho House Company evoked Israel’s continuing colonial occupation of Palestine through music, casting, themes, and also location: the play was staged in the Aida refugee camp in Bethlehem, sites in East Jerusalem, Nablus and Haifa, and finally in London at St Giles Cripplegate Church as part of the Barbican’s season. This tour, unusual for a mainstream commercial theater, was made possible by funding from both the British Council and the Qattan Foundation. 20 The London event brought attention to the long colonial history that started in the early modern era and leaves traces in Shakespeare’s drama. One positive review drew out the implications of this ‘site-specific’ theater: St Giles is a true archaeological site for the Protestant and colonial endeavor, and a place which bears the memory of war. One of the translators of King James’s Bible, published in the year when The Tempest was written, was rector there. Polemicists, explorers, pirates, poets, and an actor from Shakespeare’s company rest under its vaults, which were bombed during The Blitz. (Sokolova and Cinpoeş 359) Choices of casting and performance placed this in the anti-colonial tradition, and the charisma and stubborn humanity of both spirit servant and monstrous slave were foregrounded. Ruth Lass as Ariel controlled all the magic and maintained a powerful dominating presence throughout, while Caliban’s ‘deformity’ was signaled through bandaged wounds: ‘Caliban performed by Nabil Stuart was not a monster, but a handsome, suppressed man caught in a web of oppressive circumstances not of his own making’ (Sokolova and Cinpoeş 360). Prospero was an unwelcome occupying presence, while the benevolent Gonzalo was removed and Antonio replaced by the female Antonia, who delivered a Machiavellian version of Gonzalo’s lines: ‘it was she who imagined a future colony, which, given her cut-throat character, was not going to be a utopian paradise’ (Sokolova and Cinpoeş 361). The same actress doubled as Stefanie, the female replacement for Stephano. The potentially interesting implications of cross-gender casting and intersectionality were not elaborated, however, leading to some confusing inconsistencies. Other aspects of the drama seemed incongruous with its political themes. It was, bizarrely, part of the theater’s ‘Utopia season,’ and projected a hope for peace and reconciliation that was in tension with the context of occupation and war. The betrothal scene, in particular, implied ‘that the union of Rachel Lynes’s Miranda and Gabeen Khan’s Ferdinand represents a

186 Deregulation longed-for Israeli-Palestinian reconciliation’ (Billington ‘East Meets West’). In his review, Michael Billington speculated that the London setting undermined the play’s social impact: ‘I’ve no doubt that this Jericho House production acquired enormous political resonance when it toured recently to Jerusalem, Haifa and the West Bank. It is, after all, a play about territory, exile and revenge. Transplanted to a medieval church in the Barbican, it becomes more of a cultural artefact’ (‘East Meets West’). This continues the critique of an anti-colonial reading that has been superseded, and functions now as a ‘set piece’ rather than oppositional theater. Judging from reviews and reports, that ‘political resonance’ in the occupied territories was itself fraught with contradictions. The performance at the Aida refugee camp in some ways recalled Jacobean conventions: outdoor, no stage set, minimal props, contemporary clothes, no site-specific rehearsals, and from all accounts a diverse audience. The English language script, however, meant that the play was inaccessible to many, and Arabic summaries of each act were provided. The play’s relevance to conditions in the occupied territories was not lost on the audience, as was noted in a Guardian review by Harriet Sherwood that quotes some of its members. One marked the strong and timely association between Shakespeare’s play and colonialism: ‘Occupation and The Tempest are the same thing. It’s about freedom. What we’re looking for is freedom, and to get back what we lost.’ Another pointed to the play’s focus on exile and aspiration for resolution: ‘The theme of banishment, he said, “connects to our case as refugees in our own country. And we also hope for a happy ending”’ (Sherwood). The tour was originally intended to open at Jenin’s Freedom Theatre under the direction of the Israeli Palestinian Jewish actor, director, and peace activist Juliano Mer-Khamis. While some Palestinians supported the work of Mer-Khamis, others were skeptical. According to Sherwood, some objected to ‘“his belief in co-existence between Israelis and Palestinians”’, as one interviewee explained, ‘“As if we could live with those who stole our land and killed our children”’ (Sherwood). Tragically, Mer-Khamis was murdered and this part of the tour had to be canceled. The repressive restrictions facing Palestinians were highlighted in the treatment of the touring company: three cast members ‘with Middle Eastern-sounding names’ were subject to detention and interrogation on entry to Israel from England (Sherwood). In a starker example of the ‘postcolonial integrative’ mode, the play’s emphasis on peaceful coexistence, redemption, and happy endings came into violent conflict with the disintegrative political present. While raising questions about the possibilities and limitations of the play as a contemporary political allegory, the productions by Goold, Honeyman, Ponifasio, and Holmes all were variously in the tradition of anti-colonial Tempests and, to different degrees, registered the play’s dissonant and dissident dynamics. Even when productions consciously distanced themselves from these questions and traditions, the politics of dispossession nonetheless proved inextricable from the play. This is illustrated most graphically

Deregulation  187 by a tremendously successful mainstream spectacle, Des McAnuff’s 2010 production for the Shakespeare Festival in Stratford Ontario, an old-school integrative offering that hewed close to the ‘post-postcolonial’ message. 21 In the Program essay ‘Brave New Worlds,’ Robert Blacker draws attention to the early modern colonial contexts: he cites the wreck of the Sea Venture, Montaigne, and various references to the New World in Shakespeare’s play; notes the historical practice of ‘exhibiting aboriginal Americans, dead or alive in Europe’; and recounts the story of one Inuit man who died in transit to Canada in the late sixteenth century. These historical forces are raised and yet also dismissed. He acknowledges the interpretation of the play as an illustration of ‘the evils of such colonialism, with Caliban as the chief victim’ but then adds: That view, however, diminishes the complexity of Shakespeare’s play. We feel sympathy for Caliban, but Shakespeare describes a creature who is eager to trade one master for another. The uncomfortable sight of him eagerly licking Stephano’s foot is a reminder of the complicity frequently contained in master/servant relationships. (Blacker 3) Even while evoking the anti-colonial critique (focusing on the same line highlighted by Ashwin Desai), this reading reiterates the complicity of the oppressed. Blacker holds that to acknowledge the play’s implication in the history of dispossession is to ‘flatten out’ Shakespeare’s multiplicity. But despite mentioning in passing the many examples of mirroring, irony, and ‘dizzying contradictions’ in the play, these complicating factors are passed over in favor of the long-standing certainties of the ‘sentimental’ version: ‘in The Tempest Shakespeare shows us that a brave new world does exist—in the potential of the human mind and heart’ (Blacker 4). The entire performance was a poster child for the integrative mode. Showcasing Christopher Plummer’s benign, charismatic Prospero, everything about the production exuded warmth, humor, and redemption while projecting a sense of comforting ‘tradition’: simple wood stage; Renaissance costumes; warm-toned lighting; music and special effects worthy of a Broadway musical. Generally described as a ‘crowd pleaser,’ of all the many dozens of Tempests I have seen, none has received more sustained audience laughter at the subplots or such an enthusiastic and prolonged standing ovation at the end. While we were clearly celebrating the remarkable achievements of Christopher Plummer the actor, in what was seen by many as his swan song, it was impossible to separate the star from Prospero. The interpretation circumvented the troubling master/slave dynamic by dehumanizing both Ariel and Caliban. Their alterity was signaled through the actors’ physical presence on stage, enhanced with costumes, makeup, and choreography: a masculine and muscular Caliban wore a body costume that was half scaled reptile and half flayed man; throughout the performance he stayed low to the ground, slithered, hissed, and flicked his tongue

188 Deregulation lasciviously. The petite, androgynous, entirely blue Ariel traversed the stage as an elfin acrobat, often held aloft with wires: her attitude to Prospero was playful and adoring. Behind their disguises you could clearly see the actors Dion Johnstone and Julyana Soelistyo. Catherine Young was among those few critics who drew attention to the implications of this casting: ‘Giving the role of the accommodating assistant to an Asian woman and the hostile slave-animal to a black man suggested a production that did not go beyond the limiting perspective of colonial dynamics, but, rather, was still deeply embroiled in colonialism’s received logic’ (266). While this production worked hard to ensure that ‘“harmony and concord finally triumph over dissonant disorder”’ (Auden qtd. in Kirsch Appendix 66), it nonetheless remained ‘deeply embroiled’ in continuing dynamics of local and global inequality. Among the sponsors listed on the program was Scotiabank, one of the financers of the Tar Sands project. This ecological horror story has been responsible for destroying millions of hectares of pristine boreal forest, poisoning the Athabasca River watershed, and increasing rates of cancer and other illnesses among indigenous communities. At the time of this performance, First Nations groups had repeatedly called on Scotiabank and other investors to cease funding further expansion. 22 Tempest souvenir T-shirts on sale in the theater gift shop were made by Gildan, bearing labels from the Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Haiti, Honduras, and Nicaragua. Gildan is one of the world’s largest multinational textile manufacturers, and its many violations of workers’ rights have been documented by international monitors. In its client factory Genesis SA in Haiti, workers have faced some of the worst wages and conditions within the entire textile industry. This series of twenty-first-century performances thus illustrates the myriad and contradictory ways that theater is embedded in the global assembly line of exploitation and networks of capital investment and exchange. Wildly popular and drawing critical acclaim for everything from the cast to special effects, McAnuff’s Tempest was extremely successful in its own terms. It also brought into sharp relief the implications of the ‘post-postcolonial’ Tempest in the era of the new imperialism: an integrative interpretation may flatten out the play-text’s messy contradictions, but the disintegrative conditions of production and reception stubbornly remain. Perhaps even more vividly than those overtly evoking current global dispossessions, this production illustrates the proximity of entertainment and exploitation. In capitalism’s old age, the new imperialism reactivates those dynamics of the play-text that came out of and responded to the dispossessions and expropriations that defined capitalism’s origins. As Benjamin wrote of the ‘cultural treasures’: They owe their existence not only to the efforts of the great geniuses who created them, but also to the anonymous toil of others who lived in the same period. There is no document of culture which is not at

Deregulation  189 the same time a document of barbarism. And just as such a document is never free of barbarism, so barbarism taints the manner in which it was transmitted from one hand to another. (Benjamin ‘Theses’ 47) As the unceasing drive to accumulate generates ever new ways to exploit available human and natural resources, even at the risk of dissolving ‘the great globe itself,’ the play’s ambivalent apprehension of mutability continues to fire contestation surrounding the transmission of culture, while Shakespeare’s iconic power is employed both to mask the barbarism and to access the emancipatory potential embedded in The Tempest.

Notes 1 See, for example, Bradmeier’s Global Health Report from 2015. 2 The Economic Policy Institute’s State of Working America provides detailed data on the impacts of the recession on various sectors of the U.S. American population. http://stateofworkingamerica.org/great-recession/. Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in an Age of Colorblindness brought this term to a much broader global audience in 2012. While Black men are disproportionately the targets of this ‘criminal injustice system,’ the culture of incarceration also negatively impacts Black women and working-class white men and women swept up in the frenzy. 3 Levy and Sidel document the devastating impact of the Iraq war on both civilians and combatants. For the impact of neoliberalism on disability, see Slorach 236–59. 4 See David Harvey, The New Imperialism; John Bellamy Foster, Ecological Rift: Capitalism’s War on the Earth. 5 Diverse television shows including Colony, Grey’s Anatomy, Heroes, Riverdale, Sea Quest, and The Wire have featured episodes with ‘Brave New World’ in the title. 6 The Marxist presence in postcolonial studies has seen something of a resurgence in the last decade, leading some to ask if there has been a ‘materialist turn’ in the field. See Pranav Jani’s review of Vivek Chibber’s Postcolonial Theory and the Specter of Capital: ‘Marxism and the future of postcolonial theory’ in International Socialist Review 92. 7 Commissioned by the Brighton Arts Council and first performed in a school in 2003, this was one of a series of creative monologues by Crouch responding to Shakespeare plays. They were later brought together and published as I, Shakespeare in 2011. 8 See Kumar, Islamophobia; Bayoumi, How Does it Feel to Be a Problem?; ­A lexander, New Jim Crow. 9 The connection between Shakespeare’s play and contemporary cases of torture is particularly pointed given the widespread supposition that the verb form of ‘torture’ was one of Shakespeare’s many coinages. For an accessible and thought-provoking discussion of Shakespeare’s changing fortunes over time, contemporary resonance, and the words and phrases that he did and did not invent, see Jonathan Bate ‘A man for all ages.’ 10 The comedy routine ‘From Caliban to the Taliban’ ran in Soho Theatre in ­L ondon for a season in 2002/03 and toured elsewhere in subsequent years. It appeared as a DVD in 2007. 11 Acclaimed contemporary novelists have been assigned particular plays to retell in novel form: http://hogarthshakespeare.com/.

190 Deregulation 12 In February 2006, Trinidad’s neoliberal Government signed a deal with ­A lcoa permitting a new $1.5 billion aluminum smelter in Cap-de-Ville in the rural South East of the island as the anchor for a new mega industrial site. The deal not only promised Alcoa one hundred percent possession of the plant, and rights to natural gas, but also required the forced removal of hundreds of Trinidadians from their land. A popular protest at least temporarily halted the plan. 13 John Bellamy Foster’s 2000 book Marx’s Ecology develops a materialist approach to environmental crisis, arguing that the relationship between social forces and the natural world is at the heart of Marx’s theory of capitalism. Bellamy Foster has elaborated the Marxist theory of ‘metabolic rift’ addressing capitalism’s systemic inability to maintain a healthy metabolism between social activities and the land. 14 See the 2012 edition of The New Politics of Disablement by Michael Oliver and Colin Barnes for an account of the inroads made by disability studies at the start of the twenty-first century. 15 Thanks to my colleague Lokangaka Losambe for bringing Quayson’s book to my attention at a timely moment. 16 Richard Knowles, for example, who saw the production when the RSC was in residence at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, called it ‘an appalling misappropriation, decontextualization, commodification, and eroticization of Native legends and images, many of them sacred’ (‘Death of a Chief’ 53). 17 Plate five from ‘For Children: The Gates of Paradise’ 1793. 18 The African National Congress, illegal during the apartheid era, came to power with the fall of the regime in 1990. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission was established under the presidency of Nelson Mandela and presided over by Archbishop Desmond Tutu. While praised for exposing the abuses of apartheid, it was also widely criticized, especially by Black South Africans, for its failure to provide real accountability for those who presided over apartheid, or justice for its victims. 19 In contrast with Bosman, Virginia Mason Vaughan makes a distinction between English and North American postcolonial versions of the play, which she argues have ‘reached a dead end’ and those from ‘other parts of the world,’ such as Honeyman’s, which continue to have relevance (Vaughan The Tempest: Shakespeare in Performance 122). 20 The British Council is a charity based in the UK with international branches. It was originally established by the government and supports international cultural and educational initiatives: www.britishcouncil.org/. The Qattan Foundation is a nonprofit operation focused on education and culture: http://qattanfoundation. org/en/qattan/about/about. 21 The performance was filmed and is now available as a DVD. https://store. stratfordfestival.ca/products/dvd-tempest-ssf-production. 22 See Tim Donaghy; Clayton Thomas-Müller. The website for the Indigenous Environmental Network provides a useful overview: www.ienearth.org/whatwe-do/tar-sands/.

Afterword State of emergency

The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the ‘state of emergency’ in which we live is not the exception but the rule. —Walter Benjamin Thesis VIII

Four hundred years and still counting Contestation over The Tempest’s political valence seemed to reach an apogee around its 400th birthday. Dichotomous appropriations were everywhere. In the United States, The Tempest was both claimed and condemned by the religious right: it was included in a work called Ten Books Every Conservative Must Read; and also listed in a classroom ban, along with Paolo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed and other radical classics, as part of a concerted conservative attack on ethnic studies in Arizona.1 In the UK, Caliban provided a derogatory slur for left-wing protesters. One right-wing blogger, confusing several key plotlines, described Shakespeare’s Caliban as ‘an ignorant, lumbering brute who resents the debt he owes to Prospero, who released him from a tree in which he had been imprisoned by his previous mistress’ before driving home the contemporary implications: ‘Regarding our current spate of anti-bank demonstrations, I can’t help but see Caliban’s offspring camped out by St Paul’s Cathedral’.2 The archetypal associations with ­Caliban/Ariel—­colonized subject, recalcitrant worker, anti-racist, rebel—and Prospero—­colonizer, ruler, and defender of the status quo—were by now so deeply embedded in the culture that firsthand knowledge of the play was strictly ­optional: commentators need only respond to the idea of the play and the competing political claims surrounding it. But as the twenty-first century moved into its second decade, the boundaries of the political debate were redrawn by the forces of global rebellion now sweeping the globe. It was clear that capitalism’s return to profitability was being paid for by the working class and poor: bailouts for the banks, tax breaks for corporations, and a wave of austerity that would only exacerbate the widespread inequality and immiseration provoked by the Great Recession. This was the backdrop to an explosion of political resistance that put calls for deep reform and revolution back on the agenda. Starting in Tunisia in late 2010, the ‘Arab Spring’ opened up expansive hopes for liberation, toppling the

192 Afterword authoritarian regime in Egypt before spreading across the region and inspiring worldwide rebellion. In the following year, the ‘Occupy Movement’ seized the United States and hundreds of other countries, lambasting the greed and cruelty of the elite and popularizing the indelible slogan ‘We are the 99 Percent.’ Across Europe, anti-austerity protests shook the establishment, from the Pots and Pans Revolution in Iceland to the Indignados movements in Spain and then Greece, to the mass marches against cuts in the UK. A resurgence of interest in socialist politics, marked by Time Magazine’s 2009 cover headline ‘We Are All Socialists Now,’ was registered in opinion polls and new publications.3 In the fallout of the economic crisis, the play’s preoccupation with wreckage continued to appeal, and the disintegrative mode retained a strong presence. Liberatory impulses could be seen in innovative artistic re-imaginings and also eruptions of protest onto the stage itself, while establishment co-optation played out in neoliberal multiculturalist appropriations. The contradictions intensified around an event that drew the largest global audience of any Tempest-related affair in history: the opening ceremony of the summer Olympic Games held in London in 2012.4 The play was caught up in the nationalist triumphalism and commercial excess surrounding the ‘Cultural Olympiad’—the series of activities and performances relating to and promoting the games themselves—and in cultural events imbued with the spirit of anti-capitalist resistance.5 The ‘Reclaim Shakespeare Company’ protested the Globe’s ‘Shipwreck Trilogy’ (one of the three featured plays was The Tempest) due to its sponsorship by British Petroleum—another funder of the Tar Sands—while the experimental documentary Tempest offered a dystopic vision of London, highlighting the anti-austerity protests and ‘riots’ that had shaken the city the previous year. As staged productions proliferated, the play seemed everywhere to be caught up in polarized political debates, my students logged copious references in popular culture and the news media, and I was motivated to write a book exploring its 400-year entanglement with capitalist crisis.

The isle is full of noises The Tempest played no small part in the Olympiad. The massive bell used to open the games was inscribed with Caliban’s line, ‘Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises’ (III.ii.135). The spectacular opening ceremony, produced by Danny Boyle on a multi-million-pound budget, was named ‘Isles of Wonders,’ and featured Kenneth Branagh—in costume as the Victorian civil engineer and icon of British industrialism Isambard Kingdom Brunel—­ delivering the rest of the speech. The long history of anti-colonial appropriation was evoked—Caliban by now metonymic for colonial ­oppression—but also evaded: the chosen speech was not ‘This island’s mine,’ or ‘You taught me language,’ favored by anti-colonialists for their respective emphasis on dispossession and linguistic colonialism, but Caliban’s tribute to his native

Afterword  193 land, now implicitly referring to England and lending itself to patriotic celebration. These contradictory impulses were in keeping with the ceremony’s public relations-savvy polyvocalism, lauding both Britain’s multiculturalism and its imperial history. In its paradoxical messaging about the capitalist system at a moment of economic crisis, as much as its misappropriation of lines from the play, the event recalled Roosevelt’s 1936 Little Rock address (Chapter 3). Here the words of the ‘monster’ plotting to kill the current ruler of the island are attached to a patriotic vision of the British Isles as a wondrous and culturally rich location combining tradition and modernity—and, of course, open to global business. Then Prime Minister David Cameron blandly remarked on the occasion: ‘“We have to celebrate all that is great about the past but also all the potential Britain has in the future…”’6 This was a variation on the ‘past as prologue’ theme, wrapped in historical amnesia, but, in keeping with the ruling class in the age of austerity, lacking Roosevelt’s oratory finesse. While the Olympics ceremony applauded Britain’s multiracial identity, it also sanitized its long history of imperialist plunder. These dynamics were vocalized more crudely by then Foreign Secretary William Hague who gave a formal welcome to the games and was widely quoted in the press, for example on Britain’s imperial legacy: ‘“I think we should just relax. It’s a long time ago, the retreat from empire. You know the Winds of Change speech … was in 1960 before I was born and I’m the Foreign Secretary … We have to get out of this post-colonial guilt”’ (qtd. in Abrams and Parker-­Starbuck 22–3). This premature celebration of post-postcoloniality bypassed the ongoing economic and social hardships felt by London’s multiracial working class, most immediately those East End communities directly impacted by the games: major urban restructuring displaced many, increased costs for those who remained, and replaced a long-established local neighborhood with a deluxe mall. The previous year had witnessed mass nationwide ­anti-austerity protests, bringing together both old and new left forces. The racist legacy of colonialism was also at the heart of the sharp unrest referred to as the ‘London riots.’ Responding to broader conditions of austerity, these protests were sparked by the police murder of the young black Londoner Mark Duggan in the context of systemic and systematic racist policing particularly of Afro-Caribbean communities.7 The opening ceremony of the Olympics showcased the continuing ideological flexibility of the play as cultural symbol: invoked in service of a nationalist public spectacle and massive commercial enterprise designed to ‘unite the nation’ that was simultaneously a populist celebration of a multicultural history of protest. As one astute analyst observed, the event was both an ‘expression of radical patriotism’ in the tradition of Raphael Samuel and a ‘“highly mediated commodity spectacle”’ (Catherine Baker 412, 413). Both judgments can be drawn from the ceremony’s evocation of the National Health Service, which had been subjected to a new round of cuts in provisions and benefits since 2010. That year the government launched

194 Afterword its ‘No decision about me without me’ program, an obvious and a­ ppalling co-optation of the disability rights slogan ‘Nothing about us without us,’ for an initiative that would decimate provisions for disabled people. The Olympics ceremony featured a celebration of the health workers of the NHS, which was seen by some as an implicit protest against the cuts. But the spectacle, itself a massive display of conspicuous spending on image just when the government was claiming to lack funds for essential services for the poor, also functioned to whitewash the devastating impacts of these ongoing cuts. In his history of capitalism and disability, Roddy Slorach writes of the government slogan ‘No decision about me without me’: ‘Politicians have become adept at “turning rebellion into money”—in this case, using the language of disability rights to further their removal in practice’ (Slorach 24 quoting the British rock group, The Clash). This phrase seems an apt description of the entire Olympics ceremony, in its appropriation of the language of multiculturalism, inclusion, radical struggle, and the history of contestation surrounding The Tempest. Caliban, the ‘deformed slave,’ here is at the symbolic center of a national cultural event which paid lip service to equality and justice while providing ideological cover for intensified attacks on the rights of the disabled. Such contradictions were even more pronounced in the opening c­ eremony for the Paralympics, which again featured The Tempest. With Ian ­McKellen as Prospero, Miranda was played by the actress Nicola Miles-Wildin who opened the ceremony with the ubiquitous lines: ‘O Wonder!/How many goodly creatures are there here!/How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,/That has such people in’t!’ (V.i.181–4). Miles-Wildin works with the groundbreaking and innovative Graeae Theater Company, that promotes inclusion of the D/deaf and disabled in theater and produces innovative and creative dramatic performances.8 The actress, who uses a wheelchair, maintained a compelling presence throughout the ceremony, at one point smashing a glass ceiling with a walking stick. This, along with the inclusion of dozens of other D/deaf and disabled people in the ceremony, challenged both the habitual marginalization of disabled performers and many reductive stereotypes surrounding disability. The official image of the Paralympics as a celebration of the athletic achievements of the disabled was tarnished, however, due to sponsorship by Atos—the company that was hired by the government to screen claims from disabled individuals as part of their effort to sharply restrict and cut benefits.9 As happens frequently in this period, the seemingly unironic evocation of the phrase popularized by Huxley, ‘brave new world,’ nonetheless adds new layers to the irony marked by Prospero’s response, ‘’Tis new to thee’ (V.i.184), which identifies Miranda’s misrecognition of old world corruption for new world beauty. The Tempest continued to occupy a contradictory and visible location in several major cultural initiatives attached to the Olympics: the ‘World Shakespeare Festival,’ featuring productions of all Shakespeare plays, each in a different language; the ‘Globe to Globe’ project, launched with the

Afterword  195 slogan ‘The world comes to the Globe next summer. And Shakespeare comes back home’; and a series of internationally themed performances across the UK (Abrams 23). This included the ‘Shipwreck Trilogy’—As You Like It, The Comedy of Errors, and The Tempest—which ran at Stratford and the London Roundhouse. The contrary forces discussed above coalesced in this colossal commercial enterprise that combined promotion of Shakespeare as nationalist icon with an explicit multicultural and internationalist ethos. The Tempest was not the most controversial of these performances, but the issue of corporate sponsorship and environmental/social malfeasance came back to haunt the entire ‘Shipwreck Trilogy.’10 The ‘Reclaim Shakespeare Company,’ newly launched by the UK Tar Sands Network, took to the stage before a performance of The Tempest marking Shakespeare’s birthday and the launching of the World Shakespeare Festival, to perform a protest— drawing on the play—against sponsorship by British Petroleum. The ‘BP or Not BP?’ Website gives this account: Whilst on stage in front of the surprised but supportive audience, the lead actor soliloquised: “What country, friends, is this? Where the words of our most prized poet / Can be bought to beautify a patron / So unnatural as British Petroleum? / They, who have incensed the seas and shores / From a dark deepwater horizon.” The performance concluded with the words “Let us break their staff that would bewitch us! / Out damned logo!”. On saying this, the performer ripped the BP logo from his theatre programme.11 Echoing numerous contemporary works linking the play to environmental destruction and anti-capitalist protest, this action also tapped into the long tradition of radical bardolatry reclaiming Shakespeare for the people, evoking the words of the nineteenth-century orator and dramatist Richard Lalor Sheil: ‘“Break the wand of this political Prospero and take from him the volume of his magic, and he will evoke the spirits which are now under his control no longer”’ (qtd. in David Taylor 514). There are obvious echoes also of the late Victorian ‘burlesque backlash—the comic attack upon the pious pretensions of “legitimate” Shakespearean culture’ (David Taylor 514—see Chapter 2). The spirit of radical bardolatry differently animated the low-budget, limited venue experimental documentary Tempest, directed by Rob Curry and Anthony Fletcher and released in November 2012. This film self-consciously opposed the glamorous image of London circulating in the culture industry promoting the Olympics. With footage of the ‘London riots’ included in the opening credits, Curry and Fletcher addressed the impact of austerity on the multiracial working class through the story of a group of young people in South London attempting to stage a production of The Tempest in the Ovalhouse against a backdrop of racism and class inequality.12 Interviews with the actors drew out parallels between their lives and the characters

196 Afterword in the play, as the drama merged with the contemporary narrative. In the tradition of John Edgar Wideman’s Philadelphia Fire and Philip Osment’s This Island’s Mine, Shakespeare’s play is here both associated with economic hardship, racial injustice, and police brutality, and also positioned as a potentially redemptive tool for the oppressed. The directors explained that they chose The Tempest because of its historical and contemporary reverberations, noting that it marked the ‘discovery of America’ in ways that invite discussion of the legacy of that epochal shift for the meaning of national identity in the present. The project also addressed the history of contestation, explicitly challenging ‘those who believe Shakespeare belongs to the establishment’ in favor of a democratic and inclusive model (Curry and Fletcher Directors Notes).

Unresolved endings redux While the intensity of performances, references, and appropriations has died down in subsequent years, there is no sign that the play’s allusive resonance for global capitalism is diminishing.13 A decade after the play’s 400th birthday, the world climate has changed dramatically: the revolutionary promise of the 2010–11 global rebellions was reversed and largely defeated. A resurgent populism and emboldened far right have fueled a rise in racism and anti-immigrant hysteria. Devastating wars have turned millions of desperate people into refugees, and the uniform response from nations of the Global North has been to increase the militarization of borders and vilify those seeking asylum. The storm and shipwreck, those most potent metaphors for capitalist crisis throughout the long reception history, are further suggestive of the devastating consequences of anthropogenic global climate change as they become increasingly tangible in weather disasters. Benjamin’s vision of history as a series of catastrophes is daily confirmed. For every defeat, though, there are countless examples of solidarity and resistance. The same era has seen the rise of a socialist left, including popular social democratic political movements and figureheads. The spirit of the Arab Spring has animated widespread mass rebellions in Sudan and Algeria, toppling entrenched leaders and stunning the world with powerful images of defiant solidarity. Revitalized movements against the far right, racism, and women’s oppression have spread in many regions of the world, as have vigorous labor struggles, including a wave of militant teachers’ strikes in the United States that have reversed the impact of decades of eroded learning conditions through cuts to people and resources. The one certain lesson from this history is that revolutionary upheavals persistently return, and the oppressed, in the words of author Viet Than Nguyen—‘the barbarians at the gate, the descendants of Caliban, the ones who have no choice but to speak in the language we have’ (‘Critic’s Take’)—will continue to resist and to offer counter-narratives to the dominant order.

Afterword  197 The continuing polarized political contestation condenses in one of the play’s central structuring dualities: human cruelty and kindness. The first filament demonstrates a will to exploitation and dehumanization, expressed in Prospero’s words to Caliban, ‘most lying slave,/Whom stripes may move, not kindness!’ (I.ii.344–5) and echoed by Miranda’s ‘Abhorred slave,/Which any print of goodness wilt not take,’ (I.ii.351–2). The other suggests an ethos of empathy and fellowship, captured by Miranda’s response to the spectacle of the shipwreck provoked by her father—‘O! I have suffered/With those that I saw suffer’ (I.ii.5–6)—and amplified by Ariel’s appeal to Prospero’s better nature: ‘if you now beheld them, your affections/ Would become tender’ (V.i.18–9). These contrary impulses are indicated in Trinculo’s observation about the English: ‘When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian’ (II.ii.31–3). In these cases, exploitation has economic motivation: Caliban does the uncompensated labor that is essential to Prospero and Miranda’s well-being; the unscrupulous English can make money from capturing and displaying new world natives. It also has ideological justification resting on shifting definitions of selfhood that would be taken up in modern ideologies of race, gender, and disability: like Sycorax, Caliban and the ‘Indian’ lack the requisite markers of humanity. The instability of these attitudes is exemplified by contradictory signals regarding physical impairment: Caliban’s ‘deformed’ state is indicative of his moral lack—he is ‘not honor’d with /A human shape’ (I.ii.283–4)—and therefore warrants his mistreatment; in contrast, behind Trinculo’s cynical quip lies the implicit sense that people should prioritize assistance to the ‘lame beggar’ over indulgence in exploitative voyeurism, even though this may not be, or is no longer, the norm. Emancipatory movements have repeatedly activated appropriations that foreground these conflicting impulses, reconfigured by Edward Bond into the conflict between capitalist individualism and socialist common good, and endow them with contemporary import. Often, perhaps in congruence with Hegel’s image of the owl of Minerva spreading its wings only at dusk, the consequences of sociopolitical developments appear in criticism only after a lag in time. Sometimes this chronological gap is particularly marked, as in the explosion of ‘postcolonial’ Tempests more than a decade after the ascendance of the ‘Caliban school’ that was inspired by the era of decolonization. In other cases, strikingly, shared qualities emerge simultaneously in disparate areas of culture, as can be seen in the influence of transatlantic revolution on the Romantics’ abiding interest in Prospero’s ‘Our revels now are ended’ speech or the emergence of the ‘school of Sycorax’ at the turn of the twenty-first century. In his 1947 lecture, Auden addressed the troubled issue of the play’s resolution: ‘The Tempest ends, like the other plays in Shakespeare’s last period, in reconciliation and forgiveness. But the ending in The Tempest is grimmer, and the sky is darker than in The Winter’s Tale, Pericles, and Cymbeline’ (Auden Lectures 303). A decade later, he extended this argument: ‘“The

198 Afterword Tempest is full of music of all kinds, yet it is not one of the plays in which, in a symbolic sense, harmony and concord finally triumph over dissonant disorder”’ (Auden qtd. in Kirsch Appendix 66). The play’s conclusion has been the central bone of contention between competing proponents of the integrative and disintegrative readings: those celebrating the conservative restoration of order and effacing the violence and exploitation embrace the ‘happy ever after’ resolution; those drawing attention to the enduring conflicts and systemic brutality see the forced closure as unconvincing and contrived. This dispute, that has reignited in myriad forms over the centuries, shows no signs of being resolved in the foreseeable future. As long as the ‘barbarism’ structuring global capitalism endures, so will emancipatory struggle, and so too will contestation over ‘cultural treasures.’ While the history I have traced confirms that culture can function to disguise or emphasize capitalism’s catastrophes, it also affirms the emancipatory possibilities of the arts. Sundry writers who turned to Shakespeare’s Tempest have recognized the dissident potential of cultural creation: Auden declared that ‘art is like queerness’; H.D. insisted that ‘the poet’s role is to preserve and restore cultural memory, to dredge up the traces left in the palimpsest of history’ (Vetter 24); May Joseph tells us (referring to Marlene Nourbese Philip), ‘Writing itself becomes a sonic reinscription that permeates the allegorical wounding of history, a balm that transfigures even as it returns as an echo of the violent past’ (216). In such ways, cultural works may not only expose the violence that is euphemized and displaced in Shakespeare’s play, but also release the silenced and obscured traditions of resistance that nonetheless also leave their mark on it. Whether or not isolated moments of political opposition are victorious, they spark new patterns of thought and creativity that find their way into the broader society, unleashing new cultural forms that, in turn, may inspire and sustain future resistance.

Notes 1 Wiker, Ten Books. For a discussion of the attack on ethnic studies in Tucson, Arizona, see Biggers, ‘Who’s Afraid of The Tempest?’ 2 Gullick, ‘Unoccupied Territory: The rage of Caliban.’ 3 Terry Eagleton, Why Marx Was Right (Yale UP, 2011); David Harvey, A Companion to Marx’s Capital (Verso 2010), inspired by his wildly popular lecture series; John Sitton, Marx Today: Selected Works and Recent Debates (Palgrave 2010). 4 The BBC boasted a British audience of 27.3 million, and the IOC gave the figure of 900 million viewers globally. See Catherine Baker, ‘Beyond the Island Story?’ (412). 5 Abrams and Parker-Starbuck explain the concept behind London’s winning bid to host the games: ‘not merely the Olympics, but the Cultural Olympiad, a ­four-year cultural celebration allowing people from all over the UK to participate in a range of diverse events: performance, film, art, music, and more’ (19). 6 Quoted in various news outlets including CNN www.cnn.com/2012/07/27/ world/europe/olympics-opening-ceremony-danny-boyle-profile/index.html and Mail online: www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/olympics/article-2179713/London2012-Olympics-Worldwide-audience-opening-ceremony.html.

Afterword  199 7 Peterson et al. explore the ‘old’ and ‘new’ left elements involved in the international anti-austerity movement. Eleanor Kilroy and Estelle du Boulay review the Duggan case and present broad evidence of discriminatory policing especially of Afro-Caribbean Britons. 8 http://graeae.org/about/our-artistic-vision/. While I do not know of a Graeae performance of The Tempest, members of the ensemble training program for the company spent time studying the play with RADA in 2018. 9 See Richard Williams’ account of the Paralympics ceremony for The Guardian. 10 The Comedy of Errors, directed by Palestinian dramatist Amir Nizar Zuabi, who has made the case for understanding Shakespeare as a Palestinian, was singled out for its depiction of Ephesus as a brutally repressive state replete with waterboarding and persecution of ‘illegal’ immigrants. See Zuabi, and Michael Billington’s ‘Battered immigrants and magic visions in a shipwreck triple bill.’ 11 For more information about the protest, see the websites https://bp-or-not-bp. org/2012/04/23/protesters-take-to-the-stage-at-rsc-over-bp-sponsorship/ and http://bloggingshakespeare.com/shakespeares-shipwreck-trilogy. 12 See the review by Killian Fox. More information about the Ovalhouse can be seen at this site: www.ovalhouse.com/about. 13 This is illustrated, for example, in two new books that came across my desk while working on this Afterword, and a recent TV show: William Robinson’s Into the Tempest: Essays on Global Capitalism takes the storm as metaphor for the system; Ed Morales’ Latinx uses a quote from Caliban (taken from ­Césaire’s A Tempest, though attributed to Shakespeare) as epigram for a ­chapter exploring ‘Neoliberal Multiculturalism’ in the age of Trump. In the dystopic HBO show Westworld, a grim exploration of capitalist technology and the spectacle of violence, one of the synthetic hosts designed to service wealthy human tourists in the eponymous theme park revisits that favorite line: ‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!’.

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Index

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. Aaron, Melissa D. 17, 167 Abrams, Josh 193, 195, 198n5 Abu Ghraib prison 172–3, 175 accumulation viii, xii, xvii, xviii, xx, xxii, 1, 2, 5, 7, 15, 16, 17, 23, 43, 72, 73, 130, 141, 147, 153, 155–8, 164, 165, 168, 172, 173, 176, 180; see also primitive accumulation Ackroyd, Peter 11 Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds (1572) 9 Adams, John 106 Addison, Joseph 54 Aeneid (Virgil) xix, 12, 18n3 Aesthetic Nervousness: Disability and the Crisis of Representation (Quayson) 179 African National Congress (ANC) 190n18; Truth and Reconciliation Commission 184, 190n18 Africans: cultural traditions 121; negative stereotypes 104–5; representation in travel narratives 8; and Sea Venture 14; as slaves 5–6, 121, 157–8; writers 104, 118; see also slavery Age of Anxiety (Auden) 98 age of capital xxi, 70–3 Age of Discovery 183 agricultural capitalism 2; see also capitalism The Alchemist (Jonson) 34 alchemy 34, 35, 47n15, 47n16, 157 Alcoa 175, 181–2, 190n12 Alexander, Michelle 6, 189n2, 189n8 Algerian/Algeria/Algiers xviii, xix, 24, 28, 30, 39, 46n4, 196

Ali, Mohammed 126 Ali, Tariq 114 All the Devils are Here: The Hidden History of the Financial Crisis (McLean and Nocera) 171 Alonso 1, 23, 28, 32, 95, 107, 108, 134, 135 alterity xviii, xxv, 26, 27, 117, 134, 187 Althusser, Louis 140, 147 American capitalism 81; see also capitalism American imperialism 103, 139 American Mercury 85 Americas 4, 13, 23, 28, 156; colonization of 46n1, ‘discovery’ and ‘conquest’ of xviii, 4, 5; European conquest of 7–8, 23; European incursion into 5 amphitheaters xvii, 8, 10, 13, 17, 18n12, 53 Anaal Nathrakh (British death metal band) 171 Andrade, Oswald de 170 Angel of History (Klee) 182 Anglophone xvi, xxi, xxv, xxixn15, 74, 116, 136n5, 137n11; literary traditions 81 ‘Anthropophagic Manifesto’ 170 anti-capitalist viii, xxi, xxii, 16, 98, 115, 116, 149, 152, 162n18, 163n26, 165, 169, 172, 192, 195; movement 165, 169; politics 115; radicalism 116 anti-colonialism xviii, 13, 29, 30, 74, 81, 82, 91, 104, 105, 114, 115, 116, 118, 119, 125, 126, 127, 134, 136n2, 136n5, 140, 145, 147, 151, 152, 153,

238 Index 154, 156, 165, 169, 172, 174, 175, 180, 183, 185, 186, 187, 192 anti-colonial politics 175 anti-imperialism 141, 149 anti-imperialist advocacy for Caliban 94, 118; aesthetic xxiv; critique 130; freedom fighters xxii; legacy 141; politics 121; radicalism 116; revolutionary upheaval 118; Tempests 84; uncompromising stance 180; writers xxv Antonio 1, 19n19, 20, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 36, 39, 44, 81, 94, 95, 123, 146, 147, 170, 185 apartheid xxvi, 87, 114, 136n1, 184, 190n18 apocalypse 142, 143, 148, 165, 181 Arab Spring xxii, xxvi, 191, 196 Arctic North 24, 180, 181 Ariel xiv, xxii, 23, 24, 26, 28, 30, 33, 37, 38, 40–3, 58, 59, 60–2, 66, 69, 74, 75, 78n24, 82–4, 94–7, 106–8, 115, 116, 119, 120, 125, 134, 135, 142, 145, 146, 151, 152, 157, 159, 163n24, 169–71, 173, 174, 178, 179, 181–3, 185, 187, 188, 191, 197 Ariel (Burnand) 74 Aristotle 124, 130 Armattoe, Raphael Ernest Grail 104–5, 113n24 Arnold, Matthew 72 arrested decolonization 117, 125–31, 185 Arts Council grants 148 Ashcroft, Peggy 90 As You Like It (Shakespeare) 195 Athabasca River watershed 188 Atlantic slavery 5 Atomic 91, 99, 105–7 Atomic bomb 91 Atwood, Margaret 175 Auden, W. H. xxi, 28, 30, 42–3, 70, 73, 91, 93–5, 97–8, 109, 112n18, 112n19, 112n20, 132, 142, 157, 188, 197–8 austerity xxiii, 131, 142, 144, 149, 150, 171, 191, 192, 193, 195, 199n7 authorship 11, 18n15, 45, 77n4, 132 Avenia: A Tragical Poem (Branagan) 57 backlash xxii, 71, 115, 131, 139–42, 147, 150, 195 Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women (Faludi) 162n17

Bacon, Francis 4, 18n5, 35, 104 Balasopoulos, Antonis 176–7 Ballad of the Gallows Bird (Markham) 85, 87 Barbados 137n6, 137n12 Barbarism x, xi, xii, xix, xxiii, xxiv, 96, 161n5, 189, 198 Bardolatry vii, xxi, xxviin1, 22, 54, 72, 73, 75, 92, 150, 159, 195 Barker, Francis xxiv, 47n12, 147 Barrault, Jean-Louis 124 Barrell, John 56 Bartlett, Keith 170 Bartolovich, Crystal xix, xxii, 4, 166–7 Bate, Jonathan 55, 56, 59, 61, 64, 78n21, 78n24, 189n9 ‘Battle of Seattle’ 155 Baudelaire, Charles 20 BBC 90, 108, 143, 149, 198n4 Beale, Simon Russell 145 Beaton, Norman 125 The Bell Jar (Plath) 113n26 Benjamin, Walter \ vii, ix–xii, xx, xxiii, xxviiin6, xxixn17, 17, 20–1, 82, 96, 122, 131, 182, 188–9, 191, 196 Bennett, Lerone xvii, 6, 21–2 Berlin conference of 1884–85 73 Berman, Marshall xv Bermuda xviii, xxixn14, 13–15, 23, 46n2, 49n26, 125, 168 Bermuda pamphlets 23 ‘Beyond Caliban’s Curses: The Decolonial Feminist Literacy of Sycorax’ (Lara) 162n21 ‘Beyond Miranda’s Meanings’ (Wynter) 151, 154 Billingham, Peter 132–3 Billington, Michael 137n15, 145, 170, 186 Bingo (Bond) 133 Black women 7, 8, 29, 30, 47n11, 112n23, 138n27, 151–4, 189n2 Black Britons 117 Black Dwarf 68 Blacker, Robert 187 black feminism/feminist 108, 115, 162n18, 162n20 Blackfriars theater xx, 10, 16, 18n12, 22, 47n8, 100 black power movement 104–5 Blake, William 60, 61, 181 Bloch, Ernst 140 Bloom, Harold 161n5

Index  239 ‘The Blue-Eyed Witch’ (Marcus) 47n9, 151 Boatswain 31, 33, 37, 44, 45, 66, 95, 147, 168 body xxvi, 18–19, 42, 172, 173, 179, 180, 183 Boelhower, William 177–8, 181 Bogdanov, Michael 149–50 Bond, Edward 132–4, 138n26, 197 Books Abroad 126 Boose, Lynda 144 Borrowers and Lenders 177 Bosman, Anston 184, 190n19 Bourgeois: xv, xix, xx, xxi, 2, 3, 11, 12, 18n5, 20, 22, 35, 50–3, 55, 65, 69, 70–2, 75, 81, 95, 98, 104, 115, 116, 126, 128, 133, 135, 143, 144, 173; imperialism 144; individualism 2–3; revolution 55–70 Bové, Paul 161n10 Bower, Dallas 90 Boyd, Michael 170 Boyle, Danny 192 Branagan, Thomas 57 Branagh, Kenneth 192 Brand, Dionne 152 Brathwaite, Edward xiii, xxii, 121, 130, 135, 137n12, 138n29, 142, 155 Brathwaite, Kamau see Brathwaite, Edward Brave New World (Huxley) viii, xvi, xxi, 47n15, 81, 87–8, 146, 159, 166, 187, 189n5, 194 Brayne, John 10 Bread and Puppet Theater 148 Brenner, Johanna 152 Brenner, Robert 14 Brighton Arts Council 189n7 British Council 185, 190n20 British Empire 73–7 British Empire Shakespeare Society 73 British Empire Society 73 British imperialism 55, 73 British Petroleum (BP) 192, 195 British Romanticism 58–70 British South African Company 126 Brook, Peter 107, 123–4, 129 Brooks, Cleanth 94 Brough, Robert 71 Brower, Reuben xiii–xv, 49n27, 25, 99, 171 Browning, Robert 72–3 Brunel, Isambard Kingdom 192

Bruner, Charlotte 104 Bulger, Thomas 31 Burbage, James 10 Burnand, F. C. 74, 75 Busia, Abena 141, 151, 153–4, 175 Business Week 136n3 By Avon River (H.D) 91–3, 112n16, 157 Byron 59 Cabral, Amilcar 115 Caliban viii, xiv, xviii, xxi, xxii, xxiv, xxvi, 21, 23–30, 33–6, 38–44, 46n2, 47n13, 47n14, 48n23, 54, 55–61, 64, 66–79, 81–6, 88–91, 94–7, 99–106, 108, 110n5, 111n7, 115–35, 136n4, 136n5, 137n8, 140, 142, 143, 145, 146, 148, 149, 151–8, 162n21, 165–75, 177, 179–85, 187, 191–7, 199n13 ‘Caliban’ (Brathwaite) 121 ‘Caliban’ (Retamar) 137n5 Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation (Federici) 3, 7, 151, 172 ‘Caliban in the Coal Mines’ (Untermeyer) 84–5, 110n5, 111n7 ‘Caliban’s Daughter’ (Cliff) 120, 151, 152 ‘Caliban Speaks’ (Jerome) 101–4, 169 Caliban Upon Setebos (Browning) 72–3 ‘Caliban versus Miranda: Race and Gender Conflicts in Postcolonial Rewritings of The Tempest’ (Singh) 136n4, 151, 154 Callaghan, Dympna 47n10 Cameron, David 193 Campbell, Oscar James 100 Canada Lee 99–101, 112n21 Canadian Wildlife Federation 178 cannibal/caniballes/cannibalism xix, 12, 13, 25, 101, 143, 165, 170 Canon/canonization/canonized vii, viii, xvi, xx, 54, 55, 102, 107, 109, 151, 152, 179 capital: age of 70–3; early formation of 167; see also primitive accumulation Capital (Marx) 2–3, 122 capitalism 117, 121, 146; agricultural 2; American 81; consumer 88, 129; crisis xvi, xxvi, xxi, xxvi, 1, 82, 143, 192, 196; and disability 179–80, 194; and ecology 190n13; England’s early 4, 7, 14, 16, 17; in Europe 5; global 91; and Glorious Revolution 53;

240 Index imperialist war and 121; industrial 148; and intersectional oppression 152, 162n18; and laborers 2–3; modern 85, 116; non-eurocentric history of 77n3; omnipresent 130; ‘denaturalization’ of 165; postapartheid 184; racism and 121; renaturalization of 140; and statesponsored enclosures of land 2; and The Tempest ix, xvi, xviii, xxii, 21–2, 46n2, 50–2, 122, 147, 173; transatlantic 168; and women 7 Capitalism and Slavery (Williams) 6, 118 capitalist accumulation 73, 147, 168, 180; global structures of 180; then and now 155–8; see also primitive accumulation capitalist imperialism 143, 166, 172 capitalist modernity 58, 78n11, 81, 130, 135 Caribbean ii, xviii, xxi, xxiv, xxv, 4, 81, 109, 116, 117, 130, 134, 135, 136n4, 137n11, 141, 147, 151, 152–4, 157, 169, 169, 172, 174, 193, 199n7 Caribbean women 141, 154–5, 169 Cartesian 2, 28 Catholic Church 1 Césaire, Aimé 119–20, 126, 129, 137n11, 138n29, 142, 152, 154, 162n21, 171, 199n13 Césaire, Suzanne 169 Challenge (Untermeyer) 84 Champlain Shakespeare Festival, Vermont 145 Charry, Brinda 46n1, 136n4 Chartism 69, 70, 71, 72 Cheek by Jowl company 148 Chikwakwa Theatre 126 Christian xviii, 11, 23, 93, 97, 98, 124, 125, 130, 137n9 Christmas Rebellion of 1831/32 135 Ciulei, Liviu 144, 161n8 Civilization x, xxi, 68, 85, 96, 106, 107, 125, 142, 145, 148, 172 civil rights 98–9, 101, 114, 141 Claribel 23, 32, 92 Class, Critics, and Shakespeare (O’Dair) 167 class conflict 24, 26, 31, 55, 134, 167: metaphors in The Tempest 31–4; theme in The Tempest 24–6 Clause 28 xxiv, 149, 161n7, 162n15

Cliff, Michelle 120, 151, 152, 162n21, 169 climate change xxvii, 51, 120, 160, 164, 176, 178, 180, 196 ‘Climate Change; Sea Change’ (Canadian Wildlife Federation) 178 clothing 4, 33, 34, 40 Coby, Patrick 147 ‘Cochabamba Water Wars’ 155 Cochrane, Kelso 117, 137n7 Cold War xiii, 91, 98–9, 104–10, 112n23, 115, 139 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 43, 54, 56, 63–8; counterrevolutionary ideology 67; on Shakespeare’s ‘non-partisan’ stance 66; view of The Tempest 65–6 Colonial Encounters (Hulme) 147, 170 colonialism British 52; contemporary 186, 187; economic and military 121; European 117, 139, 165, 174; French 137n11; industrial 120; linguistic 192; racist legacy of 193; Renaissance drama and 147; Tempest and 47n12, 72, 94, 119, 136n4, 140 Combahee River Collective Statement of 1977 115, 162n20, 162n18 Comedy of Errors (Shakespeare) 195, (theatrical production) 199n10 commodification 129, 130, 164, 183, 190n16 communal/community 2, 3, 32, 99, 118, 133, 139, 149, 150, 169, 173, 177 Communist International 82, 110n2 Communist Manifesto (Marx) 35, 50 Communist Party 84, 112n22, 137n11, 137n13, 138n16 Comrade 110n4, 111n8 Conciones ad Populum (Coleridge) 64–5 conquest of the Americas xviii, 4, 5, 7, 23 Conrad, Joseph 82–4, 130 conservative x, xiv, xviii, xix, xx, xxi, xxii, 21, 22, 24, 52, 53, 56, 64, 68, 71, 75, 81, 82, 90, 91, 111n10, 124, 139, 141, 146, 148, 183, 191, 198 Contested Will (Shapiro) 18n15 Coriolanus (Shakespeare) 19, 75, 122 counterrevolution 52, 53, 67, 69, 71, 87–90, 111n10 Crashaw, William 15 Crenshaw, Kimberlé 162n18 Crouch, Tim 170–1, 189n7

Index  241 Croyden, Margaret 124 The Cry for Justice: An Anthology of the Literature of Social Protest (Sinclair) 84–5, 110n4, 110n5 Cultural Critique 153 cultural decolonization 135 culturalism 140, 151, 153 Cultural Materialists 146 cultural nationalism 93, 126 culture: bourgeois 72, 143; land and folk 75; mainstream American 93; mass consumer 98; popular ii, viii, xx, xxiii, 75, 99, 158, 165, 192; war 116, 140–1 Culture and Imperialism (Said) 156 culture wars xx–xxiv, 116, 140, 141 Curry, Renee 113n26 Curry, Rob 195 Cymbeline (Shakespeare) 19n21, 197 Daemonologie (King James) 35 Daniell, David 76n6, 78n13 Daniels, Ron 145 Dante 143 Dash, J. Michael 57 Daughters of Caliban (Springfield) 151, 155 Davenant, William xxi, xxiv, 52, 53, 54, 56, 71, 77n2, 77n4, 77n5 Davidson, Neil xx, xxviiin6, 18n5, 136n2 Davis, Carole Boyce 154 decolonization i, xxii, xxv, 91, 98–105, 115–18, 125, 126, 128, 135, 141, 152, 174, 185, 197 Dee, John 34 deformity xiv, xvii, 18n4, 28, 68, 170, 185 Deep Down the Blackman’s Mind (Armattoe) 104, 113n24 Delaney, Paul 49n27, 134 Demaray, John G. 16 deregulation xxii, 139, 159, 164–90 Desai, Ashwin 184, 187 Description of England (Harrison) 2 Dillon, Elizabeth Maddock 55, 57, 58 Dimmock, Matthew 5, 18n7 Disability i, xv, xxiii, xxv, xxvi, xxixn20, 18n4, 26, 165, 176, 179, 180, 183, 184, 189n3, 190n14, 194, 197; early modern understanding of 28–9; theme in The Tempest 28–9 Disability Studies Quarterly 179

Discovery of the Barmudas, Otherwise Called the Ile of Divels (Jourdain) 12 discrimination: racial oppression 27; and The Tempest 26–31 dispossession xiii, xvii, xviii, xx, 102; brutal 17; capitalist 3, 5, 55, 130, 148; colonial 46n2, 47n12, 117–8; indigenous xxii, 109, 148, 165, 176, 182; new age of 146–8; proletarian 39; rural 63; stages of 180–9; violent 7, 73, 103, 104, 141, 169 Dobson, Michael 54, 77n5 Doctor Faustus (Marlowe) 35–6 Goethe’s Faust xv Dollimore, Jonathan 161n9 Donaldson, Laura 151 Donnellan, Declan 148 Doré, Gustav 143 Douglass, Frederick 103 Dowden, Edward 43, 74, 76, 89 Do You Love Me Master? (Wallace) 126–8 The Drill Hall 149 Dryden, John xxi, xxiv, 52, 53, 54, 56, 71, 77n2, 77n4 dualism xxvi, 10, 42, 43, 94, 97, 98, 108 Duggan, Mark 193, 199n7 Dymkowski, Christine 38, 70, 90, 99, 107, 125, 145, 161n13 dystopic i, xxi, 82, 84, 87–9, 110, 141–3, 146, 166, 192, 199n13 Eagleton, Terry 166, 198n3 early modern period xxiii, 2, 18n4, 28, 47n11, 93, 116 Ebner, Dean 124 ecological rift 165, 175–80, 189n4 Economic Policy Institute 189n2 Egan, Gabriel 163n26 Eliot, T. S. xiii, 81–2, 83–4, 87, 132, 142–3, 178 Elizabeth I 2, 4 Ellison, Ralph 130 emancipation/emancipatory xii, xiv, xvi, 17, 52, 72, 94, 135, 140, 162n18, 169, 189, 197, 198 Emancipation Proclamation 72 empire xxi, 1, 30, 52, 73–7, 92, 115, 119, 130, 141, 159, 173, 193 Empire (Hardt and Negri) 160 ‘The Enchanted Island: Before the Cell of Prospero’ (Fuseli) 59–60

242 Index Enchanted Isle (Brough) 71 enclosure xvii, 2, 5, 7, 15, 37, 75, 133 Endymion (Keats) 61 Engels, Frederick 50–1, 112n20, 136n2 England 1–2; early capitalism 4, 52, 116, 168; London as heart of capitalism for 4; maritime power and commercial expansion 5–6 England’s Internal Colonies: Class, Capital, and the Literature of Early Modern English Colonialism (Netzloff) 167–8, 46n2, 161n4 English Civil War 53, 77n1 English Literature: globalization of xxi; imperialism and 79n31; inclusion of Shakespeare's plays in 71–2 English Renaissance ix, 18n14, 110n3, 130, 143 Enlightenment 2, 35, 142 Enslow Hill Rebellion of 1596 3 environmental viii, xxvi, 144, 149, 155, 160, 175, 176, 182, 190n13, 190n22, 195 Erdman, David 61 Erlich, Bruce 134 Eurocentrism/non-Eurocentric 5, 6, 77n3 ‘Euroculture missile’ 135 Europe: capitalism in xviii, 5, 77n3; feudal 4; incursion into Americas 1, 5, 7, 23, 88, 157; travel narratives 8 European colonialism 6, 47n12, 73, 117, 122, 165, 174; dismantling of 91, 99, 177 European hegemony 154 European Union 166 Faludi, Susan 162n17 ‘Familiars in a Ruinstrewn Land: Endgame as Political Allegory’ (Golden) 143 Fanon, Frantz 115, 126, 128, 129, 136n5, 138n29 Federici, Sylvia xviii, 3, 7, 16, 37, 151, 172–3, 174 Felperin, Howard 160n3 femininity 27, 28, 29, 39–40, 47n9, 129, 183 feminism/feminist xxii, 38, 92, 108, 115, 141, 150, 153, 162, 162n18, 162n20, 174 feudalism xxii, 1, 6, 7, 50, 65, 146 Fido, Elaine Savory 154

Fields, Barbara 6 financial crisis 164, 171 Financial Times 165 Finkelstein, Sidney 123, 138n16 First Nations groups 188 Fletcher, Anthony 195 Fletcher, John 11 Les Fleurs du mal (Baudelaire) ix, 20 Foakes, Reginald 67, 78n22 Folios xvii, 53 Foot, Paul 69 The Forbidden Planet (Wilcox) 105–7, 143, 148, 159, 163n25 Foster, John Bellamy 189n4, 190n13 Foucault, Michel 140, 147, 160n4 Foulkes, Richard 70 Fowles, John 109, 110 Frankenstein (Shelley) 68–9, 78n23 Frantz Fanon’s Uneven Ribs (Liyong) 126 Freire, Paolo 191 French Revolution 57, 63, 64, 67, 135 ‘From Caliban to the Taliban: 500 Years of Humanitarian Intervention’ (Newman) 172, 189n10 Frye, Northrop 49n27 Fukuyama, Francis 139, 146 ‘Full Fathom Five’ viii, xiv, 68, 107, 178–9 Fuseli, Henry 59–60 Fussell, Paul 75 Gaiman, Neil 159 The Gap in Shakespeare (Manlove) 49n27, 144 Garrick, David 54 Gates, Sir Thomas xxixn14, 13, 14, 172 Gay Pride parades 162n16 gay rights 161n7 see also LGBTQ Gay Sweatshop Theater Company xxiv, 138n27, 149, 161n14 gender xv, xxvi, 7, 18n10, 26, 29, 30, 37, 40, 47n11, 48n20, 48n24, 142, 150–5, 165, 169, 197 Gender, Race, Renaissance Drama (Loomba) xxii, xxv, 46n1, 152–3 Genesis SA 188 genocide xvii, xviii, 1, 5, 102, 131 Gildan xvi, 188 Gillies, John 147 global capitalism xvi, 21, 22, 91, 119n13, 136, 157, 167, 196, 198; see also capitalism

Index  243 global economic crash 88 Global Economics (Aaron) 167 globalization xxi, xxii, 81, 141, 176, 165, 166, 173 Globe theater 9, 17, 47n8, 52 Glorious Revolution of 1688 53 Goddard, Harold 31 Golden, Seán 143 ‘Gonzalo: Afterthoughts’ (poem) 132 Goold, Rupert 175, 176, 180–2 Gorra, Michael 83 Gorrie, John 143 Graeae Theater Company 194, 199n8 Graham, Jorie xxvii, 178–9 A Grain of Wheat (Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o) 118–19 Gramsci, Antonio xii Great Depression 81, 87–90 Great Rebellion (1642–51) 53 Great Recession xxii, 164, 165, 171, 189n2, 191 Greenblatt, Stephen 4, 8, 11, 17, 136n4 Greene, Robert 8 Griffiths, Trevor 72 Guantanamo 172–3, 175 Gurr, Andrew 18n11, 18n12, 46n1, 77n9 The Guardian 70–1, 186, 199n9 Hag-Seed (Atwood) 175 Hague, William 193 Haiti xvi, xxi, xxvi, 56, 136n5, 188 Haitian Revolution 57, 135 Hakluyt, Richard xviii Hall, Kim xxv, 18n10, 47n10, 154 Hall, Peter 145 hall theaters 18n12 Halpern, Richard 110n3, 160n3 Hamburger, Michael 132, 138n25 Hamlet (Shakespeare) xxviin2, 70, 78n13, 83, 130 Harriot, Thomas 34 Harvey, David 166, 180, 189n4, 198n3 Hathaway, Anne 11 Hawkes, David 34, 141 Hawkes, Terence (‘meaning by Shakespeare’) viii, xxviii Hawthorne, Nigel 143 Hazlitt, William 67–8 H.D. (Doolittle, Hilda) xxi, 91–3, 111n16, 157, 198 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich ix, 112n20, 140, 197

Hellas (Shelley) 50, 69–70 Heller, Henry 77n3 Hell is Empty and all the Devils are Here (album) 171 Heminges, John 10 Hendricks, Margo 18n10 Henry VIII 9 Henry, Paget xxv, xxixn19 Henslowe, Philip 17 Highlife for Caliban (Johnson) 128–30, 185 Hill, Christopher 9, 18n1, 18n9, 31, 53 Hiroshima xi, 87, 91, 99, 108, 143 historical materialism/materialist xi, x, 20, 21, 140 Hobsbawm, Eric xxi, 52, 70 Holinshed’s Chronicle 2 Holmes, Jonathan 46n7, 185–6 holocaust 90, 108 Honeyman, Janice 183–4, 186 Hordern, Michael 143 Huebner, Andrew 106 Hughes, Langston ix, xxviiin8, 101 Hughes, Ted 108 Hulme, Peter xx, xxiv, xxivn22, 147, 166, 170 humanity, notion of 2 ‘human nature’ 2, 66, 89, 106, 123, 146 human rights abuses 172 Hurricane Katrina 176–8 Huxley, Aldous xxi, 87–9, 111n12, 111n13, 159, 166, 194 Hytner, Nicholas 145 Iceland 176, 180, 181, 192 ‘identity politics’ 151, 162n18, 162n19 IMF 139, 146 immigration/migration/immigrants 131, 166, 196, 199n10 impairment xxv, xxixn20, 3, 29, 176, 183, 184, 197 imperialism xxi, 52, 77n3, 92, 93, 95, 117, 119, 139–44, 153, 166, 168, 172, 180, 182, 188; American 103, 156; British 55, 73; described in Victory: An Island Tale 83; and The Tempest 6, 18n8 imperialist war xxvi, 75, 82, 109, 110n1, 121, 177 incarceration xviii, xxiii, 45, 160, 165, 169, 171–7, 181, 182, 189n2 independence xxi, 57, 99, 114–38; age of extremes part II: 1960–79 114–16;

244 Index arrested decolonization 125–31; end of the boom 131–6; rise of Caliban 116–22; tempest of dissent 122–5 India 54, 79n31, 99, 140, 161n11 Indian independence 99 indigenous/indigeneity/indigenous dispossession/indigenous rights xviii, xxii, xxvi, 23, 102, 109, 110n3, 148, 155, 157, 164, 165, 169, 176, 177, 180, 181, 182, 188, 190n22 Indigo (Warner) xxv, 157–8, 168 individualism 2, 3, 6, 9, 98, 133, 147, 197; bourgeois 2–3; possessive 2 Inferno (Dante) 143 innovation and tradition 107–10 intersectional/intersectionality 151, 152, 153, 162n18, 162n19, 165, 185 In the Castle of My Skin (Lamming) 116, 118 In the Wake of Theory (Bové) 161n4, 161n10 Introduction to the English Novel (Kettle) 137n13 Ireland/Irish 27, 47n10, 71, 104, 113n24, 156 Isherwood, Christopher 93 Islamophobia 172, 189n8 ‘An Island in the Moon’ (Cooper) 60 Islands (Brathwaite) 121 Is Massa Day Dead? Black Moods in the Caribbean 130 Iti, Tame 182 Jacobean England 9, 11, 16, 17, 37, 134, 149, 167, 186; drama 9, 17; plays 16; public theatre, 149 Jamaica/Jamaican 57, 120, 128, 134, 135, 152, 169 James, Henry 74, 83, 84, 89, 95 Jameson, Fredric 160n3 Jamestown Colony 5, 12–15 Jane Eyre (Brontë) 152 Jani, Pranav xxvii, xxviiin12, 189n6 Jarman, Derek 142–3, 161n7 Jarrell, Randall 81, 98, 112n19 Jennings, Michael W. 20–1 Jericho House Company 46n7, 185–6 Jerome, V. J. 101–4, 112n22, 169, 174 Johnson, Lemuel 128–30, 138n21, 151, 185 Johnson, Samuel 22, 54 Johnstone, Dion 188 Jonson, Ben 34, 54

Joseph, May xviii–xix, 54, 151, 164, 169, 173, 183, 198 Jourdain, Silvester 12 Joyce, James xiii Kamau, Edward see Brathwaite, Edward Kani, John 26, 183 Kastan, David Scott 46n1 Kaunda, Kenneth 126, 127 Keach, William xxv, 56–7, 60, 62, 63; on To Autumn 62–3, 64 Kean, Edmund 61 Keats, John 61–2, 78n17, 89 Kemble, John Philip 56 Kempe, William 10 Kenyatta, Jomo 118 Kettle, Arnold 122, 137n13 Kett’s Rebellion of 1549 3 Khan, Gabeen 185 King, Martin Luther, Jr. 115; Riverside Speech of 1967 115 King James 17, 35–6, 92 King John (Shakespeare) 75 King Lear (Shakespeare) 78n13, 134 King’s Men xvii, 9–10, 17, 52 Kipling, Rudyard 74 Kirsch, Arthur 28, 93, 95, 97, 98, 188, 198 Kitwe Little Theater 127 Klee, Paul xi, 182 Knight, G. Wilson 91, 93, 125 Knowles, Richard 190n16 Korean War 112n23 Kott, Jan 123, 137n15, 143, 178 Kumar, Deepa xxvii, 189n8 Kyd, Thomas 8 labor xi, xxvi, 1–3, 6–8, 14–15, 18n13, 24, 25, 31, 34, 42, 46n2, 52, 58, 72, 81, 86, 87, 98, 103, 115, 117, 118, 128, 130, 135, 140, 146, 147, 148, 155, 159, 162n16, 167, 168, 170, 173, 196, 197 Laboring Women: Reproduction and Gender in New World Slavery (Morgan) 7, 29 Lamb, Mary 56 Lamming, George 114, 116–18, 137n6, 142 Lara, Irene 162n21 Las Casas, Bartolomé de 27, 28 Larkin, Philip 110

Index  245 Lear (Bond) 133 Lee, Canada 99–101, 112n21 Lee, Sidney 74 Leeds University, England 118 left-wing viii, 101, 110n4, 115, 132, 139, 147, 191 Lesbians Against Pit Closures 162n16 Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners 149, 162n16 ‘Letter SycoraX’ 155–6 Liberation xxi, xxiv, xxvi, 25, 26, 30, 38, 45, 48n20, 75, 91, 98, 99, 100, 114, 115, 125, 126, 136, 139, 141, 151, 154, 162n17, 166, 169, 174, 184, 191 LGBTQ xxvi, 162n16 Lincoln, Kenneth 147 Lindenbaum, Peter 146 Lindley, David 41, 107, 143, 145 Linebaugh, Peter 3, 14–16, 31, 168–9, 172, 173, 174, 176 literary biography 11 Liyong, Taban Lo 126, 138n18 Lodge, David 83, 84 Lodge, Thomas 8 London 167, 185–6, 195; as heart of capitalism for England xix, xxii, 4, 14; Eliot on 110; multiracial working class 193; postwar 110, 118; Renaissance xvi, xx, 3, 10, 11, 12, 13, 23, 45; systematic commercial enterprise 14, 15; Theater 8, 9, 13, 56, 70, 71, 124, 149, 185; see also England ‘London riots’ 193, 195 London Round House 123 London Stage 107 Long Walk to Freedom (Mandela) 181 Loomba, Ania xxii, xxv, 46n1, 136n4, 152–3 The Lord Admiral’s Men 17 Lord Chamberlain’s Men 9, 10, 17 Löwy, Michael ix, xi, xxviiin7, 59, 63, 65, 70, 78n11 Lukacs 3 Lunacharsky, Anatoly xvi, xxviiin10, 11, 17, 35 Luxemburg, Rosa ii, xviiin10, 86, 111n9 Lynes, Rachel 185 McAnuff, Des 187–8 Macbeth (Shakespeare) 9, 70, 78n13, 101

McCarthy anti-communist trials 111n6 McCarthyism 99, 101 McDonald, Russ 16 McGee, Willie 103, 112n23 McKellen, Ian 194 McLean, Bethany 171 Macmillan, Harold 114 McMullan, Gordon 16 Macready, William Charles 70 magic 34–6, 87, 89, 90, 95, 107, 108, 119, 126, 135, 160, 185 Magna Carta 173 The Magus (Fowles) 109, 113n27 Maisano, Scott 111n13 Makerere University, Uganda 118 Mandel, Ernest xxiii, xxiv, xxixn16 Mandela, Nelson 181, 190n18 Manichean 28, 37, 60, 94, 97 Manlove, Colin 144 Manning, Patrick 5 Mannoni, Octave 104, 125, 136n5, 138n29 The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic (Linebaugh and Rediker) 14–16, 168 Marcus, Leah 47n9, 48n22, 151 Markham, Edwin 85–7, 111n8, 132 Marlowe, Christopher 8, 35–6 Marriage xv, 24, 37, 39, 44, 92, 134 Marshall, Gail 70, 77n8 Martinsville Seven 103, 112n23 Marx, Karl 2, 35, 87, 103, 117, 122, 136n2, 137n14, 159, 160, 163, 164; capitalism metaphors in The Tempest 50–1; on laborers 2–3 Marxism xxvi, xxviiin6, 11n6, 93, 111n6, 141, 160n3, 163n26, 189n6 Marx’s Ecology (Foster) 190n13 Mary (Wollstonecraft) 59 Masks of Conquest (Viswanathan) 79n31 The Massachusetts Review 146 The Masses 111n6 mass movements xxvi, 48n20, 99, 110, 114 materialism 115, 138n29, 160n3 materiality 42, 153, 159, 162n21, 173 Medea 41, 166 Mediterranean 5, 12, 23, 46n5, 145 Mendes, Sam 145 Mendieta, Ana 120 Mer-Khamis, Juliano 186

246 Index metabolic rift 190n13 Metamorphoses (Ovid) xix, 12, 41, 167 Metscher, Thomas 134 Midlands Revolt of 1607 3 Mid-summer Night’s Dream (Shakespeare) 76 Mike, Stephen 144 Miles-Wildin, Nicola 194 militarism 115, 130, 166 Miller, Jonathan 125, 138n17, 145 Miller, Richard 120, 137n11 Miners’ Strike of 1984–85 xxiv, 140, 149, 162n16 ‘The Miranda Complex’ 151 mirroring 30, 37, 40, 42, 92, 187 misogyny/misognist 48n20, 37, 86, 90, 108, 124 ‘Mississippi Goddam’ (Nina Simone) 120 modern capitalism viii, 85, 116; see also capitalism modernism/modernist i, vii, xxi, 82, 85, 87, 110n3, 140, 148, 161n5, 170 modernity xv, 1, 5, 43, 65, 78, 85, 110n3, 145, 169, 176–7; capitalist 58, 65, 81, 130, 135; European 170; violent dispossessions and 169 monad viii, ix, xx, 17, 20–1, 50 Mongol Empire 4 monstrosity xxvi, 28, 29, 43, 170, 183 Montaigne 12, 13, 19n19, 23, 25, 27, 125, 187 Morgan, Jennifer L. 7–8, 29 Morris, Christopher 18n2, 24; on Shakespeare’s ‘political testament’ 43 Moseley, Charles 16 Muir, Edwin 88–9 Muir, Kenneth 122–3 Mumbai Textile Strike (India 1982) 140 Muslims 99, 171 mutually assured destruction (MAD) 99, 106 ‘myth of English supremacy’ 116 Nagasaki 91, 99 Namjoshi, Suniti 151 Nashe, Thomas 8 Nation, R. Craig 111n11 National Drama Festival of Theatre Association of Zambia 127 National Health Service (NHS) 193–4 nationalism 52, 72, 75, 79n33, 82, 92, 93, 126, 148 National Union of Miners 162n16 Native American 7, 14, 27, 28, 29, 156, 172

Native Son (Wright) 101 NATO 99 nature xvii, xxiii, 16, 28, 31, 34, 35, 42, 43, 48n19, 63, 66, 90, 94, 97, 117, 123, 177 Nazi holocaust 90, 108 Nelson, Cary 86 neoliberal xxii, 131, 136, 139–42, 146– 50, 155, 156, 158, 160n1, 162n17, 164–71, 180, 184, 185, 190n12, 192, 199n13; hegemony 156 neoliberal backlash: 1980–99 139–42 neoliberal globalization 141 neoliberalism 136, 139, 148, 155, 160n1, 162n17, 164, 168, 182, 189n3 Netzloff, Mark 46n2, 161n4, 167–8 new age of dispossession 146–8 New Criticism xiii, 99 Newes From Virginia: the Lost Flocke Triumphant (Rich) 12 New Historicists/New Historicism 146, 160n3 The New Imperialism (Harvey) 164, 180 New Jim Crow 45, 189n2, 189n8 The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in an Age of Colorblindness (Alexander) 189n2 Newman, Rob xxviin3172 Newport, Christopher 14 new world xix, 2, 3, 5, 6, 12–16, 21, 23, 27–9, 46n1, 46n2, 47n10, 47n15, 81, 85, 106, 118, 121, 125, 130, 131, 146, 166, 168, 187, 194, 197 New World Drama (Dillon) 55 New York Times 101 New Zealand 24, 46n7, 180, 182 Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o xii, 118–19, 137n9, 137n10, 138n18 Nguyen, Viet Thanh 196 9/11 attacks 169, 171, 177, 182 Nixon, Rob 136n4, 184 Nocera, Joe xxviiin3, 171 Norris, Christopher 161n10 The Northern Star 72 No Telephone to Heaven (Cliff) 152 nuclear (age, annihilation, bomb) 99, 105, 106, 107 Nunez, Elizabeth 46n7, 48n23, 174–5 ‘“Nymphs and Reapers Heavily Vanish”—the Discursive Con-texts of The Tempest’ (Barker and Hulme) 47n12, 147 ‘Occupy Movement’ xxii, 192 O’Dair, Sharon 167

Index  247 Ode to the West Wind (Shelley) 57, 68 O’Flinn, Paul 1; on The Tempest 1 old world 1, 21, 27, 46n1, 88, 100, 131, 146, 194 Oliver, Michael 18n4, 190n14 Olympics xxiii, 79n33, 193–5, 198n5 On the Concept of History (Benjamin) ix–xii, xxviiin7, 182 Oppenheimer, Robert 177 Orgel, Stephen xxixn18, 19n17, 19n22, 41, 48n23, 77n6, 77n9, 78n12, 144 orientalist/orientalism 54, 119 Osment, Philip 149, 161n14, 196 Othello (Shakespeare) 102, 130 Ottoman Empire xvi, 4–5, 23 Out of the Kumbla: Caribbean Women and Literature 154 Ovid 12, 41, 61, 157 Owen, Wilfred 78n18, 86 Paquet, Sandra Pouchet 118 Palestine 24, 180, 185–6 Paradise Lost (MILTON) 61 Parker, Patricia 18n10 Parker-Starbuck, Jennifer 193, 195, 198n5 Parry, Benita 153 PATCO Strike 140 Patterson, Annabel 147 peasant/peasants/peasantry i, xvii, xx, 2, 3, 5, 7, 14, 90, 118, 126, 135, 137n9, 164 Pedagogy of the Oppressed (Freire) 191 Peele, George 8 Pepys, Samuel 77n4 Performing Shakespeare in the Age of Empire (Foulkes) 70 Pericles (Wilkins and Shakespeare) 19n21, 197 ‘permanent revolution’ 136n2 permanent war: mass incarceration and 171–5; torture and 171–5 “person-oriented” society 115 Philadelphia Fire (Wideman) 196 Philip, Marlene Nourbese 169, 198 ‘Pitfalls of National Consciousness’ (Fanon) 115, 129, 156 Plath, Sylvia xiii, xxi, 107–9, 113n25, 113n26, 142, 143, 178 Pleasures of Exile (Lamming) 116 Plummer, Christopher 187 Poems for Workers 82 political decolonization 135

Political Shakespeare: New Essays in Cultural Materialism (Dollimore and Sinfield) 161n9, 161n10 Ponifasio, Lemi 182 Pope, Thomas 10 popular culture i, viii, xx, xxiii, 75, 99, 158, 165, 192 possessive individualism 2–3, 6 postcolonial, postcolonialism i, ii, viii, xxv, xxviiin12, xxixn15, 58, 74, 79n31, 99, 115–17, 125, 128, 129, 132, 136n4, 140, 141, 145, 147, 153, 154, 156, 165, 170, 175, 179, 180, 184, 186, 189n6, 190n19, 197 postindependence national bourgeoisies 115 postmodern/postmodernism 140, 148, 153, 157, 161n5, 167 post-postcolonial 166, 174, 180, 183, 187, 188, 193 Pots and Pans Revolution 192 Powhatan/Powhatans 5, 14 The Prelude (Wordsworth) 57, 64 Pride (film) 162n16 primitive accumulation i, viii, xii, xvii, xviii, xx, 1–19, 23, 130, 157, 158, 164, 173; of capital 2, 130 primitive communism 117, 123 profit xx, 9, 14, 22, 24, 40, 43, 51, 53, 73, 76, 94–6, 115, 117, 136, 157, 158, 167, 172, 173, 175, 191 proletarian/proletariat xviii, xxi, 2, 3, 21, 22, 31, 39, 57, 68, 72, 77, 84–6, 135, 172, 173 Prospero viii, xiv, xxiv, xxixn18, 1, 4, 11, 12, 21, 23–6, 28–30, 33–45, 46n1, 46n2, 47n12, 47n13, 47n14, 47n15, 48n19, 48n21, 48n23, 48n24, 50, 51, 54, 55, 57–61, 64, 66–9, 71–3, 75, 76, 77n7, 77n8, 78n16, 81–3, 85, 86, 88, 90, 91, 94–6, 100–2, 104–9, 113n28, 115–20, 122–5, 127, 129, 130, 132–5, 140–6, 148, 151–4, 157, 159, 163n22, 163n24, 165–7, 170, 171, 173–5, 177, 179, 181, 183–5, 187, 188, 191, 194, 195, 197 ‘Prospero in Africa’ 119 Prospero’s Daughter (Nunez) 174–5, 180, 181 protest 38, 70, 81, 82, 84, 86, 87, 110n4, 114, 120, 124, 127, 130, 137n10, 150, 155, 176, 181, 190n12, 192–5, 199n10 Protestant Reformation 1

248 Index “public good” 139 Punch 72 Qattan Foundation 185, 190n20 Quayson, Ato 179, 190n15 race i, xv, xvii, xxvi, 6, 8, 26, 27, 29, 30, 46n1, 47n11, 72, 99, 101, 121, 134, 141, 152, 154–5, 165, 169, 197 racial slavery 6–7 racism 5, 6, 30, 52, 86, 100–1, 115, 120, 121, 153, 156, 158, 162n18, 183, 195–6; and Ballad of the Gallows Bird 86; in England 117; environmental 149; and mass enslavement 6; and Plath 113n26; racial oppression, and The Tempest 18n8, 27, 48n22; structural centrality of 141; systemic 3, 120; and Takaki on American colonies 156 radical bardolatry xxi, 72, 73, 75, 150, 195 radicalism 56; anti-capitalist 116, confident political 91, internal puritan 18n5; Jacobin 55 Reading Revolution: Shakespeare on Robben Island (Desai) 184 Reagan, Ronald 146 recession 87, 136, 165, 189n2 ‘Reclaim Shakespeare Company’ 192, 195 Rediker, Marcus 3, 14–16, 31, 168–9, 172, 176 Red Lion theater 8 Red Shelley (Foot) 69 refugees xii, 112n23, 185, 186, 196 reification/ de-reification xi, 3, 60, 129 Renaissance xiii, ix, xvii, xx, 1, 5, 6, 21, 23, 33, 34, 39, 41, 45, 48n23, 53, 88, 92, 106, 110n3, 117, 133, 134, 142 Renaissance drama 146; centrality of colonialism to 147; Rubinstein on 104 Renaissance ideals 135 Renaissance ‘science’ 34–6 Renaissance theater 8, 16, 18n14, 52, 100, 104, 110n3, 130, 146, 187 Restoration I, xiii, xxi, xxii, xxiv, 1, 10, 47–8n16, 53, 54, 71, 77n2, 77n4, 77n5, 77n7, 140, 155, 198 Retamar, Roberto Fernández 90, 152 revolution viii, x, xv, xvi, xix, xx, xxi, xxiv, xxvi, xxviiin10, xxixn13, 1,

7, 11, 17, 18, 23, 47–8n16, 50–3, 55–70, 71, 75, 77, 80–113, 124, 126, 127, 133, 135, 136n2, 140, 143, 147, 162n18, 176, 191, 192, 196, 197 Rhys, Jean 152 Rich, Richard 12 Riverside Speech of 1967 115 Robeson, Paul 101 Robinson Crusoe 130, 131 Rodo, José 138n29 Rogerson, Hank 174 Rolfe, John 14 Romanticism 55; British 58, 78n11; and revolutionary violence 57; and The Tempest 57–70 Romantic poets viii, xxi, 43, 57, 68 Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare) 70 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano (FDR) 80–1; Little Rock address 80–1, 193; on social reforms 81 Rothwell, Kenneth 90, 142–3, 145 Royal Court Theatre 132 Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC) xxiv, 22, 26, 38, 46n7, 145, 150, 176, 180, 183, 184, 190n16 Rubinstein, Annette 104 ‘The Ruined Cottage’ (Wordsworth) 64 Russian Revolution 86, 111n10, 112n18 Said, Edward 140, 156 Sale, Kirkpatrick 7 Samoan 182 Samuel, Raphael 75, 193 The Sandman (Gaiman) 159 Sassoon, Siegfried 86 ‘savagery’ 123, 156 Sayre, Robert xxi, 59, 63, 65, 70 scamel 49n26 Schoch, Richard W. 71 Schumann, Peter 148 science, Renaissance 34–6 Science and Society 134 science fiction 87, 88, 99, 105, 106, 134, 158, 165, 181 Scotiabank 188 Scott, Helen 161n6; Caribbean Women Writers And Globalization ii, 161n6 The Sea (Bond) 132, 138n28, 149, 197 The Sea and the Mirror (Auden) 42, 70, 73, 91, 93–8, 157 sea-change i, xiii–xvi, 12, 32, 81, 157, 166, 176, 178

Index  249 Sea Change (Graham) 178–9 Sea Venture xviii, xxixn14, 13–16, 92, 147, 168, 172, 176, 187 Second International xxviiin10, 82 Sen, Sudhir 136 sentimental xxixn18, 23, 44, 45, 59, 75, 95, 98, 112n19, 123, 124, 144, 166, 187 Seven Years’ War 54 sexism 30, 118, 129, 153, 162n18 sexuality 26, 39, 93, 124, 142, 149, 152–3, 162n21 Shakespeare, John 10 Shakespeare, our Contemporary 123, 143, 178 Shakespeare, William: As You Like It 195; biography 10–12; A Comedy of Errors 195; Coleridge on 65; Coriolanus 75, 122; Cymbeline 19n21, 197; Hamlet 70, 130; King John 75; King Lear 134; King’s Men 9–10, 17, 52; Lord Chamberlain’s Men 9, 10, 17; Macbeth 70; marriage 11; Mid-summer Night’s Dream 76; as ‘mystical bard’ 21; Othello 130; ‘poaching’ practice 93; reputation transformation 52–4; Romeo and Juliet 70; theater company 17; Timon of Athens 122; A Winter’s Tale 91, 193; see also The Tempest Shakespeare and disability xxiii, xxvi, 18n4, 28–9, 179, 180, 183–4, 197 Shakespeare and Marx (Egan) 163n26 ‘Shakespearean Imports: Whatever Happened to Caliban’s Mother?’ 151 Shakespeare Behind Bars (documentary) 174 Shakespeare in a Changing World (Kettle) 122, 123 Shakespeare in the Nineteenth Century (Marshall) 70 Shakespeare Our Contemporary (Kott) 123 Shakespeare Quarterly 124, 140 ‘Shakespeare’s Judgement Equal to His Genius’ (Coleridge) 54 ‘Shakespeare’s Revolution—The Tempest as Scientific Romance’ (Maisano) 111n13 Shakespeare Without Women (Callaghan) 47n10 Shapiro, James 11, 16, 18–19n15

Shaw, Philip 77n8 Sheil, Richard Lalor 71, 195 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 50, 56, 57, 62, 68–70, 78n24, 79n25, 79n26; best known Tempest-inspired work 69 Shenandoah Shakespeare 26, 32, 47n8 Sher, Anthony 183 Sherman, William H. 166 Sherwood, Harriet 186 shipwreck 12, 13, 15, 24, 58, 74, 114, 125, 131, 136, 142–6, 177, 196, 197, 199n10 ‘Shipwreck Trilogy’ 192, 195, 199n11 Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies (Las Casas) 28 Sierra Leone 128, 138n21 ‘Silencing Sycorax: On African Colonial Discourse and the Unvoiced Female’ (Busia) 151, 153, 175 Simonds, Peggy Muñoz 47n15, 47–8n16 Simone, Nina 120 Sinclair, Upton 84, 110n4 Singer, Daniel 19n20 Singh, Jyotsna G. 136n4, 151, 154 Sistren Collective 169 Slavery xiii, xvii, xxiii, 24, 25, 38, 72, 121, 134, 135, 171, 183; and Africans 5–6, 121, 157–8; and antislavery rebellion and resistance 103, 112n23, 169; Atlantic 5, 7; and racism 3, 6; and Europe 3, 6; and capitalism 6, 33, 104 slavery-freedom continuity 25 Slorach, Roddy 194 Small World (Lodge) 84 Smith, John 12, 147 social Darwinism 72 social movements xxviii, 75, 82, 86, 115, 139, 148 social reforms 81, 148 social status, metaphors in The Tempest 32–4 socialism/socialist xviii, xxi, xxv, xxvi, xxviiin10, xxixn20, 70, 73, 75, 82, 85, 86, 88, 110n1, 111n8, 112n18, 124, 136n2, 138n26, 149, 169, 192, 196, 197 Soelistyo, Julyana 188 solidarity xxv, 149, 152, 162n16, 162n18, 196 Somers, Sir George 13–14

250 Index Songs of Innocence and Experience (Blake) 60 ‘Song to the Men of England’ (Shelley) 62 sorcerer 35, 47n15, 51, 87, 159 South Africa 114, 136n1, 183–5 South African Baxter Theater Company 46n7, 183 Soviet Union 91, 139, 163n26 Spain xii, xxviii, 5, 14, 92, 93, 102, 156, 192 Spanish Tragedy (Kyd) 8 The Spectator 125 Spencer, Theodore 91 Spivak, Gayatri 154 Springfield, Consuela Lopez 151, 155 stages of dispossession 180–9 Star Trek 143, 159, 163n25; The Next Generation 159 State of Working America (Economic Policy Institute) 189n2 Steiner, George 108 Stephano 24–8, 30, 33, 36, 39, 42, 47n13, 50, 60, 118, 123, 127, 133, 143, 147, 158, 168, 184, 185, 187 Stewart, Patrick 181 Still the Enemy Within (film) 162n16 Stoll, E.E (Edgar) 89–90, 91 Stow, Percy 74 Strachey, Lytton 76, 79n34, 144; views on The Tempest 89 Strachey, William ‘A True Reportory of the Wreck and Redemption of Sir Thomas Gates, Knight, upon and from the Islands of the Bermudas’ xxix, 13, 168 Stratford Jubilee 54 Strikes 24; Great Miners’ Strike xxiv; mass strike 86, 111n9; militant teachers’ 196; Miners’ Strike, Britain 140, 149, 162; Mumbai Textile, India 140; PATCO, United States 140 structural adjustment policies 136, 139, 142, 146 Summers, George 172 sumptuary laws 4 Sycorax viii, xviii, xxii, xxvi, 23, 24, 26–9, 37–42, 48n22, 58, 108, 118, 120, 124, 129, 135, 141, 142, 150–5, 156–8, 162n21, 163n22, 163n24, 165, 169, 170, 172–5, 179, 180, 183, 197; ‘Sycorax school’ 141, 151, 197 Sycorax (Namjoshi) 151

‘Sycorax Mythology’ (Joseph) 151, 169–70 ‘symbolic laryngectomy’ 154 systemic racism xix, 3, 120 Takaki, Ronald 6, 27, 156 Tales from Shakespeare (Lamb) 56 Taliban 172, 189n10 Tar Sands project 188, 190n22, 192, 195 Taylor, Antony 75 Taylor, David Francis 55, 77n7, 78n16 Taylor, Keeanga-Yamahtta 115, 139, 162n20 Taylor, Sam 111n10 Teller, Edward 177 television vii, viii, xxviin2, 69, 158, 189n5 Tempest (Brook) 123 Tempest (Césaire) xxixn15, 119–21, 126 Tempest (film) 48n21, 74, 105–7, 111n10, 142–3, 150, 174, 190n21, 195–6 Tempest (Goold) 38, 180–1 Tempest (Holmes) 185–6 Tempest (Honeyman) 182–4, 186 Tempest (McAnuff) 38, 187–9 Tempest (Miller) 125 The Tempest (Shakespeare): and capitalism 50–2; class conflict theme 24–6; and discrimination 26–31; and early capitalism 21–2; four hundred years and still counting 191–2; global issues discussed in 12; and imperialism 6; isle is full of noises 192–6; as monad 20–3; overview 1; and performance records 75; rewriting of 53; and Romanticism 58–9; Romantics on 56; schematic dualism 42; and Shakespeare’s theater company 17; similarities with To Autumn 63; socioeconomically diverse audience 10; Strachey on 76; in the twentyfirst century: 2000–11 164–6; unresolved endings 43–5; unresolved endings redux 196–8 The Tempest, or The Enchanted Island (Davenant and Dryden) 52, 54–5; stage play popularity of 56 ‘The Tempest: An Alternative’ (Hamburger) 132 The Tempest and Its Travels (Hulme and Sherman) xxvi, xxixn22, 166

Index  251 The Tempest in Butetown (Bogdanov) 149–50 ‘The Tempest in the Wilderness: The Racialization of Savagery’ (Takaki) 156 tempest of dissent 122–5 ‘The Tempest: Rebellion and the Ideal State’ (Ebner) 124 Tempest Without a Body (Ponifasio) 182 Ten Books Every Conservative Must Read (Wiker) 191, 198n1 Thatcher, Margaret xii, 142, 146, 148, 161n13 Theater Review 145 theaters vii, xii, xiii, xvi, xvii, xviii, xix, xx, xxi, xxiv, xxvi, 1, 18n12, 18n13, 22, 33, 52, 53, 77n1, 100, 115, 116, 123–7, 132, 137n10, 138n27, 138n28, 141, 148–50, 161n8, 161–2n14, 162, 167, 169, 170, 180, 183, 185, 186, 188, 194; changes in 17; of court and commerce 8–16; and revolutions 53 Theatre Association of Zambia 127; National Drama Festival 127 Things of Darkness (Hall) 18n10, 154 ‘Third World’ 110n3, 138n29, 139, 140, 162n17 This Island’s Mine (Osment) 149, 161n14, 196 Thompson, Ann 151 Thompson, E. P. 63 Time Magazine 192 Timon of Athens (Shakespeare) 122, 137n14 To Autumn (Keats) 61–3; Keach on 62–3; similarities with The Tempest 63 Todorov, Tzvetan 5 ‘Torture and Neo-liberalism with Sycorax in Iraq’ (Linebaugh) 173 torture and permanent war 171–5 trade unions/unions/labor unions xxv, xxixn20, 111n9, 140, 146, 149, 185 transatlantic slave trade 52, 116, 118 transition (from feudalism to capitalism) xxii, 1, 13, 146, 156 ‘transvestite theater’ 18n13 Trinculo 24–7, 30, 33, 34, 39, 42, 47n13, 80, 88, 118, 123, 127, 147, 158, 168, 197

Trinidad 24, 137n6, 174, 175, 181, 190n12 Trotsky, Leon xxixn16, 97, 136n2 True Declaration of the Estate of the Colonie in Virginia 12, 147 True Relation of Such Occurrences and Accidents of Noate (Smith) 12 True Reportory (Strachey) xxixn14, 13, 168 Tunisia/Tunis 23, 32, 46n5, 92, 183, 191 UK Tar Sands Network 195 unemployment 81, 98 Une Tempête (A Tempest) (Césaire) xxiv, 119–20 United States vii, xiii, xvi, xxv, 74, 80, 91, 93, 99, 104, 106, 112n23, 121, 139–40, 176, 196; ‘Occupy Movement’ 192; The Tempest and religious right 191; use of atomic bomb 99 Untermeyer, Louis 84–5 utopian/utopic/utopia xi, 25, 26, 35, 43, 60, 63, 65, 88, 91, 125, 176, 177, 185 ‘vagabondage’ 2, 9 ‘vagrancy’ 2 Vaughan, Alden xxviiin11, 13, 32n52, 70, 79n29, 100–1, 111n7, 111n14, 136n4, 140 Vaughan, Virginia Mason xxviiin11, 32n32, 70, 79n29, 101, 111n7, 111n14, 136n4, 190n19 Vermont Shakespeare Company 47n10 Vetter, Lara 92 Victory: An Island Tale (Conrad) 82–3 Vietnam 75, 114, 115, 139 Vietnam/American war 114 Virgil xix, 12, 18n3, 61, 62, 157 Virginia Company of London xviii, xix, 5–6, 12–13, 14, 15–16, 31, 46n2, 102, 147, 168, 172 Viswanathan, Gauri 79n31 Vodou 121, 129, 130, 155 ‘Volcker shock’ 136 Voltaire 126 Walcott, Derek 47n14, 130–1, 138n22, 142 Wald, Alan 82, 85, 103 Walker, Rudolph 125

252 Index Wallace, David 126–8, 138n19 Warner, Marina xxv, 157–8, 163n24, 168, 172, 181 War 15, 18n5, 41, 54, 64, 68, 73, 75, 77, 80–113, 115, 116, 118, 121, 133, 140, 147–9, 155, 160, 164–6, 169, 171–5, 177, 181, 185, 189n3, 196 war on terror 45, 160, 164, 165, 169, 171, 176 Warsaw Pact 99 Warton, Joseph 54, 56 ‘Washington consensus’ 139 Wasteland (Eliot) xxi, 83–4, 87, 91, 107, 143, 178 Waterhouse, J. W. 76, 83 Watson, Thomas 8 weather 142, 164, 176, 177, 196 Webster, Margaret 99 Weimann, Robert 4, 122, 134 Welfare State International 148 Welles, Orson 101 Wells, H. G. 88 Wesker, Arnold 124, 133 the ‘West’ xvi, 5 The Western Canon (Bloom) 161n5 Westminster 58, 61, 78n15 What’s Wrong with Postmodernism? (Norris) 161n10 White Women Writing White (Curry) 113n26 Wideman, John Edgar 196 Wide Sargasso Sea (Rhys) 152 Wilcox, Fred M. 105–7, 159 Wilcox, Toyah 142 Williams, Eric 6, 118 Wilson, Daniel 79n27, 79n28 Wilson, John Dover 89–90, 125 ‘winds of change’ speech 114, 193 The Winter’s Tale 16, 19n21, 91, 197

witches xviii, xix, xxii, 7, 24, 28, 35, 37–41, 47N9, 48n17, 90, 99, 151, 152, 153, 157, 169, 170, 172, 183 ‘With a Guitar, To Jane’ (Shelley) 69 Wollstonecraft, Mary 58–9 women 29, 30, 138, 141, 151, 152, 153–4, 161n6, 162n19, 165, 180, 189n2; and capitalism 6–8; in labor force 98; insubordinate xviii, 37; on the stage 10, 18n14; oppression 7, 37, 162, 173; and race and racism 8, 29, 30, 113, 151; reproductive capacities 37, 39; role of 6–7; subordination of xvii, 24, 38, 172 women’s liberation movements 30, 48n20, 98, 114, 141, 162n17 Wood, Ellen Meiksins 160n2, 160–1n4 Wood, Michael 11, 16, 19n16 Woodward, Hobson 13–15, 49n26 Wordsworth, William 56–7, 63–4, 78n14, 78n20, 89 World Bank 139, 146 World Trade Organization 155 World War One xxi, xxviiin10, 75, 79n34, 82–7, 90 World War Two xxi, 90–8, 109, 113n24, 121, 137n13, 143, 157, 181 Wretched of the Earth (Fanon) 115 Wright, Richard 101 The Writer of Modern Life (Benjamin) 20 Wynter, Sylvia xiii, 128, 129, 151, 154 Yale Dramatic Association 105 Yellow Dwarf 67 Young, Catherine 188 Zabus, Chantal 136n4 Zambia 126, 127, 138n19, 138n20 ‘Zimmerwald Left’ 110n1, 111n11 Zuabi, Amir Nizar 199n10