Lantern's "Henry V' (1st review)

War bulks large in Shakespeare, from the struggle for an empire in Antony and Cleopatra to the civil wars of the Henriad to the civic vendetta of Romeo and Juliet. Neither the Bard nor his contemporaries looked upon it, as we do, as a regrettable enterprise to be embarked on only in self-defense. For the Elizabethans, war was a normal and healthy exercise that maintained valor and provided the opportunity to win honor.

You could have too much of a good thing, of course, as England was getting in the debilitating, decade-long war it had fought with Spain by the time Shakespeare wrote Henry V in or around 1599, and the nasty war in Ireland that accompanied it and for which Spenser was such an enthusiast. Wars were more neatly begun than ended, but eventually one rested, recuperated and prepared for the next adventure.

When a relatively pacifist monarch, James I, succeeded Elizabeth, Englishmen soon began to grumble that the realm was becoming weak and effeminate through the absence of martial exercise, and they hired themselves out in foreign wars.

Glories of war

This makes a play like Henry V, and the mindset it embodies, more than a little problematic for us. In Antony and Cleopatra, the contest between Caesar and Antony for control of Rome has the character of an ancient fable, and in any case the emphasis is on the love story between Antony and Cleopatra. The Wars of the Roses that form the background of the Henriad are presented in tragic terms, as civil wars always are, and the mini-war of the Capulets and Montagues in Romeo and Juliet is cast as a betrayal of youthful innocence. But in Henry V, Shakespeare's account of the resurrection of England's 75-year claim on the throne of France by a quintessential warrior-king, war is a glorious thing.

To be sure, Shakespeare makes us well aware of its horrors, too— the slain knights, the hacked limbs, the terror of defenseless towns, the night-fears of an army on the eve of battle— and also of the casual violence, braggadocio and lust for spoil of the common soldier. But it is above all the ultimate expression of masculine virtue, the moment when men test strength against each other with life itself as the prize.

In this respect— or at least in war as waged in Shakespeare's day—kings and commoners were tried alike in the wager of battle, and each man could win, as Herodotus put it long ago, his due meed of glory.

Paean to battle

Shakespeare exemplifies this notion in the play's most famous moment, when Henry rallies his forces before the field of Agincourt in the St. Crispin's Day speech. It is a pure paean to battle, and it states as unequivocally as possible that war is above all a privilege— the privilege of a unique fellowship, of glory won both individually and collectively, and of honor lasting a lifetime and, for the nation itself, beyond.

Of course, wars need an occasion— that is, a justification— that goes beyond the mere pleasures of a mélée. In Henry's case, it is a blood claim, which in a dynastic age would normally suffice.

Yet that claim, begun in Edward III's time, had effectively been unprosecuted in the successor reigns of Richard II and Henry IV; and Henry V (Ben Dibble) requires his Archbishop of Canterbury (David Bardeen) to set out its proofs for him so that he can shed blood with a clear conscience. Canterbury's speech is a masterpiece of legalistic and genealogical bluster, and must have made Shakespeare's groundlings laugh as much as it did the Lantern Theater audience of today.

Shadow of regicide

There's a more serious undertone, though, that comes out fully only later, although it would have been apparent to playgoers of Shakespeare's time who'd read their Holinshed. Henry's father, Henry IV, had seized power from Richard II and put him to death. The taint of this crime— and of the consequent suspect legitimacy of Henry's own line— was to result in the Wars of the Roses.

Henry's anxious desire for foreign war, in short, was at least partly based on the need to validate his own throne in battle, which would show God's favor and blessing, and in his private prayer before Agincourt he expresses the hope to expiate Richard's death. Though we may laugh at Canterbury's patter, Henry needs its reassurance that he is restoring the honor of the now-defunct Plantagenet line by winning France for England. War without cause would be a sin; in Henry's case, it will erase or at least palliate the greatest of all sins: regicide.

So tragedy lurks around what would seem Shakespeare's most triumphalist play. The young Henry was of course the feckless Prince Hal of the Henry IV trilogy, and his transformation into the knight-errant monarch of Henry V is only suggested at the end of that series with the dismissal of his boon companion Falstaff. Henry's new friends are all peers of the realm, and although his native high spirits occasionally break out, his mien is for the most part gravely royal.

Mercy to enemies

We catch the old Hal only when he disguises himself to sport with the common soldier Williams, though of course he will reward him in the end. Otherwise, he is the soul of chivalry; when the city of Harfleur capitulates to him, he instructs it to be used with "mercy" by his troops, and when the roll of dead French knights is read after Agincourt, he laments the loss of so many brave men.

Better theirs than ours, of course; but the point is that war brings honor to both sides, even if victory only to one. And Shakespeare does finally have a word for "naked, poor, and mangled Peace, / Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births." Only his genius does justice to all.

The Lantern likes to do Shakespeare, and it does it well. This Henry V, under Charles McMahon's vivid, forceful, drivingly paced direction, is one of its best productions.

Eye on the prize

A narrow, nearly bare thrust stage, whose action occasionally spills into the aisles, encompasses the entire drama, including a brilliantly staged battle scene, and eight performers handle the more than two dozen roles of the play. All do excellently, with special congratulations to the French of Krista Apple-Hodge and K. O. DelMarcelle in the wooing scene between Henry and Katherine. Ben Dibble's Henry is a contained figure— royal among his peers, ardent in battle, awkward in courtship, but always focused on whatever the immediate goal may be.

Costumes, lighting, and sound are all richly inventive and splendidly integrated, and J. Alex Cordaro has done his customarily fine job with the fight sequences. This is first-rate Shakespeare, and great fun.

Lucky Londoners. They had Shakespeare to give their history to them. We have only the likes of Tony Kushner in Lincoln. Their wars were fought in person, too, not by remote control from computer screens in Tampa. And they could acknowledge valor on the other side. We have only bad guys and body counts.♦


To read another review by Alaina Mabaso, click here.