Shakespeare’s 450th birthday, today, will bring an outpouring of written appreciations for his works. Many, though, will likely omit or only fleetingly mention one fact: Shakespeare’s first acts of creation were not poems or plays, but the characters he gave life to as a struggling actor.
This is no small omission. The stage is where Shakespeare taught others to lose sight of him, where he taught himself to lose sight of Shakespeare. The first lesson served him as a player, the second as a playwright. Omit the stage, and you omit the origin of William Shakespeare.
* * *
The widespread disregard of Shakespeare’s acting career stems, in part, from the low esteem in which actors were held long before, and long after, Shakespeare strode the stage. When he joined the profession sometime in the mid-1580s, actors were already marked as undesirables by England’s vagrancy laws, which mandated that traveling troupes had to find aristocratic patronage. Rogue players ran the risk of being flogged, branded, and finally hanged. The harsh law was rarely enforced in full, but it reflected published mores and polite opinion, both of which held actors as a hybrid of panhandler and whore. Even playwrights scorned them. “Yes, trust them not,” counseled one:
for there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his “Tiger’s heart wrapt in a player’s hide” supposes he is as well able to bombast out blank verse as the best of you; and being an absolute Johannes factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.
The warning is from Robert Greene, a Cambridge-educated wit who attempted to take down one player-playwright, the “upstart crow” William “Shake-scene,” to underscore the common opinion of actors as unlearned, unrefined, and generally untrustworthy. That snobbishness is a cousin to the kind Shakespeare typically faced for not receiving an elite education—for having, as his friend Ben Jonson jibed, “small Latin and less Greek.” Even today such condescension helps fuel the “authorship controversy” that has variously reassigned the writing of Shakespeare’s plays to Sir Walter Raleigh, Francis Bacon, and several other aristocrats, including the current favorite, the 17th Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere, who shared with the others the trappings of good taste: the occasion for refinement, the income for a library, and the impression, if not always the imprimatur, of a university degree.
Elizabethans, though, knew better. As late as 1640, nearly a quarter century after his death, he was still remembered as “that famous Writer and Actor, Mr. William Shakespeare.” John Aubrey, the first of many to try his hand at writing a biography of the Bard, included the estimation of William Beeston that Shakespeare “did act exceedingly well.” While Aubrey’s account is delightfully unreliable—did you know that Shakespeare’s father was a butcher? neither did Shakespeare—Beeston’s verdict is actually strengthened by the fact that he couldn’t have possibly seen Shakespeare play. Born in 1606, or roughly five years after Shakespeare left the stage, he almost certainly inherited the opinion from his father, Christopher, who performed alongside Will in the 1590s.
Like Shakespeare, the elder Beeston knew the gross intimacy of the Globe, where people packed the timbered amphitheater for year-round performances. The least among them paid a penny to squeeze into the pit, chewing hazelnuts and reeking of their trade, mooning up at the players on the squared stage that jutted into the open yard. The rest—university wags, merchants in felt hats, the occasional lord or lady—looked down from the galleries, sniffing pomander and smoking their pipes.
From beginning to end of a Globe performance, playgoers of all classes criticized freely and loudly. They volunteered advice, often hissed, and occasionally hurled an orange or two. When Hamlet admonishes Polonius of the players, “After your death you were better / have a bad epitaph than an ill report while you live,” the same warning might have been applied to an actor of his audience. A poor player did not last long and tended to make a loud exit.
That Shakespeare endured the judgment of such audiences for more than 15 years, the better half of his adult life, must attest to his skills as an actor. But his achievement is even more impressive if we consider the fact that performance, in the Elizabethan age, precluded anything resembling an official script. Plays were constantly evolving, not only in response to critical reception but merely to meet the demands of a given moment. If a featured player departed or a fresh face joined the company, if the troupe traveled to a smaller venue or some circumstance limited stage time, if a command performance by the Queen saw the Master of Revels strike obscene material, if costumes or props or even a player were for whatever reason unavailable—in all cases, the actors adapted, or they didn’t eat.
For Shakespeare’s readers, the benefit of such shifting demands is a surfeit of dialogue that a single performance could never accommodate, in addition to delightful variants across the Quartos and Folios. For the actors, however, the experience must have been hellish, particularly given the fact that the Globe was not a Broadway playhouse but a repertory theater, and members of the ensemble typically performed six different shows a week. Supporting actors often played multiple roles in a single performance, while a leading man like Edward Alleyn could expect to deliver more than 4,000 lines of verse each and every week.