Program Prologues

A selection of printed prologues for various productions at Shakespeare Theatre Company.

What is the content of the photographic message? What does the photograph transmit? By definition, the scene itself, the literal reality.
–Roland Barthes

It’s been said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but who decides what those words say? Two people could look at the same image and they will likely notice different things—where one sees a man smiling with his dog, another may focus on the thick, inky darkness rising from the smokestacks behind them. As Barthes once claimed, photographs are inherently violent mediums; not because they contain violent things (although that is sometimes the case), but because “it fills the sight by force, and because in it nothing can be refused or transformed.”

The images of the Höcker album cannot be refused. They are snapshots of moments in time that place Nazi men and women at the scene of their crimes. At first glance, we see a row of smiling women eating blueberries from handheld tins, a light-hearted man standing with them, and an accordionist playing what we can assume to be joyful music nearby. These look like ordinary people out for a springtime picnic. But looking at this collection of photos alongside other images of the Holocaust, the meaning shifts. Smiles and normalcy amidst systematic genocide. They dreamed of blueberries while hundreds of thousands dreamed only of safety and freedom.

No matter what we may tell ourselves when we fall asleep at night, we cannot know how we would react when placed in an impossible situation. Would we risk our safety for the safety of others? Would we accept power despite the costs? The Höcker album forces us to think, to question, and to consider the darker sides of history. How do we reconcile the meticulous crafting of this album with the unspeakable events that occurred in those same places? What does this album tell us about our shared history and humanity?

As humans, we rely on our memory for everything—muscle memory to guide us through our days, memories of our loved ones to bring us joy, memories of pain to remind us of the things we shouldn’t do again. We test our memories with puzzles and games, we fortify them with photos and videos. We trust our memories to be truthful, to remind us of who we are, where we’ve been, and where we intend to go.

But memory is notoriously fickle—it is often faulty and, as we age, it becomes more and more fleeting. So what happens when a powerful mind suddenly becomes weak? What does it feel like to lose control of your memory? Anger and frustration, sorrow and confusion coalesce into the hellscape of a war-torn mind. King Lear’s howls upon the heath are not the cries of a madman, they are the call of a man adrift within the sea of his own mind.

What does it feel like to forget? And, perhaps most haunting, what does it feel like to be forgotten?

Zhangal. A Pashto word, which means forest. But this was no forest. It was an old landfill site on the edge of Calais, located between the ferry port and the channel tunnel. 12,000 trucks a day pass through here to get to UK. Every single one could take us to our dream. —Safi; act one, scene two

Zhangals can be a place of refuge, a place of solace and solitude. They can also be places of danger, of threats lurking in the shadows. Zhangals are an ecosystem of creatures big and small, an environment equal parts welcoming and foreboding. We can take to the trees for shelter, we can hide in the underbrush or nestle in its arms. But the Zhangal shifts with the seasons; it has a life of its own that does not consider those living beneath its canopy. Similarly, zhangals are bulldozed every day with no thought to the communities that call them home.

Like young lovers carving their initials into the sturdy trunks of trees in the zhangal, the refugees of the Jungle have this place engraved upon their own hearts. Perhaps their stories will leave a mark on you, too.

The Merchant of Venice, often labeled by scholars as a “problem play,” is a tragedy. Yes, the dramatic structure of the piece aligns more cleanly with Shakespeare’s comedies, but the message of the piece is, ultimately, tragic. Shylock lives in a Venice scarred with antisemitism, racism, xenophobia, classism, and misogyny. Living openly as Jewish, Shylock is constantly reminded of his otherness, his proposed inferiority to the majority, and the threat of his existence to the rest of the community. While the barbs thrown at him may have been considered comical 400 years ago, they are sickening reminders of the way so many Jews have (and still are) treated throughout the world.

What the characters don’t understand is that Judaism is more than a religion; it is a culture, a race, an ethnicity, and a nationality. As Yair Rosenberg writes for a recent piece in Deep Shtetl, Judaism is a blending of identities that “doesn’t conform to Western categories, despite centuries of attempts by society to shoehorn it in” (much like the structure of The Merchant of Venice itself). Unfortunately, as we have no doubt learned from distant and recent history, there is a part of the population that hates what they do not understand. By refusing to play by the rules of simple definitions, Judaism is sometimes seen as a threat—it defies definition, and that defiance is terrifying to those who do not wish to understand the complex, intersectional identities encapsulated in being Jewish.

To present this play in our modern moment is a double-edged sword. A production’s success lies within the telling of the story itself—in the actors and the creative team doing the hard work behind the scenes to shape the way audiences understand, critique, and connect with the necessary conversations happening on the stage. In this play, Shakespeare painfully creates a world of hypocrisy, assumptions, and judgment—a world where no characters are intrinsically good (even if they believe that they are). Between the jokes at the expense of the outsiders and the speeches on piety and faith, the audience is forced to bear witness as characters twist words like knives to serve their own selfish needs and prejudiced beliefs. There is no justice in this play, and there is certainly no true peace either. Despite Shylock’s famous final lines, it is highly doubtful that he is truly “content” with the way he has been treated – and we shouldn’t be either.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you—is that not strange?
-Benedick; act 4, scene 1

Over 400 years ago, Shakespeare penned what would become the prototype for romantic comedies for decades to come. From Lizzie Bennet and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice to Monica Wright and Quincy McCall in Love & Basketball, the enemies-turned-lovers template presented so beautifully in Much Ado About Nothing is a timeless trope of some of today’s best romcoms.

Furthermore, we see in Much Ado a proto-feminist turn from Benedick. As Hero is publicly shamed by Claudio and the rest of the men, Benedick turns his back on his boy’s club mates and listens to Beatrice. He believes what Beatrice and Hero state—that Hero has been true to Claudio and there has been a terrible misunderstanding. He doesn’t stop there, Benedick even challenges Claudio in Hero’s defense. He proves himself worthy of Beatrice’s love in those moments when he rejects the toxic actions of his very best friends and stands, instead, with the two women before him. May we all learn a little from Benedick’s turn today. 

Leonardo is all of us... anytime we wake up to the beauty of the astonishing world all around us, we should cling to that and think of Leonardo.
–Mary Zimmerman

Leonardo da Vinci is known as one of the Western world’s greatest artists, inventors, and scientists. He chronicled his musings in numerous notebooks, some bound and some not, in his iconic mirrored handwriting (as a lefty, he wrote from left to right in a sort of shorthand). There are over 10,000 pages of his notes and drawings in existence, many of which are held in museums and libraries across the world.

Mary Zimmerman is also known as one of the contemporary Western world’s greatest theatre artists, earning awards nationally and internationally including the prestigious MacArthur “Genius” Award. Much as da Vinci’s work looked at the world around him and made it more beautiful, Zimmerman’s revivals and adaptations of classical and pre-classical works blow the dust off their covers and breathe fresh life into their words.

It makes sense that one genius would be drawn to the other—bridging centuries of history to converse, collaborate, and create beautiful art. The piece you will see today is not a biography of a remarkable man. It is, instead, a manifestation of the ever-curious consciousness of two great artists, discovering and admiring the world around us.

Performers are some of the most rejected people on the planet. Audition after audition, they twist and smile and morph themselves into many shapes and personalities, all in the hope of getting one “yes” out of the sea of “no’s.” Taking on the mantle of “actor” is a lesson in humility and self-confidence. It takes a certain kind of spirit to be continually burned to ash and yet continue to rise triumphant. 

Ira Aldridge was one of those spirits and the history behind the words of this play serves as undeniable proof. His fire sometimes burned, hot and tumultuous. Sometimes it simmered, mysterious and direct. But even the brightest fires can falter, sparking and sputtering to catch hold of whatever kindling they can. Ira Aldridge was a phoenix. As one of the first Black actors to cross into the world of classical performance, he didn’t just pave the way for future theatre artists of color; he was a beacon of light ushering them down the trails he painstakingly carved. 

We hope that you feel that phoenix spirit as you watch this production. Rather than fearing the fire of difference,  take comfort in the warmth of empathy and carry a small bit of that fire with you until we see you again.

Was there ever any so abused, so slaundered, so railed upon, or so wickedly handeled undeservedly, as are we women?
-Jane Anger, Her Protection for Women

“Women should be seen, not heard.”
“A woman’s place is in the home.”
“You should smile more.”
“You [insert just about any activity] like a girl.”

So many axioms, so little truth. We daresay that most women reading this very sentence right now have likely heard these toxic “truisms” at some point in their own lives. When women are confident in the workplace, they are often branded as arrogant. When women ask for equal pay, they are often branded as greedy. When women lead with kindness and grace, they are considered weak.

Women like Jane Anger break the mold; they speak up and rip off their bodice cages in the face of societal repercussions for the greater good of their sex. Jane wrote in 1589 about the need for women to be protected from men who felt ownership of their bodies (something all too relevant, even in 2022). She also challenges the assumption that women are incapable of success within “men’s spheres” like the printed word. Jane speaks in a voice filled with anger, with pride, and with fire—ultimately making way for the women of today to continue in her legacy.