PROJECT-HAMLET.INFO: The Clowns

Thoth Tarot (Aleister Crowley and Frieda Harris): The Fool
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The Clowns

[NOTE: If you haven't already read the disclaimer on this section's introductory page with regard to any and all actor names mentioned in this section of the website, please do so before proceeding here.]

Yes, "Clowns" – that's what they are, and not just because Shakespeare expressly designates them as such. Sure, these days they're better known as "Gravediggers" or "Gravemakers" ... or more precisely, "The Gravedigger" or "The Gravemaker," because all too often, the Second Clown's part is scratched entirely. But I have a feeling that Old Will actually wouldn't be all too happy with this. Leaving aside that Shakespeare wasn't in the habit of creating characters without a clearly defined purpose to begin with, he actually accords considerable space to the exchange between the two Clowns before Hamlet and Horatio even enter the picture in the play's penultimate scene, which should tell us something about that exchange's importance in and of itself. In addition, while the First Clown is overall the more important one of the two, I hear comparatively little variation in his tone and vocal inflection – with the exception of a few comments, he seems to be speaking (and singing) in a sort of deadpan, slightly ironic, gruff voice throughout the better part of their scene; whereas there actually is more of a noticeable variation to the Second Clown's voice, which (to my ears, anyway) audibly contrasts with that of his companion.

So: who then are the Clowns, why are there two of them, and why is the Second Clown's part so often excised in abbreviated adaptations of the play?

In the Elizabethan theatre, the Clowns represented vox populi – the voice of the people, the "groundlings," that part of the audience filling the standing room or "pit" in front of the stage, those who didn't have the means to purchase seats on the gallery or, like richer gentry, even on the side of the stage itself. As such, their language was often coarser than that of the other characters (although in this particular play, the Bard would have been truly hard-pressed to surpass some of the things our valiant hero himself utters, particularly in reference to Claudius and the latter's marriage to Gertrude); and with the possible exception of short ditties highlighting their characters' function, like those here sung by the First Clown, generally their lines were not written in pentameters or any other measure of poetry but rather, in simple prose. Yet, they were hardly ever "just" meant to be funny, vulgar, and/or amusing: much like the witty remarks of medieval court jesters, their wisecracks, quips, and ripostes often also served up uncomfortable truths and food for thought in a clever, only seemingly ridiculous manner. Thus, here it is certainly no coincidence that the skull which the First Clown shows to Hamlet and which abruptly brings the Prince face to face with his own mortality is that of Yorick, the old court jester of Hamlet's father, the former King.

Looking at Shakespeare's entire body of work, there is a noticeable change in the conception of the Clowns' parts before and after 1599, the year when the Lord Chamberlain's Men – the Bard's company – moved into the Globe Theatre, and when master comedian Will Kempe left the troupe. The parts in the earlier plays, such as Bottom in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (ca. 1595) and Launcelot Gobbo in "The Merchant of Venice" (ca. 1596-97), up to and including Dogberry in "Much Ado About Nothing" (ca. 1598-99), were literally tailor-written for Kempe: They are present throughout the play, with one or even several scenes particularly highlighting their role and the actor's comedic talents; and if Michael Keaton's Dogberry in Sir Kenneth Branagh's adaptation of "Much Ado" is anything to go by, they could be very silly and downright bawdy indeed. But Shakespeare and Kempe eventually had a falling-out over the comedian's propensity to ad-lib and improvise, which annoyed the playwright because he felt (in light of Kempe's later, rather spectacular publicity stunt – a dance all the way to Norwich – probably not without some reason) that the comedian was pushing his moments in the spotlight at the expense of the play's continuity as a whole, and/or at the expense of another just as crucial scene. Given Kempe's extraordinary popularity, to me it speaks volumes that it was he who eventually left the company over that disagreement, not Shakespeare; who however was obviously annoyed enough to still have the Prince of Denmark comment on the issue in a play written two years later, admonishing the Players appearing in that piece's "play within the play" to let those that play [their] clowns speak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villanous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it."

After Kempe's departure, the time Shakespeare accorded to the Clowns was significantly curtailed and their characters lost a good bit of the earlier Clowns' more individualised traits, while at the same time, now chiefly portrayed by an actor named Robert Armin, they also acquired an overall sharper, more mordant note. This is noticeable not only in "Hamlet" but also in other plays, particularly so in "Twelfth Night" (likewise ca. 1601) and in "King Lear" (ca. 1605-06, revised 1610), where we actually do see Clowns introduced in the role of court jesters; and like their real-life counterpars, Lear's Fool and Feste, in "Twelfth Night," use the privileges of their position to ram a few mighty uncomfortable truths down their masters' (and mistresses') throats in the guise of senseless jests. Indeed, Lear's Fool at one point even goes so far as to call the old King himself (in so many words) "a king of fools" for having divided his kingdom between his two heartless daughters Goneril and Regan, and for having put himself entirely at their mercy, instead of placing his trust in his youngest – and truly loving – daughter Cordelia.

Similarly, in "Macbeth" (ca. 1605), the Porter scene immediately preceding the discovery of the King's murder in the second act (II, 3) gives the first clear indication that Macbeth's act of regicide and impending treachery has conjured up the dark forces; by way of the Porter's seemingly mocking self-description as a "porter of hell-gate," as well as by his references to Beelzebub and "the other devil's name," and to the souls passing his gate on "the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire" (i.e., the way to certain damnation and everlasting torture): "a farmer, that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty" who will now "sweat for't," "an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven," and "an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose," who now "may roast [his] goose." In that respect, the Porter scene in "Macbeth" mirrors the first part of the Clowns scene in "Hamlet," where the two Clowns/Gravediggers comment on suicide, damnation, and inequality even in death, immediately before Hamlet's own facing up to these and related issues of mortality over Yorick's skull and over the subsequent burial of Ophelia, who in turn is thought to have drowned herself and yet, is to be buried in hallowed ground. – So, too, the Porter scene in "Macbeth" continues not only with the Porter's poignant lecture on drink and lechery to Macduff and Lennox (whom he has finally let in upon their insistent knocking, which in itself has occasioned two of the play's most frequently quoted lines – "Knock, knock! Who's there" and "I pray you, remember the porter"); moreover, like Hamlet and the First Clown here, Macduff and the Porter proceed to swap a few rather caustic remarks on the subject of lies.

Thus, one of the Clowns' crucial functions in Shakespeare's later plays is to foreshadow or comment on, and thereby of course highlight, the immediately impending or recently concluded events; indeed, their scenes now near-uniformly either precede or follow a play's most pivotal moments. But since they also represent vox populi, they not only draw the attention of the entire audience to these moments; they also give the playwright the opportunity to shed a different light on them, and the Clowns scene in "Hamlet" is an even more poignant example of this technique than the Porter scene in "Macbeth" and Feste's and the Fool's roles in "Twelfth Night" and "King Lear," just because Shakespeare uses a conversation between two Clowns instead of a single Clown's monologue in addition to his interaction with the other characters. For although if he had given the First Clown a soliloquy, he could conceivably have come up with something very much like the Porter scene, which would doubtlessly have gotten across some of the issues addressed in just as clear-cut and mordantly witty a fashion, Ophelia's death not only raises questions of mortality and damnation per se: to the "man on the street," her, the aristocrat's burial in a churchyard's sacred ground despite persistent rumors of suicide (which should after all prohibit precisely such a burial) also invokes the idea of social inequality, and truthfully, could there have been a more acute and efficient way to address this than the following exchange?

Second Clown:

Will you ha' the truth an't? If this had not been a
gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian burial.

First Clown:

Why, there thou say'st! And the more pity that great folk
should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves
more than their even-Christian.

That, guys, is an example of vox populi in action if I ever saw one – you can literally see those simple folk standing curbside as the young noblewoman's funeral procession passes by, whispering comments exactly like the above; and Shakespeare once more shows just how closely his ears are tuned to the ground by presenting the issue in this and no other fashion.

So you see, I think there is plenty to be considered before we even get to Hamlet's encounter with the First Clown and all that talk about earthly decay and Death as the great equaliser – and I don't even have to also specifically address the First Clown's riddles here to make my point. (Those are explained, however, on a soliloquy page of their own.) Therefore, if I had my way I wouldn't dream of eliminating the beginning of this particular scene; at most, I'd make some minor cuts. Now, if you're trying to adapt to the conventions of modern movie making of course – and thus, inter alia, to a 2 or 2-1/2-hour time limit – you'll obviously have to be more brutal; and since there is so much other good stuff in the play that you'll very likely also want to keep, you'll necessarily find yourself paring away all those instances where our Bard merely seems to be replicating things – including, alas, the beginning of the Clowns scene. And since both in his lines and his tone, the First Clown quite obviously does emerge as the play's one "real" Clown figure (even in the First Folio, the Second Clown is also referred to as [the] "Other," and simply by virtue of his more varied tone as well as because, all in all, he serves as more of a foil to the First Clown's quips and comments rather than making a tremendous amount of contributions of his own, he indeed hardly seems to be a Clown figure at all but rather just a random guy off the street), if you absolutely have to, I guess you'll be fine doing it the Olivier/Kozintsev/Zeffirelli way and sticking with the First Clown only. But boy, I tell ya', sometimes there sure are advantages to just pretending you're doing this for real and not being bound by studio conventions. (That is, at least unless you're dealing with the BBC ca. 1980, or like Sir Kenneth Branagh you have the liberty to follow nothing but your own discretion because you yourself are producing the movie in the first place).

And with all that in mind, and since we're also so very, very clearly talking "archetypes" rather than individualised characters, would I thus follow my usual practice and forego casting the Clowns with highly recognisable actors as well? No, and particularly not the First Clown. Because although Will Kempe himself may have been compelled to leave the Bard's company before his time, he and his successor Armin have found many a worthy heir; not only in those now playing the roles written specifically for Kempe but also in the actors taking on the Clowns' parts in Shakespeare's later plays. And while I think each and every one of those slipping in the [First] Gravedigger's/Clown's skin in my four all-time favourite screen versions of "Hamlet" is a true gem – and if it weren't for my little Kempe-related special assignment in the context of the Players' appearance (see their character page), I'd also love to see the Royal Shakespeare Company's Malcolm Storry as the First Clown – there is one other actor whom I'd particularly want to see in this particular role, and that is Ian McDiarmid. Sure, you probably know him as Chancellor/Senator/Emperor Palpatine from "Star Wars," but let me tell you, you haven't seen all the man can do before you've seen him in Sir Ian McKellen's and Trevor Nunn's 1979 "Macbeth." – On this website's pawns page I explain that if given half a chance I would cast Billy Boyd as Osric, because I think he might easily steal that scene from both Edward Norton and Colin Firth, to absolutely deadpan hilarious effect. Well, now let me tell you, in the McKellen/Nunn "Macbeth," Ian McDiarmid, as the Porter, in his one and only scene darn near steals the entire play not just from under McKellen's own butt (and I think by now you've read enough about my respect for him to understand what a feat that is, in and of itself, in my eyes), but also from under the butts of a cast including the likes of Dame Judi Dench (Lady Macbeth), Bob Peck (Macduff) and John Woodvine (Banquo). Folks, I swear, he has me literally crawling into the screen – as well as of course howling with laughter – every single time I watch that particular DVD. And you know what, I probably wouldn't even care if he did the Clowns scene in "Hamlet" with that same Scots accent that works so marvelously in the context of "Macbeth": I mean, we're not even in England here, either, so why do we have to have Cockney to begin with? Indeed, I have a feeling that Mr. McDiarmid's bone dry Caledonian wit would do wonders for all that business about Hamlet's alleged madness not being a great matter in England because "'twill not be seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he." – Now, would he even consider a humble Clown's part with merely a single scene to work with these days? I don't know very much about him, but given that he has famously managed to convince even Hollywood royalty to appear in his own London theatre (the Almeida), I have a certain hope he might. But then, what am I talking about here anyway ...