Growing up I was always told about the greatness of Shakespeare and his beautiful stories. I’d heard the names Macbeth, Hamlet, and Romeo & Juliet, and couldn’t wait until I, too could read and treasure his plays. That excitement lasted until I started grade nine and actually read one of his works.
The play was Twelfth Night and I remember feeling confused after reading it. This was the great Shakespeare that I had waited so long to read? I was disappointed. The language was beautiful and complex, but the story was awful. I decided to be patient. Maybe we just started with a bad one, and we’d work our way up to the better plays. I was wrong. By the time I finished high school, I was baffled with everyone who seemed so enamored with Shakespeare.
I will grant you the Bard had a wonderful way with words. He wrote moving sonnets and could make the most mundane occurrences seem enchanting. But I think that’s where the problem lies. We have been blinded by Shakespeare’s beguiling language. What we don’t seem to notice is the drivel he called plotlines.
Have you ever heard Shakespeare’s plays translated into plain, modern English? They sound ridiculous. Take Romeo & Juliet. Two 14-year-olds fall madly in love at first sight. This could happen, as 14-year-olds have always been utterly hormone-driven. However the plot gets a little silly beyond this point. The 14-year-olds are from rival families that hate each other. The kids determine they will be together regardless. A few people die. Love is pledged repeatedly in such dramatic tones that I start to think of Danielle Steele novels. A scheme is hatched to keep the lovers together. They keep passing each other while carrying out their plots, almost but never quite able to discover what the other is doing. There is a faked death, great sorrow leading to an actual suicide, and the story culminates with both teenagers dead in each other’s arms. This is not a great love story. This is a Harlequin romance novel without the happy ending.