However, very contrasting opinions of the morals of Prospero have been put forward in other interpretations of the play. Derek Jarman’s approach for his 1980 feature film wasn’t as faithful to the text as Messina’s, it set the scene indoors in a darkened room (the lighting was simply too dark in my opinion, though this may be to do with the age of the print), and the softly spoken Prospero, interpreted by Heathcote Williams as a quietly-spoken but steel-willed megalomaniac gave an original performance, playing the role of the imperialist who has complete conviction, symbolically dragging the native Caliban from darkness into the light for his first entrance, and cruelly grinding his fingers with his shoe, leaving an audience with no doubt who has the higher standing.
No analysis of filmic interpretations of ‘The Tempest’ can be undertaken without mentioning the unconventional, irreverent and inventive ‘Prospero’s Books’, Peter Greenaway’s 1991 incarnation, however Prospero is played in a fairly traditional manner, though very successfully, by the late Sir John Gielgud. What is immediately noticeable about this interpretation is the setting: it is not Messina’s naturalistic island cave or Jarman’s darkened room, but some kind of underground chamber, shot in strikingly rich colour, replete with carved columns and pools, which gives way to some kind of sewer area with pipes, vegetation and spirits of sorts peeping out from everywhere. The entrance of Prospero and Miranda into this unlikely prison is overlaid by a voiceover by Prospero describing the ‘Book of the Earth’ and the scene has several cut in moments of this book being attacked or splattered with strange substances. It is unsurprising that this version was the most creative as Greenaway had trained as a painter and still considered himself “primarily a painter who’s working in cinema”, which leads ‘Prospero’s Books’ to create what critic Douglas Lanier describes as “a kaleidoscopic visual experience” full of “jarring images”. While this digression from the text is inventive and engaging, I felt it was perhaps a case of the director, in his attempt to be original, going to excesses, so the spirit of Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’ was somewhat lost. In this way I agree with Lanier’s own view, he feels that with his painter’s focus on colour and image, Greenaway seems to dispense with the textual Shakespeare, replacing it with a “visually sumptuous dumb show” which creates “arresting visual tableaux” but lacks the narrative of Shakespeare’s original.
As with the setting of the play, and the interpretation of Prospero, the character of Caliban is played in a text-faithful, traditional way in Messina’s film, while Jarman’s has a more adventurous approach, particularly for characterisation. Jack Birkett plays the aging, balding, hunchbacked Caliban hysterically, Lanier confirms this when he says that Jarman intended to “disrupt the play’s status as an icon of straight high culture” by injecting “camp” and “transgressive sexualities”. The lines are delivered with manic laughter on some, aggressive snarling on others and at some points scratching himself, leading to the overall impression of a weak and insane lecher (but importantly, very much a man and not a “monster”), whose physical impurity reflects his mental state, oppressed by the vindictive Prospero.
Where Peter Greenaway is most creative is in his creation of the character Caliban at this moment. The islander, seemingly imprisoned within these sewer-like pipes, is played by the modern (but traditionally trained at the conservative Royal Ballet) dancer Michael Clarke as some type of sprite in a diaphanous costume, twisting and writhing gymnastically on a central rock in what Lanier calls “lithe and manic dance”, at one point lifting himself up to an acrobatic balance. These actions are accompanied by the disembodied voice of Sir John Gielgud, giving rise to the odd situation of him having an argument with himself. The dance-like motions of the creature in the centre of the pool sometimes reflect the mood of Caliban’s voice, when he shouts aggressively the creature jerks towards Prospero, when Caliban is racked by moaning self-pity he is lying on his back motionless, and when he says “Cursèd be I that did so!”, a hand snatches down to splash the water. This very different working of the character Caliban is effective in that it brings across that Caliban, whose “dam” was the witch Sycorax, is not entirely a natural being, but is imprisoned in the rocks by the power of Prospero. Theatrical or cinematic interpretations are indicative of the cultural and political context of their time; this impressive abstract reworking of Caliban can be seen as the natural experimentation of directors and performers associated with avant-garde cinema and dance in this period. In the same way nobody would now suggest that Caliban, on analysis, is closest “to a modern decadent Frenchman” as the theatrical tradepaper ‘Era’ did in a time of strong xenophobia and imperialist rivalry in 1904.
The next few lines consist of Caliban, with threats and curses, recounting his story to Prospero; this explanation has been included to enlighten the audience. Caliban’s experiences since Prospero arrived with Miranda can be summed up in one word: loss. The story of Caliban and Prospero can be seen as representing the archetypal story of imperialism, with Caliban’s line “This...is mine...which thou taks’t from me” encapsulating the essence of slavery. Caliban’s experience can be seen in the context of the constant exploration and discovery of the New World which had gone on since Columbus in 1492, and continued around Shakespeare’s time, for example, just ten years after the writing of ‘The Tempest’ the Native Americans welcomed the Pilgrim Fathers only to be betrayed, their populations decimated by European diseases and their land stolen by the colonists. This interpretation of an oppressed Caliban who is “more than just a brute” was first introduced by another extremely influential actor and director of the late nineteenth century, Beerbohm Tree. A brave and inventive step in its time, it seemed to contrast with the textual description of “apes with foreheads villainous low” and lack of morality, based on Caliban being ‘cannibal’ anagrammatised, and his association with unbridled lust. Tree had captured the imagination of the fashionable and influential London audience with his subjugated Caliban, which was taken to be allegorical of oppressed Saxon serfs, Brazilian savages or the “downtrodden, ignorant and superstitious” contemporary peasants. This interpretation developed into the colonial readings of ‘The Tempest’, most influentially what critic Trevor Griffiths describes as the “full-scale colonial analysis” of Jonathan Miller’s influential 1970 revival at the modern Mermaid theatre in Blackfriars.
The three film interpretations are perhaps, at their most strikingly different when it comes to how they chose to portray Caliban’s uncertain ending in the play. Greenaway chose, effectively, to have the three conspirators chased symbolically through all the locations they had gradually progressed through during the film. This showed their plans, and Caliban’s dream of freeing himself from Prospero’s bondage, unravelling, and culminated with their return to the lowly situation from which they had all arisen, that of being in water (Caliban in his sewer-prison, and the two wrecked sailors from the sea). Jarman left the fate of Caliban a little more ambiguous, as he flees from the screen, and the focus is instead on Prospero’s alternative epilogue, taken from Act IV, Scene I. I felt this denouement was an unsuccessful one as, though Prospero’s familiar lines, disconcertingly delivered had impact, the lack of information on Caliban’s future failed to satisfy. Messina was perhaps the most effective through the moving performance of Clarke, portraying fear and apology with a hint of insincerity as he is dismissed to Prospero’s “cell”.
It is fitting to concentrate on the filmic interpretations, as these are the most complete versions of ‘The Tempest’ that can last and be watched repeatedly, and so ultimately I felt Messina’s 1980 interpretation, which struggled without a clear identity as a play or a film, lacked the emotional involvement a less dispassionate, textual approach might have brought. Greenaway’s 1991 production was wildly inventive, introducing some good ideas; however, I felt that the real story was obfuscated, to an extent, by the visuals and creativity. Jarman’s 1979 version’s success was marred by poor lighting, but I felt that it contained some of the most interesting performances, particularly Heathcote Williams’s calculating Prospero; and Birkett’s frenzied Caliban undoubtedly held the viewer’s attention. The critical analysis I have studied highlighted the various takes on The Tempest by some great names of English literature and academia, including Coleridge, Dryden and Johnson, and some highly influential productions both old, such as Tree and Benson’s nineteenth century Calibans, to more modern, in particular Miller’s colonial allegory. The wide variety of interpretations I have seen of this section confirms that directors can still breathe new life into Shakespeare by their differing readings of the text, and these made for an intriguing range of performances.
Filmography
‘Prospero’s Books’ (1991) dir. Peter Greenaway
‘The Tempest’ (1980) dir. Derek Jarman
‘The Tempest’ (1979) BBC Shakespeare dir. Cedric Messina
Bibliography
‘The Tempest’ Cambridge School Shakespeare; ed. Rex Gibson
‘A Post-National European Cinema: A Consideration of Derek Jarman’s The Tempest and Edward II’ chapter – Colin McCabe
‘Caliban on the Stage’ chapter – Trevor R. Griffiths
‘Caliban as the American Indian’ chapter – Leslie A. Fiedler
‘The Character of Caliban’ – John Dryden
‘Caliban’s Language’ – Samuel Johnson
‘An Analysis of Act I’ – S.T. Coleridge
‘Drowning the Book: Prospero’s Books and the Textual Shakespeare’ chapter – Douglas Lanier
‘Caliban – monster, servant, king’ – Diana Devlin
‘A Reading of The Tempest’ – Stephen Orgel
