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The Fun of Falstaff
 As
a boy growing up in Michigan half a century ago,
thousands of miles from London during the golden age of Shakespearean
acting, I wished I could have seen Laurence Olivier on the stage as Macbeth,
or Paul Scofield as Hamlet, or Richard Burton as Coriolanus, or Alec Guinness
as Lear’s Fool.
England was
crawling with wonderful actors, but I had to settle for glimpses of them in
movies and recordings. I fell in love with the voice of a young actress named
Judi Dench, long before she became famous over here. I might also mention
another young actress, Vanessa
Redgrave,  who
moved me to name my first daughter Vanessa.
But most of all I
wished — and still wish — I could have seen Ralph Richardson as
Sir John Falstaff in both parts of Henry IV.
How could the
creator of such supreme tragic heroes as Hamlet, Lear, and Othello also
create the most delightful comic figure in drama? It hardly seems possible.
It’s almost as if the same composer had written not only Don
Giovanni, but also The Marriage of Figaro and
The Magic Flute.
Falstaff is the
obese knight who, with his lowlife circle, keeps company with Prince Hal and is
blamed for corrupting him. In the end, Hal, upon ascending to the throne as
King Henry V, disowns and banishes Falstaff, who, meanwhile, lies, boasts,
drinks, gourmandizes, robs, defrauds, and generally sins with abandon,
always citing Scripture and vowing to reform.
“God send the
prince a better companion,” scolds the humorless Lord Chief Justice.
“God send the companion a better prince. I cannot rid my hands of
him,” retorts Falstaff instantly, refusing, as always, to be outfaced or
cornered. He habitually assumes the moral high ground and the role of the
offended party.
He is shameless;
blamed for seducing Hal, he blames Hal for seducing him! “Thou hast
done much harm upon me, Hal,” he says; “God forgive thee for
it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should
speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life,
and I will give it over!”
![[Breaker quote for The Fun of Falstafv: Poor Jack!]](2007breakers/070301.gif) That’s
Falstaff’s note: mock indignation and
mock dignity, simulating piety and repentance. He is, in Mark Van
Doren’s words, “a universal mimic,” forever imitating and
parodying the respectable official voices of self-important men. He is never
at a loss for words; like Hamlet, he seems infinite. He talks his way out of
every spot with inexhaustible effrontery.
Because he is so
fat, many actors have made the crude mistake of playing him as a buffoon.
Here is where Ralph Richardson was inspired. He knew that Falstaff is much
funnier if he is master of the situation, not its butt; so he gave
Falstaff’s great bulk great gravity and an air of indomitable
distinction, making him a lord among wits.
“When
you’re doing something funny,” Charlie Chaplin said, “you
don’t have to be funny doing it.” If the situation is hilarious in
itself, there’s no need to ham it up. The great comedians know the
power of deadpan humor. Only the poor ones fear that the audience
won’t get the joke without mugging.
Falstaff knows how
contagious his humor is: “I am not only witty in myself, but the cause
that wit is in other men.” He can lament his own spectacular
decrepitude: “My skin hangs about me like an old lady’s loose
gown; I am withered like an old apple-john.”
After leading an
ambush-robbery of a group of pilgrims, he plays the victim with a straight
face and an air of injured innocence: “Company, villainous company,
hath been the spoil of me.” His capacity for ingenious self-excuse is
boundless: “Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and
therefore more frailty.”
After feigning death
in battle, Falstaff has the perfect rationalization of cowardice: “The
better part of valor is discretion.” Caught in a barefaced lie, Falstaff
shakes his head sadly over the mendacity of the human race: “Lord,
Lord, how this world is given to lying.” Even his own sins aren’t
his fault: “Thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what
should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villany?” Yes, poor Jack
Falstaff!
The test of the
greatest art is that once you know it, you can hardly imagine the world
existing without it. You know that something has been created forever, as
imperishable as a primary color. That is true of Macbeth’s tragic
verse, and nearly as true of Falstaff’s comic prose. Both spring from
the same mysterious source.
Joseph Sobran |
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| Copyright © 2007 by the
Griffin Internet Syndicate, a division of Griffin Communications This column may not be reprinted in print or Internet publications without express permission of Griffin Internet Syndicate 
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