Eight years ago, I had the pleasure of playing Miranda in a local production of The Tempest. It was a hot summer, I was newly in love, and I thrilled at the magic of both the story and the stage; I couldn't tell you if I made a very good Miranda, but I felt the connection to her and, as such, had a wonderful time. Since then, that play has stayed as one of my favorites, even as my understanding of the depths of the story has changed. I'm aware there are several novels that toy with the story, but I never had the time for any of them, until I saw Hag-Seed for sale. Of all of the reinventions of Shakespeare's seemingly-easy magical comedy that is, in fact, wildly complex, I trusted Margaret Atwood to do it right. And my trust was not misplaced.
Felix, a once-great artistic director of a theatre festival, sits in a hovel on a cold Canadian farm and dreams of vengeance against his foes, all while conjuring hallucinations of his lost daughter, Miranda. An opportunity to teach Shakespeare at a local prison provides the path to the retribution he desires and the closure he needs.
The meta-textual nature of Felix--who goes by the nom de plume Mr. Duke at the prison--knowing he's stuck inside the narrative, but failing to yank himself out of it, rings irritatingly true for all of us who watch ourselves dance in our own irrevocable stories. Atwood plays with this on every level; sometimes, the fun is seeing how many references you can catch, both obvious and subtle; sometimes, the heartbreak is knowing exactly what's coming because Felix has Prospero's stubborn, obsessive, cruel manipulation in every cell and he can't break free of his fictional DNA.
Freedom is at the heart of this story, both the original and the remix, and the use of a literal prison as the stage for the metaphorical prisons we keep ourselves locked in could be too much, but of course, it isn't. Atwood uses that particular tool just enough, so that the final beat of freedom, of release, isn't overdoing it but is, instead, a melodic final ring. (Oh, the ending! I cried as soon as the Epilogue started because you know exactly the one last moment needed for Felix to give up being Prospero and to become fully himself once more.)
I highly enjoyed Hag-Seed and there are several more conversations I could have about it (Miranda the daughter and Anne-Marie, the production's Miranda; the students themselves and their view of themselves in Caliban; the sociopolitical commentary on the effectiveness of prisons and how a willingness for dehumanization is the mark of true monsters), but I recommend you read it yourselves and then come to your own conclusions. Perhaps cast this play-within-a-play-within-a-novel in your own way (Felix sprung to life for me as a splice of a few actors, including the Prospero to my own Miranda--hi Andy!) and see what you make of his casting process, of where people can be made malleable and pushed to see themselves differently, or whether we are the roles we have been cast in from the beginning.
Felix, a once-great artistic director of a theatre festival, sits in a hovel on a cold Canadian farm and dreams of vengeance against his foes, all while conjuring hallucinations of his lost daughter, Miranda. An opportunity to teach Shakespeare at a local prison provides the path to the retribution he desires and the closure he needs.
The meta-textual nature of Felix--who goes by the nom de plume Mr. Duke at the prison--knowing he's stuck inside the narrative, but failing to yank himself out of it, rings irritatingly true for all of us who watch ourselves dance in our own irrevocable stories. Atwood plays with this on every level; sometimes, the fun is seeing how many references you can catch, both obvious and subtle; sometimes, the heartbreak is knowing exactly what's coming because Felix has Prospero's stubborn, obsessive, cruel manipulation in every cell and he can't break free of his fictional DNA.
Freedom is at the heart of this story, both the original and the remix, and the use of a literal prison as the stage for the metaphorical prisons we keep ourselves locked in could be too much, but of course, it isn't. Atwood uses that particular tool just enough, so that the final beat of freedom, of release, isn't overdoing it but is, instead, a melodic final ring. (Oh, the ending! I cried as soon as the Epilogue started because you know exactly the one last moment needed for Felix to give up being Prospero and to become fully himself once more.)
I highly enjoyed Hag-Seed and there are several more conversations I could have about it (Miranda the daughter and Anne-Marie, the production's Miranda; the students themselves and their view of themselves in Caliban; the sociopolitical commentary on the effectiveness of prisons and how a willingness for dehumanization is the mark of true monsters), but I recommend you read it yourselves and then come to your own conclusions. Perhaps cast this play-within-a-play-within-a-novel in your own way (Felix sprung to life for me as a splice of a few actors, including the Prospero to my own Miranda--hi Andy!) and see what you make of his casting process, of where people can be made malleable and pushed to see themselves differently, or whether we are the roles we have been cast in from the beginning.
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