Let's start with an overview of Christopher Moore's. Think of
King Lear being run through the mind of Mel Brooks and winding up with something deeper, say, than
The Producers, musical version. It's a concept, perhaps better as an idea than Moore's version turned out to be, although still worthy of consideration.
I found it interesting that Lear was more everything (pitiful, ego-centered, bombastic) in
Fool than he was in the original. That view is probably based on a statement Moore made in an afterword: "I must have watched thirty different performances of King Lear and frankly, about halfway into my research, after listening to a dozen Lears rage at the storm and lament what complete nitwits they had been, I wanted to leap onstage and kill the old man myself.
For while I respect and admire the talent and stamina it takes for an actor to portray Lear, as well as the eloquence of the speeches, a person can take only so much whining before he wants to sign up for the Committee to Make Elder Abuse an Olympic Sport." (page 306) Does put Lear in a different light, doesn't it?
Reading
Fool right after
World Without End of course made me want to play the same catch-the-author-on-misuse-of-words game I did in
World—again until I read the afterword. "(The time frame of the play ((
Lear)) seemed to bollocks up even Shakespeare, for at one point he has the fool rattle off a long list of prophecies and after which says, 'This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time ((Act III, Scene 2)).' It's as if Will threw his quill in the air and said, 'I know not what the hell is going on, therefore I shall cast this beefy bit of bull toss to the groundlings and see if it slides by.'" (pages 307-308.) Convinced me not to play the game.
I was also interested in one specific choice Moore made. In
Lear Gloucester was blinded offstage—just like Medea killed the children offstage. For centuries such foul acts were relegated to actions that were discussed in dialogue after they happened elsewhere. But—hey!—times have changed. In
Fool Gloucester is blinded on-page—right there in front of the reader where he can see everything. (Even if Gloucester can't. Oops. Sorry.) Geez! Before you know it, we'll be having eye-gouging scenes right before us on stage or screen. (What? … Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten about that scene in
Oz.)
And onto specifics:
1) The fool, named Pocket, describes Edmund, bastard son of Gloucester (just a reminder for those of you who may not have been required to read
Lear COUNTLESS times in college and grad school). Pocket says about Edmund: "I do admire the bastard's sense of style—simple, elegant and evil. He owns his darkness." (page 21) Love that phrase: "loves his (whatever)." Yes, of course I've heard it before but here it brought to mind all sorts of wonderful things to own. Say: He owns his indecisiveness. He owns the middle of the road. (Not referring to driving, of course.) He owns his insincerity. He owns his shyness. (That would be a character who rarely speaks, and when he tries, he stutters.) Feel free to add your own.
2) Part of Moore's charm, IMHO, is his absolute irreverence. Here's Pocket talking to the Duke of Albany about his wife, Goneril. "That one breast, the way it juts a bit to the side—when she's naked, I mean—does that bother you at all? Makes you wonder what it's looking at over there—like a wall-eyed man you think is always talkin' to someone else? … Mind you, it's obviously part of the pair, not some breast errant off on a quest of its own. I like a bit of asymmetry is a woman—makes me suspicious when nature's too evenhanded—fearful symmetry and all that. But it's not like you're shaggin' a hunchback or anything—I mean, once she's on 'er back it's hard to get either one of them to look you in the eye, innit?" (page 45) I still giggled each time I looked at the paragraph to see which words came next.
3) Materialism. Ya can't live with it, can't live without it. Never could, never will. "After the Thirteenth Holy Crusade, when it was decided that to avoid future strife, the birthplace of Jesus would be moved to a different city every four years, holy shrines lost their geographical importance. There arose a great price war in the Church, with shrines offering pilgrims dispensation of varying competitive rates." (page 54) And so it goes. There's Wal-Mart, offering a piece of the cross at 45% less than the mom-and-pop shop down the street.
4) Moore's seduction scenes are a hoot. Pocket is putting the moves on a woman he's relatively sure he adores and has crawled under her blanket in a section of a church where employees camp out. A bit of dialogue:
She: "Would you stop prodding me with that thing?"
Pocket: "Sorry, it does that when it's lonely. Perhaps if you petted it." (page 76)
She does and the scene progresses. I'm always amazed at how much a few lines of dialogue—and dialogue alone—can convey.
5) Pocket addresses Edmund while he's in his rooms, working at a desk. "Thou scaly scalawag of a corpse-gorged carrion worm, cease your feast on the bodies of your betters and receive the Black Fool before vengeful spirits come to wrench the twisted soul from your body and drag it into the darkest depths of hell for your treachery." (page 160) Shame that no one today takes such care with the wording of threats.
6) The really-should-be-offstage scene mentioned above:
"Out, foul jelly!" he (Cornwell) shouted, digging his thumb into the earl's good eye, but in that instant, Regan's dagger snapped down and took the eye. "Don't trouble yourself, my lord."
Gloucester then passed out from the pain and hung limp in his bonds. Cornwell stood and kicked the old man's chest, knocking him over backward. The duke looked on Regan with adoring eyes, filled with the warmth and affection that can only come through watching your wife dirk another man's eye out on your behalf, evidently. (page 226)
Amazing, IMHO. Gross and funny at the same time. Reminds me of scenes in
Bonnie and Clyde.
7) "Drool (Pocket's assistant) affected a jaunty aspect, remarkable considering the dark doings he had just escaped, but a light spirit is the blessing of the idiot. He took to singing and splashing gaily through puddles as we traveled. I was deeply burdened by wit and awareness, so I found sulking and grumbling better suited to my mood." (page 241) A seemingly happy idiot has pretty much become a frequent literary devise, but what about a seemingly happy idiot who's actually the villain? Anyone ever run into that?
8) I'm sure there are scads of Shakespeare quotes, from any of his plays, but one I caught was spoken by Pocket: "The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones, or so I've heard." (page 236)
So? You recommend it or not? Sure, I'll recommend. Why not? Some parts of
Fool may drag but the overall cleverness easily makes up for them.
