Free Will: Art and Power on Shakespeare's Stage by Richard Wilson (review)

Richard Wilson begins his book by saying it is "a book about art and power on Shakespeare's stage, and how the sovereignty of the playwright is complicated by his service as a player" (1). But clearly, it has more to do with establishing the parameters of Shakespeare's sovereignty than it does with the art and power portrayed or made manifest by any given stage performance. An alternative opening might describe the book as one "about art and power on Shakespeare's stage derived from the sovereignty of the playwright." In short, historical Shakespeare is paramount; how we read him and his existence is how we are to understand his plays in their individuality and also as an oeuvre. Like Michael Wood, Wilson is in search of the man. A worthy enough endeavor, particularly for a noted historicist like Wilson; however, when undertaking such a project, particularly in lieu of a prevailing postmillennial malaise with historicism in Shakespeare studies, the most pressing question is: which comes first, Shakespeare or his works? Which helps us read the other? The only conclusion to take away from this book is the usual one—that both are "always already" present.

In fact, Free Will is a continuation of a journey Wilson has been on since at least the publication of another biographical odyssey, Secret Shakespeare (2004). That study is actually a giant exercise in reductio ad absurdum, where Wilson goes to rigorous and convincing lengths to establish Shakespeare's Catholic roots, only to work with equal assiduousness to show us how Shakespeare evaded or transcended those roots. Wilson's obsession to paint a portrait of a man he likes is evident in this volume as well, and Shakespeare's self-effacing quality seems to be a trait that Wilson shares.

Here is Wilson's succinctly worded account of his motives: "In contrast to the current doxa of Shakespeare as the exemplar of either sacred monarchy or monarchic selfhood, Free Will argues that his plays are systematically engaged in untying freedom from royalty by dismantling sovereignty in all its forms" (his emphasis, 4). Not enough for Wilson to show that Shakespeare aspires to a "monarchic selfhood" thereby inaugurating the political order of modernism that marks the individual as sovereign. Shakespeare, so ahead of his time, sees even beyond that. To Wilson, Shakespeare is actually the chief lodestar of "self-abjection" (8) in his intention "to affirm not merely the 'power of weakness' [by dismantling his own sovereignty] but also the weakness of power itself" (his emphasis, 10).

Perhaps. But in seeking to reach for ever greater historical evidence to back (ultimately) a reading of Shakespeare the man, Wilson runs into trouble. In his opening chapter, Wilson discusses Shakespeare's unfortunate waffling regarding the Stratford Council's decision to enclose the lands at Welcombe. Though implored by his cousin Thomas Greene to speak up against enclosure, Shakespeare does nothing, effectively abetting the historical forces that conspired to evict tenants from their land, "babes and chattels on their backs" (30). Wilson's albeit well-wrought conclusion seems to be that the price of "Shakespeare's creative freedom . . . is the aesthetic interest earned from a deadly non-commitment" (33).

Again, perhaps. But why not just admit that Shakespeare could be a dastard at times? Must the meaning of his plays be entirely congruent with his example in life? Should one have such bearing on the other? Shakespeare had his reasons, which may even be worth sympathy. But no amount of historical exegesis will convince me that Shakespeare's aloofness in this matter was some sign of spiritual advancement via hyper-realized self-abjection.

Later on, Wilson astutely reminds us that in "Antony and Cleopatra we are always conscious of two plays: the one we are watching and the one Caesar is preparing" (321). But unlike the Mannerist critics, who insist that in this play Shakespeare successfully holds in...