Love is a highly complicated thing in William Shakespeare’s play Love’s Labour’s Lost. Long dismissed as a relatively lightweight comedy, Love's Labour's Lost takes many of the conventions of the romantic comedy -- a genre that was as firmly established in the theatres of Shakespeare's time as it is in the cinema of the present day -- and overturns those conventions quite ruthlessly. You'll get a laugh, most assuredly, while viewing or reading this particular Shakespeare comedy -- but in the process, you may very well find yourself reflecting on the idea that love involves both labour and loss.
Shakespeare’s brilliant use of poetic language throughout Love’s Labour’s Lost somehow reminds the reader or playgoer of the contrived, artificial qualities of the play's plot. The setting for Love's Labour's Lost is the medieval kingdom of Navarre. Located in a border area between Spain and France, Navarre spent many centuries going back and forth between French and Spanish control; accordingly, it is a border region, a liminal state, within which a drama about identity can unfold.
As the play opens, the King of Navarre and three of his nobles – Berowne, Dumaine, and Longaville – are contracting, at the King’s bidding, to commit themselves to a three years’ period of study and fasting, with a specific provision that they will avoid the company of women. In the process, the King comes across as rather vain and self-important, assuring his nobles that as they take on "the huge army of the world's desires" through their program of self-denial, they will achieve a form of immortality that, the King says, will "make us heirs of all eternity." Dumaine and Longaville buy into this quixotic enterprise quite readily, with Longaville declaring that "Fat paunches have lean pates." He assumes, in other words, that their regimen of self-denial will make them all smarter, with thinner stomachs complemented by more capacious intellects.
Berowne, however, has his doubts. He feels that all this book-study will achieve nothing but dependence on the ideas of others: "Small have continual plodders ever won,/Save base authority from others' books." And he questions the King's facile assumption that denial of the world's pleasures will automatically bring them the joys of greater wisdom, suggesting that “all delights are vain, but that most vain/Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain.” Yet the King dismisses Berowne's reservations, insisting that "Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost/That bites the firstborn infants of the spring"; and Berowne ultimately keeps the spoken vow he had earlier made, by signing, as the King and the other lords have, their vows of poverty and chastity.
Berowne may sign the pledge, but he's a long way from buying in to the King's ideas. He states -- in a passage that sets forth important themes of the play -- that "At Christmas I no more desire a rose/Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows,/But like of each thing that in season grows." In other words, it is natural to enjoy the good things of life, and unnatural to set oneself to avoiding what is good and beautiful in life. Small wonder that when he signs the pledge, Berowne assures his friends that "I am the last that will last keep his oath" -- an ambiguous double-negative promise if ever there was one.
And the ink is hardly dry on the articles when the King and his lords learn that the Princess of France is arriving in Navarre, along with three of her noble ladies – Katharine, Maria, and Rosaline. And guess what? It turns out that the King loves the Princess, while each of the lords is in love with one of the ladies. O happy coincidence! Why dost thou rear thy head ere Act I is half done?
The reason for the ladies' visit, it turns out, is an eminently sensible one, as the Princess is there on a diplomatic mission -- to seek the return to France of the border region of Aquitaine, held by Navarre. And the longer the King tries to maintain some semblance of his pledge -- by, for instance, insisting that the ladies lodge in tents outside the palace walls -- the more illogical and small-minded his thinking seems.
It is often the case, in Shakespearean comedy, that "high comedy" involving witty wordplay amongst noble characters is paired with "low comedy" that is based in physical humour and dirty talk amongst characters of lower social station. In Love's Labour's Lost, much of that low comedy comes to us courtesy of one Don Adriano de Armado, a visiting Spaniard who is referred to in the Dramatis Personae list of characters as "Armado the Braggart." Armado, with his name that recalls the Spanish Armada, is a suitable foil whose follies and self-importance would have much amused a patriotic English audience; Berowne calls Armado "a man of fire-new words," because this Spaniard's attempts to speak the elegant French of the Navarrese court regularly make him look and sound absurd. He can't even tell someone the time of day without having to dress it all up in absurd grandiloquence, as when he tells another character that they are currently in "the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon."
Armado also stands out as a hypocrite; he has seen to the arrest of one Costard ("the Clown or Swain," according to the list of characters), because Costard was caught with a woman named Jaquenetta (called "the Wench" in the list); with characteristic verbosity, Armado declares that Costard was arrested in the company of "a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman". Yet Armado, who arrested Costard for being with Jaquenetta, himself desires Jaquenetta, stating that "Love is a familiar; love is a devil. There is no evil angel but love", and he even plans to write love poetry to her: "I am for whole volumes in folio." Costard, for his part, is an example of the wise fool so familiar to readers of Shakespeare's work; he takes all things in stride, with an attitude of "sit thee down, sorrow."
As for the four noble men, it does not take long for their abrogation of love to go by the boards. Dumaine, pining away with love for Katharine, bemoans how "On a day -- alack the day! -- /Love, whose month is ever May,/Spied a blossom passing fair,/Playing in the wanton air" -- a statement that emphasizes both love's status as part of nature and its connection with elements of the random. Even Berowne, who claims to live "For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love", finds himself frustratedly denouncing Cupid, the Roman god of love: "This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,/This Signior Junior, giant dwarf, Dan Cupid." Cupid may be a baby-sized god, as he was conventionally depicted in Renaissance art, but the mighty always fall before his arrows of love.
By Act IV, scene 3, the noblemen, including the King, are desperately looking for a way out of their no-women vows. Perhaps it should be no surprise that they look to the cerebral Berowne for a legalistic technicality that they can invoke. Berowne is only too happy to invoke the overwhelming power of love, and to suggest that, in effect, it is simply good policy to ally oneself with this force whose power cannot be denied or overcome:
But love, first learned in the eyes,
Lives not alone immured in the brain....
For valour, is not love a Hercules,
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?
Subtle as Sphinx, as sweet and musical
As bright Apollo's lute strung with his hair....
As in many of his other comedies, Shakespeare has great fun lampooning the pretensions of the would-be learned. Holofernes the schoolmaster (aptly called "the Pedant" in the List of Characters) tosses off bits and pieces of Latin and Greek in a futile effort to sound cultured, while Nathaniel the curate shamelessly flatters Holofernes for doing so. When the two speak with Armado, and the three try to "out-culture" each other, Armado's page Mote aptly remarks that "They have been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps." And when Holofernes, Nathaniel, and Armado try to put on a play for the nobles, the results don't go well: the Princess says of Armado's artificial speechifying that "He speaks not like a man of God's making", and Costard dismisses Nathaniel's unsuccessful attempts to portray Alexander the Great by saying that Nathaniel is "a foolish mild man, an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a marvelous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler." Talk about damning with faint praise!
Reading Love’s Labour’s Lost in the context of Shakespeare’s entire oeuvre, I find myself thinking that Berowne, a lord who is exceptionally fond of repartee, may be a stand-in for Shakespeare himself. Much of this play is taken up with contests of wordplay – between Berowne and his lady-love Rosaline, between Berowne and the ladies’ attendant Boyer, between the King of Navarre and the Princess of France, between Longaville and Maria, between Dumaine and Katharine. One is reminded here of how much theatre audiences in late 16th-century England enjoyed seeing and hearing verbal jousting between and among the characters in a drama, just as hip-hop audiences today enjoy hearing a good freestyle rap battle.
If, as some scholars speculate, this is an early Shakespearean comedy, written to order for a performance at the court of Queen Elizabeth I, the prevalence of bantering in Love’s Labour’s Lost may be well explained. Imagine a noble audience half-listening to Shakespeare’s play, laughing at the puns and finding themselves to be terribly clever for understanding all the classical allusions and whatnot.
Shakespeare was good at that sort of wordplay, no question; and yet at the same time, I can’t help wondering if he sometimes found it tiresome, and felt obligated to “pun up” his plays to please his audience, even if he himself may have wanted to focus more directly on character delineation or plot development.
Even in the face of all those audience demands, Shakespeare manages to transcend genre norms and conventions and tell a story that is rich in insight regarding human character. I liked, for example, how Berowne -- deeply in love with Rosaline, and finally willing to admit it openly -- is still sufficiently filled with intellectual pride that he insists to Rosaline that he cannot woo her with "Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,/Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation..." Rosaline, in reply, points out that Berowne has made poor use of his considerable intellectual gifts, describing him as “a man replete with mocks,/Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,/Which you on all estates will execute/That lie within the mercy of your wit.” And Rosaline tempers this criticism with a gentle suggestion that there might be more worthy ways in which Berowne could deploy the power of his wit -- to heal, rather than to hurt.
Boyer, observing how the women invariably get the better of the men in the play’s various verbal battles, states that "The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen/As is the razor's edge invisible"; but there's more going on here than just razor-sharp wordplay. Shakespeare knew what Love's Labour's Lost, under its deceptively comedic facade, presents in a sober manner: the fact that women throughout history, for a variety of reasons, have always had to take matters of courtship more seriously than men.
The play’s title deserves some attention. Love’s Labour’s Lost. Love’s labour is lost. The reason for the title may become most apparent toward the play’s end – for if the reader is expecting Act V, scene ii, to end with a quadruple wedding of all those love-struck lords and ladies, in the manner of some other Shakespearean comedies, he or she is likely to be disappointed. The play concludes on a note of hope for, as opposed to a promise of, future happiness.
Love’s Labour’s Lost is also distinguished as being the basis of one of the more unusual of Kenneth Branagh’s film adaptations of Shakespeare plays. Branagh’s film, released in 2000, dispenses with much of the wordplay, sets the story in September 1939, as the Second World War is beginning, and fills the soundtrack with songs from Broadway musicals of the period. Looking at all of these adaptational choices, I wonder whether perhaps Branagh found his Shakespearean source material somewhat problematic this time. Branagh was no doubt right in choosing to dispense with some of those pages and pages of badinage among the characters; but now the King of Navarre is leading his nobles not only to abjure the company of women, but also to sit out history's bloodiest and most hideous war! The King's behaviour seems even worse under those circumstances. Branagh applies the World War II context more and more directly as the film goes on, with striking consequences for a number of the characters; and while I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it all, I must say that it was a gutsy adaptational choice on Branagh's part.
All of which is to say that Love’s Labour’s Lost is a challenging play. While it is not numbered among Shakespeare’s “problem comedies,” I think one can accurately say that it is a comedy that might pose some problems for the casual reader or playgoer. Yet Shakespeare takes a story that, in the hands of a lesser writer, might have been predictable and convention-bound, and infuses it with plot surprises and insights into human character, all conveyed through the most graceful and elegant of poetry.