Henry IV
Fall 2003, Issue 36


Cover Illustration by Allen Crawford/Plankton Art








The Necessary Betrayal
by Donald Antrim

Creating the World of Henry IV
A Conversation Between Jack O'Brien and John Guare

Ode for Falstaff at the End
by Richard Bausch

Henry IV in His Time
by Anne Cattaneo

The Making of a King
by Marilynne Robinson

From The Duke of Deception
by Geoffrey Wolff

From The Prince's Dog
by W.H. Auden

From Henry IV, Part II
by William Shakespeare












This interview took place in London on June 5, 2003, in Nicholas Hytner’s office at the Royal National Theatre. Jack O’Brien had directed John Guare’s adaptation of His Girl Friday, which had opened the night before.

John Guare: His Girl Friday is about rough- and-tumble newspaper life in 1939 Chicago. Next you’re back to America to do the road company of Hairspray, which, as the universe knows, is set in 1960s Baltimore. And then you go directly from that to Lincoln Center Theater and Henry IV, not just Part I, not just Part II, but Part I and II. What adjustments will you have to make to get into the world of Henry IV?
Jack O’Brien: I’m not aware that I’ll adjust at all. Quite frankly, I think of myself as a kind of receiver, and I just tune the channel to another station. Having been running the Old Globe theater in San Diego for the last twenty-two years, where the as-signments are so varied and numerous and swift, I have very often found I’ve had to pick things up at the last minute, so that in addition to the assignments I’ve given myself, I find I suddenly might have to pick up another one. Someone defaults, and you just find a way.
JG: How often does that happen in your theater?
JOB: To an artistic director, it probably happens every season when you’re doing, as we are, fourteen pieces of work a year. In the old days, I was doing at least three of those a year, of my own. Now I’ve stopped doing that, because my workload is more spread out.
JG: Margaret Tyzack, who’s in our production here, told me that, when she graduated from drama school in 1950, she spent two years in a rep somewhere in England where she did fifty productions a year, one a week with a two-week break. And they had to supply all their costumes. She said she just learned to do it.
JOB: That’s right. You have to be the kid who lifted the calf in the barnyard all these years. You have to be ready for anything. After a while, you don’t even think about it. I mean, I think about it when I get into a situation, as I am now the day after an opening, when I’m clearly exhausted and I really should stop and lie down for a while. It never occurs to me that this is a lot of work to do, or a lot of pressure. I just don’t feel that way. I’m having a wonderful time.
JG: It’s fascinating, watching you work as a director. You have what seems to be a rare gift among directors—
JOB: Which is?
JG: Don’t be wary—which is a very strong sense of narrative. You don’t operate mom-ent to moment; you operate in the narrative of the piece and are always working in terms of that. And what’s interesting, watching you work, is how you supply, for every character onstage, the part of the narrative that they’re in at that moment. No matter why they’re mopping the floor, what their life is like mopping the floor. And not in any Stanislavsky way, but just why the narrative needs them to be mopping the floor at this minute, what it is they’re trying to clean up, why they’re bringing sandwiches now. What the stakes as set down in the script are. And you give that narrative always in the spirit of the text. Did you always supply a narrative for the actors that comes not out of a directorial concept but out of the text itself?
JOB: Yes. I grew up with an inordinate respect for the writer. In the seventies, I had a sort of ten-year apprenticeship with classical work. Craig Noel invited me out almost every year to direct a Shakespeare. And I was basically a musical-comedy baby. And so, at the end of ten years, I had probably done more classical work than almost any American director of my generation, at that time. I began to understand the unbelievable potency of Shakespeare’s narrative. As with all great plays written by great playwrights, they write from that source. In other words, they’re not just flinging paint at a canvas or letting the chips fall where they may. There is some design. You may not see it right away: why these particular characters are in this particular room, or in this particular situation or on this particular journey. It’s my job, then, to go back and find and follow the stream, make sure that it’s all going in the same direction. An audience may follow different parts of the continuum. I, interpreting for the audience, need to make sure it’s still moving. My job is to think about what’s happening to the characters when the scene isn’t about them, when they’re not onstage. What justifies Shakespeare’s interest in them, to keep them a part of the play. I guess it’s like a writing exercise. You think to yourself, What does the author think is going on here that would be useful to the actor? An actor has to go from here to there. That’s his assignment. And I think a director is a storyteller, first of all. His medium happens to be people talking on-stage. So directors and authors have similar purposes.
JG: Peter Hall said somewhere—I hope I’m quoting him right—that in every one of Shakespeare’s large speeches there will be a sentence buried that tells you exactly what the speech is about.
JOB: These are the kinds of things that you learn when you spend a decade or so working on these plays. In whose character’s mouth does Shakespeare put the name, to begin with? Or the idea that the king in Hamlet is named Claudius, and yet no one ever refers to him as Claudius in the play. So why does Shakespeare give a character a name and never use it? No one ever refers to him as anything but the King in the play. No one. It’s never written. And yet in the dramatis personae, it’s Claudius. Why does Shakespeare have dances at the end of certain plays and not others? What does that mean? Well, you learn after a period of time, after you’ve done enough study, that he uses music to heal. And that, very often, when there’s nothing else to say, he wants you to wrap it up, as it were, in a dance. But you don’t just do steps. When you dance with somebody, the drama goes on to do the work of words.

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