Shakespeare is too often identified with a misty-eyed, middlebrow, nostalgic and undemanding picture of England and Englishness. Indeed, the Shakespeare industry is dependent on the marketing of this image – both in the production of goods for domestic consumption (whether fridge magnets or outdoor summer stagings) and for export (the "Global Hamlet" in 102 countries). But there is a more radical and subversive version of Shakespeare, which is most clearly evident in his greatest and best-known play: Hamlet.
In one of the several rejection letters we received when trying to publish The Hamlet Doctrine in the UK (we encountered no such problems in the US), one editor argued that the book was "essentially unpublishable" because it was "a condemnation of the literary culture of my country". And in one sense, he's right: our book is an implicit condemnation of a certain, mainstream, version of English culture.
The banal, biscuit-box Shakespeare needs to be broken up and his work made dangerous again. If the authorities really understood what was going on in Hamlet's head, students might never be allowed to study the text. Hamlet's world is a globe defined by the omnipresence of espionage, of which his self-surveillance is but a mirror. Hamlet is arguably the drama of a police state, rather like the Elizabethan police state of England in the late 16th century, or the multitude of surveillance cameras that track citizens as they cross London in the current, late-Elizabethan age. Hamlet's agonised paranoia is but a foretaste of our own.
Rather than look at Hamlet in the usual humanistic and moralistic manner – Hamlet is a nice guy who suffers from being given a task that is an unbearable burden – we approach the play in a spirit of what Virginia Woolf calls rashness, illness and irreverence. We look at the play through the lenses provided by a series of outsider interpretations that mirror our mutual occupations and preoccupations – philosophy and psychoanalysis – and that shed some light on the question of Shakespeare and Englishness: those of Carl Schmitt, Walter Benjamin, Hegel, Freud, Lacan, Nietzsche, Melville and Heiner Müller.
Schmitt makes a very intriguing claim at the end of his short book on Hamlet. He asserts that England at the end of the 16th and beginning of the 17th century could in no way be described as a political state because it was still barbaric. Between the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588 and the so-called Glorious Revolution in 1688 (neither glorious nor a revolution), England was on its way to a form of statehood. But this was, Schmitt insists, a maritime conception of the state that did not need to pass through the constricted passage of the Continental model, where the state is identified with territory. In the 17th century, beginning with pirates, privateers and corsairs, and moving into the vast colonial trading companies, plantation slavery and eventually the Industrial Revolution, England came to define itself not through land, but by the sea. England became a looser eccentric state, more like a series of estates defined by the traces of the barbaric, where politics passes through piracy (plus ça change).
But it is not just the state that is loose and eccentric. The Clown-Gravedigger says in the beginning of Act 5 that Hamlet has been sent to England because he was mad, but, "Twill not be seen in him there, there the men are as mad as he."
What is the nature of Prince Hamlet madness? It is common knowledge that Freud said Hamlet suffers from his Oedipus complex, wanting to be Claudius who has fulfilled his secret desire to kill his father and marry his mother. But what happens when the Oedipus complex is really a Hamlet complex? Namely, we do not act on our desires, but instead loaf around inhibited and melancholic, sometimes lashing out impulsively with a series of jokes, puns or worse, cruelty and murderous rage. Hamlet is not a man who cannot make up his mind, as Laurence Olivier would have it, but rather a man whose desire is utterly lost to him. It is not that we don't know what to do, but that we know too much and do nothing.
For Freud, the character of Hamlet shows the terrifying effects of repression and inhibition of desire. As Dostoevsky said: "Hell is the inability to love." The Ghost may be in purgatory, but Hamlet lives in a loveless hell. Freud wrote about such country matters at the age of 44, having been unable to follow through on his research up until that point. He had a mightily hard time doing so, as can be seen in his letters to his quasi-analyst Wilhelm Fliess when he was minting his Hamlet theory. (He was also not happy with his wife, Martha.)
Our other psychoanalytic interpreter of Hamlet, Jacques Lacan, did not publish his major collected works until the age of 65. In a psychoanalytic battlefield on the question of Hamlet's madness, desire can be found only at great cost, at the most extreme limit of the self. Against the current cries of mental health professionals about the prevalence of acting out, disinhibition, dysregulation and the rest, Hamlet-style inhibition could not be more evident, four centuries after the play was written. There is so much that we cannot allow ourselves to do.
Benjamin gives a slightly bewildering reading of Hamlet in his wonderfully difficult 1928 book, The Origin of German Tragic Drama. After having described with power the world of the baroque, a world that is essentially dead – a rank and unweeded garden, as Hamlet would put it – Benjamin goes on to claim that Shakespeare's Hamlet, alone, achieves a Christian redemption from such rottenness, a kind of Messianic triumph. He needs to see Hamlet as a figure who rises Phoenix-like from the ashes and, with Harold Bloom, invents a new figure of humanity – someone who rushes into battle for Claudius, rather than against him, and waits to hear a truth he already knows from someone else's lips before finally acting (ie Laertes: "The king, the king's to blame").
Hegel, to his credit, offers no such Benjaminian cheer, and concludes his 1,230-odd pages of Lectures on Aesthetics with a stunning interpretation of Hamlet. The dialectical tension that, in ancient tragedy, constituted the public life of the city, becomes privatised and internalised inside Hamlet's skull, leaving him divided and paralysed. Indeed, Hegel goes further and claims that Hamlet is not only the wrong man for the task of revenge, but a lost and even doomed man, consumed by disgust.
Nietzsche places such disgust at the heart of a brief, but fascinating and overlooked, interpretation of Hamlet in The Birth of Tragedy. Hamlet is an anti-Oedipus. Where Oedipus acts, but does not know, Hamlet knows everything from the get-go from the mouth of the Ghost, but cannot act. Further, such inaction does not arise from any indecision or impotence on Hamlet's part, but rather from the fact that he is disgusted by the prospect of action. Given the horror that he knows, then why do anything? The world is screwed anyhow. Such is what Nietzsche calls, and we tip our hat to him, "The Hamlet Doctrine".
Müller, the East German avant-garde dramatist, places feminine sexuality at the heart of his extraordinary decomposition of Shakespeare in his 1978 Hamletmachine. The play is reduced to seven pages, a kind of shrunken, double-headed drama, where a terrifyingly powerful Ophelia steps forward alongside Hamlet and steals his limelight. The Prince is revealed as a vain transvestite and Ophelia – a kind of mask for Ulrike Meinhof – is a figure of titanic power. "Long live hate and contempt, rebellion and death. When she walks through your bedrooms carrying butcher knives you'll know the truth." What a woman! We want to be Ophelia.
But Herman Melville is our true hero. He gives an extraordinary interpretation of Hamlet in his prodigious failure of a book, Pierre; or, The Ambiguities. This was intended to be a bestselling, Gothic, sexy potboiler for the good wives of New England. Sadly for Melville, but happily for us, Melville couldn't stop being Melville – he wrote a brilliant book that was a total commercial flop. The eponymous Pierre can find no meaning in what he calls "the hopeless interior gloom" of Hamlet, or draw from the general story "those superficial and purely incidental lessons, wherein the painstaking moralist so complacently expatiates". We attempt to refrain from such complacent moralistic expatiation.
Heminge and Condell, the editors of the 1623 Folio edition of Shakespeare's works, end their short preface with the exhortation "Reade him, therefore; and againe and againe." We concur with this most conservative sounding of imperatives. The way in which to undermine the ideological uses of Shakespeare and to retrieve his subversive potential is through nothing more than reading him. Spend a few weeks reading Hamlet slowly. You'll see that it's a very weird play. Too weird for the rather complacent, middlebrow England of the Shakespeare industry, but suggestive of another way of imagining and inhabiting England and Englishness.
Melville, aware that his romance novel was approaching the unpublishable, most Shakespeare-like, brings Pierre to his demise as his mirror. Pierre receives the following letter:
"SIR:– You are a swindler. Upon the pretense of writing a popular novel for us, you have been receiving cash advances from us, while passing through our press the sheets of a blasphemous rhapsody, filched from the vile Atheists, Lucian and Voltaire … Our bill for printing thus far … is now in the hands of our lawyer, who is instructed to proceed with instant rigor. (Signed) STEEL, FLINT & ASBESTOS."
Pierre kills himself, together with his sister and lover, while in jail awaiting trial. We look forward to being sued for our own filched, blasphemous, suicidal rhapsody.