Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice. She represents the most extreme form of feistiness I’ve encountered in my romantic life. I’ve known two women like her, and let’s just say that neither of them is my wife. I realize that, due to the requirements of a comedic ending, Shakespeare ‘reforms’ both Beatrice and Benedick. In real life, however, such a reformation rarely occurs. While I’m reluctant to suggest that this type of extreme personality is incompatible with long-term relationships, I’m certain that it’s not for me in the long run. This doesn’t mean that Beatrice’s personality no longer affects me. It does and it has: I have a crush on Beatrice.
So, you might be thinking, it’s just a small, playful crush. Ah, but she’s more than just a well-timed clever saying. She has depth and a past that is skillfully hinted at. She’s been hurt, but she doesn’t let that trap her into the typical insecurities and vulnerabilities of a stock character. She rises above it, and if we ignore some of the mean-spirited tricks played by her friends, I have no doubt that she’d forget Benedick as easily as I’ve forgotten past loves. Regardless, I’m sure she’ll continue to verbally abuse Benedick for years to come, while, if his friends’ jests are to be believed, she’ll end up cuckolding him (with me) after he returns to his flighty, bachelor ways. And anyway, I suspect that some of Shakespeare’s comedies are more enjoyable if you simply disregard or adjust the ending when it doesn’t quite feel right.
I’m not the only one in the room with a crush on Beatrice, though. For starters, I have to compete with the Bard himself, who is so enamored with his creation that he allows her to completely overshadow (and sometimes speak for) the ironically named Hero. While Hero may be the plot mover, she’s still a timid little thing with very little personality or reason for us to feel compassion for her. In a way, this is a smart move by Shakespeare, as it keeps the darker aspects of the play in check. Without a large investment in either Hero or Claudio, we can take their misfortunes in stride and enjoy the illusion of lightness in a play that’s full of calculated villainy.
While I’m temporarily distracted from thoughts of Bea, I’ll go ahead and discuss another character worthy of mention, Dogberry. He plays the hit-or-miss role of the clown, but he stands out due to a goofy habit that has been inspirational for modern writers. Both David Foster Wallace and Jonathan Safran Foer have made a practice of substituting incorrect but generally more difficult words in the dialogue of poorly spoken characters for comedic effect, which is exactly what Shakespeare does with Dogberry. So, I must apologize to William for not giving credit where it’s due in past reviews. But where was I? Oh, Beatrice. Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice.
*I’ve avoided getting in trouble, right?