As the First Folio goes on display at the London Guildhall, this essay studies the context of its publication via the Aldermanbury monument to Heminge and Condell.

Shakespeare Remembered1

Graham Holderness

My theme is memory […] for we possess nothing certainly except the past. – Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

In the heart of the city lies a garden: hortus in urbe.2 Not far from the ruins of London’s ancient city walls; close to the Guildhall, former seat of London’s civic power; just round the corner from where Shakespeare used to lodge in Silver Street, a tiny space among the clutter of buildings marks out the site of the mediaeval church of St Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury. Only the ‘footprint’of the church remains. Some paved brick elevations, a bit of grass and a few trees, a couple of benches: just a pleasant spot for a tired city worker to sit for a while and drink his cappuccino. But the tiny garden is dominated by a granite memorial, dating from 1896, flanked about with inscribed bronze plaques, and surmounted by a bust of Shakespeare. Only indirectly, however, is it a memorial to Shakespeare, since it explicitly commemorates the lives of two men who dwelt in the parish, worshipped and officiated in the church, and are buried in the former churchyard: John Heminge and Henry Condell, editors of the First Folio.3

The monument, which was originally erected in the centre of the churchyard, was unveiled by the Lord Mayor of London on 15 July 1896, in a ceremony attended by the American Ambassador and Sir Henry Irving. The plinth is constructed of Aberdeen red granite, the plaques and the bust of bronze. The head of Shakespeare is modelled on the bust in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford, and the Droeshout engraving.4 Underneath the bust is a pale grey granite representation of an open book, which looks at first sight like that typical feature of a Victorian gravestone, the book recording the name of the deceased and inscribed with an epitaph. These granite pages however commemorate not some dear departed’s book of life, but an actual book, the 1623 First Folio. One page displays the Folio title, the other an edited extract from Heminge and Condell’s dedication to the earls of Pembroke and Montgomery:

We have but collected them, and done an office to the dead … without ambition either of selfe-profit, or fame; onely to keepe the memory of so worthy a Friend, & Fellow aliue, as was our S H A K E S P E A R E …


The full text in its original context reads:

We have but collected them, and done an office to the dead, to procure his Orphanes, Guardians; without ambition either of selfe-profit, or fame: onely to keepe the memory of so worthy a Friend, & Fellow alive, as was our S H A K E S P E A R E , by humble offer of his playes, to your most noble patronage.5

The abridged version on the monument deletes the patrons, and effaces the context of patronage. Nothing here is owing to the memories of the Earls of Pembroke and Montgomery. The edited quotation dwells rather on the disinterested and charitable work of the editors Heminge and Condell in collecting and publishing the plays, their conception of the First Folio as a memorial tribute, or even a funeral elegy (an ‘office to the dead’), and their intention of keeping Shakespeare’s name alive in the public memory. The bronze plaques on the four sides of the monument (numbered here 1 to 4, starting with the ‘front’of the monument and working clockwise round the plinth) thus commemorate the editors, along with the author, of the First Folio. Plaque 3 commemorates Heminge and Condell in the manner of a funeral monument, indicating that they and their families lived in the parish and are buried there.6 Plaque 2 presents an extract from their prefatory ‘Address to the Great Variety of Readers’. Beneath the stone Folio that clearly marks the ‘front’ of the monument, the primary commemorative page, Plaque 1, links Heminge and Condell together with Shakespeare:

To the memory of JOHN HEMINGE and HENRY CONDELL, fellow actors and personal friends of SHAKESPEARE. They lived many years in this parish and are buried here.

To their disinterested affection the world owes all that it calls SHAKESPEARE.7 They alone collected his dramatic writings, regardless of pecuniary loss and without the hope of any profit, gave them to the world.


Plaque 4 however further commemorates Heminge and Condell as primarily responsible for the survival of Shakespeare’s work, the world indebted to them for ‘all that it calls Shakespeare’:

The fame of Shakespeare rests on his incomparable dramas. There is no evidence that he ever intended to publish them and his premature death in

1616 made this the interest of no one else. HEMINGE AND CONDELL had been co-partners with him in the Globe Theatre Southwark and from the accumulated plays there of thirty five years with great labour selected them. No men then living were so competent having acted with him in them for many years and well knowing his manuscript, they were published in 1623 in Folio, thus giving away their private rights therein. What they did was priceless, for the whole of his manuscripts with almost all those of the dramas of the period have perished.

‘We remember Heminge and Condell’, wrote Laurie Maguire, ‘because they remembered Shakespeare’.8 The Aldermanbury monument states the absolute opposite: we would not remember Shakespeare if Heminge and Condell had not taken the trouble to remember him. ‘Though crowned by a bust of Shakespeare’, writes Philip Ward Jackson, ‘it is not he who is commemorated, but the men who gathered his opus together after his death and presented it to the world in the First Folio edition’.9 Without these facilitators, the work would have been lost forever. Culture is the bequest of the editor, rather than of the poet.

This position was fully developed in an associated book, privately published in 1896 by the man responsible for funding, commissioning, and designing the monument, Charles Clement Walker.10 Walker was a Midlands industrialist, manager of the ironworks at Donnington in Shropshire, a respected philanthropist who established reading rooms and baths for his workers, and an amateur enthusiast for Shakespeare. The Vestry Minutes of St Mary Aldermanbury for 31 July 1895 contain a transcript of Walker’s formal application to erect the monument at the church, and show that other sites had been considered, such as Blackfriars and Southwark ‘where Shakespeare’s works were first published’. But the parish of St Mary was considered more appropriate, since Heminge and Condell were buried there.

Walker explains that his motivation for installing the monument was a strong sense that Heminge and Condell were hidden in Shakespeare’s giant shadow, their names unknown to all but Shakespeare scholars. To commemorate them should have been a public duty, and the monument erected by public subscription, but since they remained unknown, he had to step in to correct this injustice:

Without doubt a memorial to these men should have been raised by public subscription, but wide inquiry showed that while Shakespearian scholars well knew their merits and how much mankind owe to them, their names

are almost unknown to the generality of readers; and of their merits, not one in a thousand of English-speaking men was conscious.11

This is not as it should be, since among public benefactors worthy of monuments

[…] none are more worthy to be commemorated than Heminge and Condell, to whom alone the world is indebted for this first edition of what it calls ‘Shakespeare’. Their own story of the reasons which moved them to publish this collection is such a beautiful instance of unselfishness, singular love of Shakespeare, and unaffected modesty, that the writer felt it only needed to become well understood by the public for their merits to be appreciated. The most certain way to bring about this desirable result was to erect a monument to Heminge and Condell to be before the public eye.12

The monument then celebrates Shakespeare’s work, rather than Shakespeare himself. Walker had no doubts about the value of that work, and the importance of its preservation and transmission to posterity. He alludes to, but dismisses, the Shakespeare authorship controversy, at that time focused on Francis Bacon, on the grounds that the plays could only have been written by a man of the theatre.13 He concedes, on the other hand, that the genesis of the work from the life of ‘the Stratford man’ remains hard to explain. No mystery however surrounds the process via which the works were secured for posterity: ‘while we are unable fully to explain their production in such circumstances as developed Shakespeare, we have no such difficulty in showing to whom we are indebted for the preservation of his writings’.14 Shakespeare’s works are a ‘treasure’, produced, like precious minerals from the earth, by a process we cannot fully understand. But our access to that treasure depends absolutely on the good offices of the ‘treasure-keepers’, Heminge and Condell:

It is now nearly three centuries since the volume we call ‘Shakespeare’ appeared before the world. Age has not dimmed its brightness; Time has proved its pre-eminence. There is probably no other masterpiece of literature which in the circumstances of its evolution has had a more remarkable history; and for the possession of this treasure we are indebted to […] John Heminge and Henry Condell.15

The Aldermanbury monument is a strangely hybrid construction, with multiple and at first sight discontinuous commemorative functions. It looks like a tombstone, with its open volume and lapidary inscriptions, and functions as such in relation to Heminge

and Condell, who were both buried in the churchyard. Plaque 3 memorializes their names and other details from the parish records, in exactly the manner of a gravestone. On the other hand, the head that caps the monument is of course that of another, Shakespeare, whose name also appears on the plinth. In this dimension the monument looks more heroic than funereal, and the dark bronze bust, foreshortened as one looks up, frowns down at the viewer rather as does Karl Marx’s head in Highgate Cemetery. At this point the red granite column, with its rectangular bronze plaques bearing a pointed recollection of those not to be forgotten names, begins to look more like a war memorial. Red granite was used for some memorials set up in the 1850s in memory of the Crimean War,16 and the polished stone plinth, with its sequence of plaques around the column, became the standard form for the war memorials that were established in or adjoining most English churches after the First World War. Heminge and Condell belong to those who are ‘fallen’, not in war but in time, and are here piously and reverently commemorated, ‘lest we forget’. This dimension of the Aldermanbury monument is apposite, since the garden in which it stands is itself a war memorial. Site of a church from as early as the twelfth century (the garden preserves the bases of some mediaeval columns), St Mary’s was destroyed in the Great Fire, and was one of the fourteen churches that began construction in 1670 under the rebuilding programme of Christopher Wren.17 Wren’s church stood until engulfed in a second conflagration, Dr Goebbels’ ‘Second Great Fire of London’, the Blitz of 1940, when its roof was struck by an incendiary bomb and the building partially destroyed, only the walls left standing. On this occasion there was no Wren to undertake the rebuilding. In the aftermath of the war, British authorities assessed the destruction inflicted by enemy bombing and debated whether severely damaged buildings should be rebuilt, demolished, or preserved. Churches in particular, as homes for worshipping communities, seemed to call for reconstruction; but some were damaged beyond repair, or could be rebuilt only at substantial expense. The Ministry of Town and Country Planning held that churches should not be rebuilt unless they were of significant architectural merit, or not too badly damaged. St Mary’s however was a church designed by Wren, and the Bishop of London’s 1941 commission ruled that that ‘no Wren church, not already destroyed, nor damaged beyond the possibility of satisfactory restoration, should be removed, except in a case of most urgent necessity, and after all the schemes for entire or partial preservation

have been fully considered’.18

An alternative to rebuilding was to leave the bombed churches in their state of ruination, particularly in the City of London, as mute but eloquent testimonies to the violence that destroyed them. Such memorials would be at once beautiful, provocative of thought, and of practical use to City workers. Ruined buildings could function as ‘memory-bearing’ sites, housing or even becoming war memorials, testimonies to a violence and injustice that should not be forgotten. Architectural historian John Summerson argued that if a church was not needed as a place of worship, ‘why not let it remain as a shell, a witness – and a beautiful one – of the acts of these times as well as of its own’.19 The idea was floated in the Architectural Review in January 1944, and a letter appeared in the Times on 15 August of the same year, under the heading ‘Ruined City Churches’, and signed by leading cultural figures such as Kenneth Clark, Julian Huxley, Lord Keynes, David Cecil, architect H.S. Goodhart-Rendel, and T.S. Eliot. Churches that had been very severely damaged should not be either restored in an inappropriate pastiche of their former style, or replaced by an entirely new building, but be left as they stood: ‘preserved in their true condition, as permanent memorials of this war’. In a relatively short time, the proposers predicted, the City would be rebuilt, and no trace of the prime battlefield of the Home Front would remain.

The time will come […] when no trace of death from the air will be left in the streets of rebuilt London. At such a time the story of the Blitz may begin to seem unreal not only to visiting tourists but to a new generation of Londoners.

Whilst serving as sites of relaxation and meditation in the heart of the city, such churches would also fulfil the prime function of a memorial: ‘to remind posterity of the reality of the sacrifices upon which its apparent security has been built’.20

This position was fully developed in a booklet, Bombed Churches as War Memorials, published by the Architectural Press (1945).21 This built upon the Architectural Review piece, using many of the same illustrations, and reprinted as its frontispiece ‘Ruined City Churches’ from The Times. Introduced by Hugh Casson, it contained detailed proposals for Christ Church, Newgate, and other bombed churches in London. Casson’s essay bears the Shakespearean title, ‘Ruins for Remembrance’, and advocates preservation of the ruins as sanctuaries, open spaces, and war memorials. Even in ruins, churches can disclose ‘significance’, ‘nobility’ and ‘great beauty’.22

They are aloof, but have not lost contact with us, and with us they have undergone the physical trials of war, and bear its scars. But though they stand today upon what is still a battle-field, it will not always be so. It will be many years before all traces of war damage will have gone, and its strange beauty vanished from our streets. No longer will the evening sky be seen reflected in the water-pools which today lie dark and quiet between the torn and gaping walls. Soon a pock-marked parapet or a broken cornice will be to future generations the only signs of former shock and flame.23 The shabby heaps of stones, flowering with willow-herb as pink and lively as the flames which earlier sprouted from their crevices, will disappear, and with their going the ordeal through which we passed will seem remote, unreal, perhaps forgotten.

‘A church like St Mary’s’, Casson argued,

stands, even when in ruins, upon sacred ground. It is, even when scarred and broken, a piece of architecture, sometimes perhaps a masterpiece. Every stone – whether fallen or in place – is a fragment of the past, part of the pattern of history. To destroy all this just because it was in the way, or because on Sunday the pews were mostly empty, is surely indefensible, however many new churches are built elsewhere to take its place.24

St Mary’s remained in this condition, as an open-air ‘chapel of ease’ for prayer and meditation, for some twenty years.25 In the earlier consultations the Ministry of Town and Country Planning had suggested that some churches might be removed and relocated, freeing up inner-city space for redevelopment. In the case of St Mary’s Aldermanbury, this happened, some time later, with a vengeance. When Westminster College asked for a ruined church to be transported to Fulton, Missouri, to build a memorial to Sir Winston Churchill, the diocese of London gave them St Mary’s. The ruins of the church were in 1966 transported to America, and a simulacrum of Wren’s church rebuilt using the reclaimed bricks. In their history of the church Hauer and Young call it a ‘phoenix’ rising from the ashes of two major conflagrations.26

Back in London the empty ‘footprint’ of the church became the Aldermanbury garden, which preserves only a few stumps of fifteenth-century columns left after the Great Fire, and the Aldermanbury monument to Heminge and Condell. The longer history of the church and its double destruction is memorialized in a slate tablet installed by Westminster College. ‘Aldermanbury Gardens’ is thus a site of commemoration on a number of different levels. It recalls a mediaeval church destroyed by fire and a

Restoration reconstruction ruined by another flame. It is a memorial to the Second World War and the massive violence and suffering inflicted on the civilian population of Britain by enemy bombing. And it is a garden of remembrance for Shakespeare, his editors, and their joint publication the First Folio.27 Thus it combines the functions of heritage site, war memorial, cemetery, and library, all in one.

Do these separate functions really hang together? To some extent the various features of the garden seem to cohere only accidentally, a random collection of contingent objects and traces that happen to have found themselves in the same place. The mediaeval columns are, literally and metaphorically, broken off from their history. Wren’s church has been given away. Few people using the gardens would be aware that it was once a ‘Ground Zero’ marking a past atrocity. And the statue of Shakespeare now seems oddly out of place, as if it would have been better located in Southwark, where the reconstructed Globe now stands, or in the theatre district of the West End, like the statue of Shakespeare in Leicester Square. Walker claimed that it was the only public bust of Shakespeare to be erected inside the City of London, and this may well still be the case.28 The City certainly didn’t want Shakespeare’s theatre when it was active and alive, so there seems no good reason why it should want to remember him dead.

In another sense the monument is less about the author and his editors as it is about the book, the First Folio. The material presence of the book itself gives form to the structure.29

The book is there, openly displayed for the observer to read. It is there in the bronze plaques that resemble pages, one of them duplicating an actual page from the Folio. It is there in the monument’s commemoration of the men responsible for its publication. Like an empty tomb that encloses only the memory of its incumbent, the monument inscribes the presence of the departed in literary form, combining the memorial capacities of sepulchre and book. John Weever’s definition of a monument recognized the parallel capacities of monument and book to act as memorials:

A Monument is a thing erected, made, or written, for a memorial of some remarkable action, fit to be transferred to future posterities […]. Now aboue all remembrances (by which men haue endeuoured, euen in despight of death to giue vnto their Fames eternitie) for worthinesse and continuance, bookes, or writings, haue euer had the preheminence …30

This process of mementifying the book as proxy for the author’s fame is clearly operating at several removes, since the First Folio was itself so pointedly a memorial tribute to the author Shakespeare. The dedication is defined as ‘an office to the dead’, and throughout it echoes the language of the burial service: ‘we most humbly consecrate to your H. H. these remaines of your servant Shakespeare …’ The address ‘To the Great Variety of Readers’ makes it clear that the editors saw themselves as executors to a will, undertaking on behalf of the deceased the tasks he himself was prevented by death from fulfilling. The gathering of the works on behalf of the author announces his constitutive absence from the process, and renders the act of publication a posthumous service of commemoration. Heminge and Condell then extend this figure to suggest that in collecting the works the editors are in one sense reconstructing the author ‘by death departed’, piecing back together the fragments dispersed by time and corruption. Here the plays are presented ‘cur’d and perfect of their limbs’, as if in the process the body of the author is being restored, even resurrected.

It had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to have bene wished, that the Author himself had liv’d to have set forth, and overseen his owne writings; But since it hath bin ordain’d otherwise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you do not envie his Friends, the office of their care, and paine, to have collected & publish’d them; and so to have publish’d them, as where (before) you were abus’d with diverse stolne, and surreptitious copies, maimed, and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of injurious impostors, that expos’d them : even those, are now offer’d to your view cur’d, and perfect of their limbes; and all the rest, absolute in their numbers, as he conceived the[m].

As Laurie Maguire puts it, deploying the pun that supplies my title, the editors ‘not only remember Shakespeare, they literally re-member him’, using a ‘language of embalmment’, and an ‘anthropomorphising vocabulary’ in which plays are conceived, maimed, deformed, cured, and furnished with limbs.31 The Folio, says Maguire ‘is both a relic of the deceased and a memorial to him’.32 She quotes John Weever’s more literal definition of a funeral monument as ‘a receptacle or sepulchre, purposely made, erected, or built, to receiue a dead corps, and to preserue the same from violation’.33 The Folio was designed to contain the corpus of the author’s writings, both to retain memory of them and to preserve them from violation (i.e. textual corruption, piracy etc.).

Thus the Aldermanbury monument is a duplication of the literary monument that is the First Folio. Since it honours Heminge and Condell rather than Shakespeare, it appears to commemorate the editorial construct rather than the eternally living author; in its lapidary form it memorializes the book above the lives of those who contributed to its publication. What the world owes to Heminge and Condell is not ‘Shakespeare’, but ‘all that it calls Shakespeare’, a culturally constructed artefact that inevitably seems detached from the originating author. But this detachment had already of course been effected in the paratextual matter of the First Folio itself, where Shakespeare the author is clearly absented from the scene of production, and the plays ritually called together in order to construct a new author-function that replaces the dead author. The monument completes this process of uncoupling Shakespeare the author from Shakespeare the man.

Hence this literary monument to the First Folio belongs in the garden which was a churchyard, where it commemorates the buried editors who worshipped at the vanished mediaeval church. Or to put it another way, the Aldermanbury monument is a petrified duplication of the bibliographical monument that is the Folio. But does it have any but a coincidental connection with the subsequently acquired significance of the garden as a war memorial? We need first to establish what kind of war memorial this is. The garden remembers the Second World War from a particular perspective, one that is quite different, as the signatories to ‘Ruined City Churches’ observed, from the ubiquitous cenotaphs that remembered the fallen of the First World War. The latter list primarily the names of those killed in action, and are imbrued with the heroic and elegiac culture we see re-enacted on each annual Remembrance Day, encapsulated in the continuing use in inscriptions and church liturgies of Laurence Binyon’s ‘For the Fallen’.34 The Aldermanbury garden remembers the war on the Home Front, ‘the Blitz’, the war of Hitler’s strategic bombing campaign that devastated London and other British cities in 1940–1941. St Mary’s was struck by an incendiary bomb on the night of 30 December 1940. This is how The Times reported the devastation begun on the 29 December, when St Paul’s was hit:35

Fire Bombs Rained On London

Waves of enemy aircraft attacked London for some hours last night, raining hundreds of incendiary bombs indiscriminately over a wide area of the capital and its outskirts. The enemy appeared to be concentrating on setting fire to as many buildings as possible.

The next night, 30 December, St Mary’s was one of eight Wren churches damaged or destroyed.36 Noel Mander, a soldier on leave, watched St Mary’s collapse:

I saw that night St Mary, Aldermanbury; St Vedast-alias-Foster, my own church – I saw them all burn, and it was a sensation that I will never forget – hearing the bells fall down the tower, hearing the organ burn, because the hot air blowing through the organ pipes almost sounded as if the poor old organs were shrieking in agony at their destruction.37

The emphasis in the press reports is on the cruelty of the attacks, the intensity of the suffering inflicted, the heroism of firefighters and other Home Front defenders, and the refusal of the British people to accept defeat. As Prime Minister Churchill inspected the ruins on the following day, according to The Times, people sang snatches of the old First World War song ‘Tipperary’: ‘Are we downhearted? No!’ This music-hall insouciance of the blitzed population has been questioned, condemned as mere propaganda, and even ridiculed.38 But though the public emotion may not have been as ‘resolutely cheerful’ as The Times insisted, it was certainly one of heroic endurance and stubborn determination. Churchill’s speech of September 1940, cited in the same Times article, genuinely captured and set the tone of the nation:39

These cruel, wanton, indiscriminate bombings of London are, of course, a part of Hitler’s invasion plan. He hopes, by killing large numbers of civilians, and women and children that he will terrorize and cow the people of this Mighty Imperial city […]. Little does he know the spirit of the British nation, or the tough fibre of the Londoners whose forebears played a leading part in the establishment of Parliamentary institutions and who have been bred to value freedom far above their lives […]. What he has done is to kindle a fire in British hearts, here and all over the world, which will glow long after all traces of the conflagrations he has caused in London have been removed. He has lighted a fire which will burn with a steady and consuming flame until the last vestiges of Nazi tyranny have been burnt out of Europe, and until the Old World and the New can join hands to rebuild the temples of man’s freedom and man’s honour on foundations which will not soon or easily be overthrown.

Churchill went on to pay tribute to the men and women working for the nation’s defences, air-raid wardens and firefighters, those whose exemplary fortitude and courage constituted a form of domestic heroism:

I express my admiration for the exemplary manner in which all the air-raid precaution services in London are being discharged, especially the fire brigades, whose work has been so heavy and also dangerous.

These were the unsung heroes celebrated by T.S. Eliot, Kensington air-raid warden, in his ‘Defence of the Islands’: those ‘for whom the paths of glory are / The lanes and the streets of Britain’.40 The British people, Churchill says, are ‘a people who will not flinch or weary of the struggle, hard and protracted though it will be’, but will ‘rather draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival, and of a victory won not only for ourselves, but for all – a victory won not only for our own times, but for the long and better days that are to come’.

As a war memorial, the Aldermanbury garden does not commemorate the heroism and sacrifice of the front line, as did the cenotaphs of the First World War. In this war, wrote the signatories of the 12 August 1944 letter to The Times, ‘conditions have been different. England itself has been in the battle and London is still in it’. The garden remembers not those warriors who fell on far-off battlefields, but rather the little people, the men, women, and children, the young and old and unborn, who endured the war on the Home Front. Those who, night after ‘interminable night’,41 suffered violence from the air, and day after day crawled out of the shelters or the ruins to begin life all over again; or were taken out dead from the rubble; or were never seen again, and remained to rest in unvisited tombs. And here we can identify the deeper congruence that links the meaning of the gardens, and the meaning of the statue that was erected some seventy years before the Blitz, and almost exactly a century before the church’s westward migration. For through the Aldermanbury monument, Heminge and Condell are commemorated precisely as such heroes of the people, ordinary men whose virtuous actions secured for them an extraordinary destiny. They were only ancillary participants in the gestation of the theatrical work that became the Folio, but without their disinterested and charitable intervention, there would have been no Folio: nothing for the world to call Shakespeare. In the same way the victims of the Blitz were passive sufferers, on the receiving end of military action, and yet essential contributors to the ultimate victory over fascism.

In his treatise Charles Clement Walker provides a brief biographical sketch of Shakespeare, following the narrative of Rowe’s biography. He clearly had no problem accepting Shakespeare’s humble origins as the son of a tradesman, possibly a

butcher, and his lack of formal education. As a philanthropic Victorian industrialist Walker was only too happy to think of Shakespeare emerging from such an underprivileged background, and bearing with him to London a promising package of Victorian values. Shakespeare had both ability and ‘industry’, but also virtues of temperance and steadiness that rendered him a more reliable asset to the theatre than the typically dissolute university men who wrote for it. Shakespeare, says Walker, probably began to make his way as a writer since he was always there to patch up scripts while the wits were recovering from their debaucheries. As a craftsman, actor, and writer, Shakespeare was concerned only with professional success, and cared nothing about the preservation of his work. If the survival of the works had depended on him, then all would have been lost, either through careless dispersion, or in some such disaster as the burning of the Globe.

There could hardly be anything more hopeless when the earth closed on Shakespeare’s grave than the expectation that any more would be heard of his unprinted plays, beyond the applause that they might be greeted with when produced at the Globe Theatre, whose property almost, if not entirely they were; for there were numerous other dramas which were played to suit the public taste for novelty and change, and there is no evidence that his plays would have had any other fate than those dramas, of which most have passed away, forgotten or perished.42

Fortunately for posterity, however, the works were rescued from the flames and preserved by men who were neither dissolute university wits, nor insouciant bohemian artists, but solid and public-spirited citizens.43 The works were salvaged from that moral and literal conflagration, conveyed across the river, securely deposited inside the City, and used to prepare the First Folio for publication. Heminge and Condell displayed themselves through this undertaking to be honest and ingenuous men, modest and unassuming in their approach, industrious and careful in their procedures. Their motivation was purely charitable, since they looked for no profit from the undertaking, and undertook the work purely out of friendship, concern for the public interest, and respect for the memory of their late friend and colleague.

Although the monument was erected to remember Heminge and Condell, and their indispensible contribution to the preservation of ‘all that we call Shakespeare’, their lives are relatively anonymized rather than foregrounded. No attempt was made to represent them, since there are no surviving physical likenesses to reproduce, and it is

Shakespeare’s effigy that commands the structure. Although the monument was designed to install Heminge and Condell into the public memory, they are paradoxically huddled back under Shakespeare’s shadow. All three men are in another sense absorbed into the monument that is the book; but the book remains synonymous in the public mind with the name ‘Shakespeare’. In commemorating Heminge and Condell, Walker was trying to do what Thomas Hardy attempted at around the same time in Jude the Obscure (1895) for ‘the struggling men and women’ of the working class, those who were ‘the reality of Christminster, though they knew little of Christ or Minster’. In this ‘palpitating, varied, and compendious […] book of humanity’ that is the common people, Jude recognizes himself:

He saw that his destiny lay not with these, but among the manual toilers in the shabby purlieu which he himself occupied, unrecognized as part of the city at all by its visitors and panegyrists, yet without whose denizens the hard readers could not read nor the high thinkers live.44

In the end it is of course the name of Christminster that is remembered, but Hardy at least sought to reveal some of its hidden histories. As a war memorial, Aldermanbury Gardens remembers the past in a similar way, from the perspective of the disappeared. History is written here not from the vantage point of the victors, but on behalf of the defeated, the vanished who were buried under the rubble, many of whom share with Heminge and Condell the communal graveyard of blitzed London.45 Their bodies were dispersed and scattered, their names lost and forgotten. But they are there, buried ‘deep with the first dead’, to be mourned and ‘re- membered’ in this quiet and unassuming spot.46 Their traces remain in the air, fittingly housed by the memory of the church that is also gone, but not forgotten.

Jennifer Wallace wrote of another ‘blitz’, 11 September 2001, as an event that challenged the capacities of memory. She describes two ‘public projects for retrieving and mourning the dead’ from the World Trade Centre:47

One was the grim excavation of the rubble at Ground Zero and the search for traces of the 2,823 people who died there. The other was the daily publication in the New York Times of a brief biography of each victim, a 200–word profile accompanied by a photograph which soon became well known collectively as the ‘Portraits of Grief’.

The portraits are themselves ‘powerful works of tragedy bringing a human dimension to an inhuman disaster’, and ‘giving shape to the disaster by transforming ordinary lives into significant narratives’. Wallace then compares the search for traces of the 2,823 people who died with examples from classical tragedy: the literal and figurative disintegration of the body, and the human effort to reassemble or reconstruct, to re-member what has been dispersed and fragmented, to be found in The Bacchae and Hamlet. The archaeological excavation of Ground Zero was a search for certainty in the recovery of remains, a work of mourning like Agave’s desire to have the limbs of her dismembered son ‘joined decently together’; or like Hamlet’s mission to ‘set […] right’ a disjointed time.

As the excavation progressed, it became increasingly obvious that nowhere near all the victims would be accounted for. Wallace quotes a firefighter, faced with a dwindling pile of rubble and a list of 1,800 people still untraced: ‘You’ve got a great number of people that you want to find, and you’ve got a certain amount of dirt that’s left. And there’s a gap. That gap is going to be a sorrowful one’. The ‘gap’ is literally, as Wallace observes, between ‘statistics and physical dust’. But as a ‘gap’ of sorrow, it also represents the space of tragedy, the lacuna between hope and despair, between ‘consolation and disillusion’. Such gaps are the enduring legacy of unnatural disasters like the Blitz, or 9/11, or the 7 July bombings in London. But gaps to be bridged, as Wallace observes, holes to be filled with memory and mourning, spaces in which to ‘write stories.’

Aldermanbury gardens is also one of history’s holes, a gap from which life and matter have been evacuated, leaving an empty space free for the exercising of memory. The Aldermanbury monument remembers Shakespeare not as a great individual genius, but as a pluralistic body consisting of many members. ‘For the body’, as St Paul observed, ‘is not one member, but many’ (1 Corinthians 12.14). Prominent among the associated members who are part of the body of Shakespeare are Heminge and Condell. Here, in this garden, they are appropriately remembered, their reputations fittingly restored, for as Paul says, ‘those members of the body, which we think to be less honourable, upon these we bestow more abundant honour’ (1 Corinthians 12.23). The monument invites a Eucharistic commemoration, in which every member is a part of the whole: ‘though we are many, we are one body’. On the site of the old church, the elusive traces of those disjecta membra that were our forebears are also brought together in the same kind of loving remembrance, ‘folded in a single party’.48

This double function of memory as reconstruction and recuperation is firmly embedded inside the First Folio. One of the commendatory poems affixed to the 1632 Folio edition of Mr William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories and Tragedies, under the superscription ‘I.M.S.’ depicts the dramatist’s mind as a mirror that can bring an image of the past into immediate visibility:49

A mind reflecting ages past, whose clear And equal surface can make things appear Distant a thousand years, and represent

Them in their lively colours’just extent … (ll. 1–4).

The mirror of Shakespeare’s mind makes available, to present vision, images of a remote past, causes things that are ‘distant a thousand years’ to appear. But it also simulates a past reality by using a contemporary performative medium, makes present things appear to be distant a thousand years. To represent, and to re-present; to familiarize and to estrange. Shakespeare’s imagination could make things from a thousand years ago appear, but he could do so only by making his stage and his actors take on the convincing appearance of a thousand-year-old reality.

The poem thus grasps the two-way process of commemoration, in which the past has to be made to be re-made, its reconstruction being also its initial construction. At the same time the ‘things’ recollected from the past clearly retain their own integrity, or there would be no sense in which they could be misrepresented. The past was alive, is now dead, but can be revived by the power of memory. We do not simply make up the past as we go along. But where is it? Confronted with the elegist’s question, ubi sunt?, we can only reply, Hic et ubique. Here, there, and everywhere. Not a trace remains on this spot of Wren’s church of St Mary Aldermanbury. Yet the garden remembers it.

Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth …50

Of the Blitz the garden formally commemorates, nothing beside remains. But the space is full of memory, and as Evelyn Waugh observed, ‘we possess nothing certainly except the past’.51 Chemical scientists speak of inanimate substances such as water having a ‘memory’. Experiments show that ‘much diluted solutions appear to behave as though they contain absent solutes that had once been

present’.52 These observations seem to confute the fact that the hydrogen bonds holding molecules of water together break so easily and rapidly. Yet as Martin Chaplin indicates, ‘the behaviour of a large population of water molecules may be retained even if that of individual molecules is constantly changing. Such behaviour is easy to observe: a sea wave may cross an ocean, remaining a wave and with dependence on its history, but its molecular content is continuously changing’.53 A church like St Mary’s, observed Hugh Casson, stands, ‘even when in ruins, upon sacred ground’. The sanctity conferred by the consecration of a building somehow survives that building’s destruction.54 But whence does such ‘sacredness’ derive? What the memory of the ruined church remembers is not merely an ecclesiastical ritual, but the suffering of a people. The churches have, in Casson’s words, ‘undergone the physical trials of war, and bear its scars’. This is the place’s memory, and it is in this sense that ‘every stone and fragment of the past is part of the pattern of history’.55

Walker presented Heminge and Condell as emblems of self- sacrifice, businessmen who yet undertook their work ‘without the hope of profit’, motivated by ‘disinterested affection’, unselfish love and ‘unaffected modesty’.56 The memory of the Blitz also recalls sacrifice, and the use of a commemorative monument would be ‘to remind posterity of the reality of the sacrifices upon which its apparent security has been built’.57 The British people, Churchill affirmed, would never admit defeat, but would ‘rather draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival’. The loss of individual prestige or personal fame entailed in publishing a great writer’s book, or in assisting anonymously in a great humanitarian war effort, represent parallel forms of the self-sacrifice theologically defined as kenosis, the voluntary emptying of the self into a greater purpose.

In Dante’s Purgatorio the spirit of Arnaut Daniel begs Dante to remember him, and pray for him, in order to help assuage his suffering, ‘Tempra ma dolour’. Then he turns to embrace the purgatorial flame, and is lost in the refining fire: ‘Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina.

The story of Aldermanbury Gardens is a story of fire. Beginning with the destruction of the mediaeval church of St Mary the Virgin in the Great Fire of London, to the conflagration that ruined Wren’s church in 1940, the site has endured ordeal after ordeal, ‘consumed by either fire or fire’.58 Wren’s church was a phoenix that twice rose from the ashes, unfurled its wings, and flew away westwards. The

First Folio commemorated by the Aldermanbury monument was perhaps, if Shakespeare’s manuscripts did (as some have thought) perish in the fire that destroyed the Globe theatre, another phoenix resurrection, keeping alive the eternal flame of Shakespeare’s genius. ‘Age has not dimmed its brightness’, wrote Charles Clement Walker. The garden remembers the incendiary violence of war, but also that fire of patriotic pride identified (convincingly at that point in history) by Churchill with the great cause of humanity:

What [Hitler] has done is to kindle a fire in British hearts, here and all over the world, which will glow long after all traces of the conflagrations he has caused in London have been removed. He has lighted a fire which will burn with a steady and consuming flame until the last vestiges of Nazi tyranny have been burnt out of Europe, and until the Old World and the New can join hands to rebuild the temples of man’s freedom and man’s honour on foundations which will not soon or easily be overthrown.

Churchill’s rhetoric echoes Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, and the words Latimer is said to have spoken to Ridley before he was enveloped by the flames: ‘Be of good cheer, Ridley; and play the man. We shall this day, by God’s grace, light up such a candle in England, as I trust, will never be put out’. Thus the pyrotechnic devastation of London is redefined as creative sacrifice by reference back to the ‘intolerable shirt of flame’ worn by the Protestant martyrs.59

Amidst the ruins of London’s churches, in the aftermath of the Blitz, Hugh Casson saw the efflorescence of new vegetable growth replacing, but also replicating, the fires that had recently devoured them: ‘among the shabby heaps of stones, flowering with willow- herb as pink and lively as the flames which earlier sprouted from their crevices’. Air-raid warden T.S. Eliot saw the same persistent synthesis of suffering and creativity, the same ubiquitous merging of flower with flame:

When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire

And the fire and the rose are one.60

Like the church at Little Gidding, Aldermanbury Garden is another place where it is possible to find ‘the intersection of the timeless moment’; England and nowhere; never and always.61 A place where silent voices can be heard. A place where the dead can, at last, have their say.

And what the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication

Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.62


  1. This empirical study builds on previous critical and theoretical work I have undertaken concerning history, memory, and mourning. See especially Shakespeare: The Histories (London: Macmillan, 2000); Textual Shakespeare: Writing and the Word (Hatfield: University of Hertfordshire Press, 2003); ‘Vanishing Point: Looking for Hamlet’, Shakespeare 1:2 (December 2005), 154–73; ‘“Mots d’escalier”: Clio, Orpheus, Eurydice’, in Shakespeare’s Histories and Counter-Histories, ed. Stuart Hampton-Reeves, Dermot Cavanagh, and Steve Longstaffe (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006), 219–40; and ‘“I covet your skull”: Desire and Death in Hamlet’, Shakespeare Survey 60 (2007), 223–36. I have left implicit the obvious parallels, especially in terms of reconstruction debates, between the Blitz of 1940 and 9/11; but for the latter see my ‘Shakespeare and Terror’, in Shakespeare Yearbook: Shakespeare after 9/11, ed. Matthew Biberman, Julia Reinhardt Lupton, and Graham Holderness (Lewiston, Queenston, and Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, 2010). I am grateful to my wife Marilyn Holderness for finding Aldermanbury gardens, and for help with ‘the memory of water’.
  2. A garden in the city.
  3. It has of course been argued that they did not act as editors. See John Dover Wilson, ‘The Task of Heminge and Condell’, in Studies in the First Folio (London: Oxford University Press, 1924), 54–55. Doubt has also been cast on their authorship of the dedication and address ‘To the Great Variety of Readers’. The monument is a tribute to practical men, commemorating what they did, rather than what they said, and my arguments do not depend on any assumptions about their literary or scholarly capacities.
  4. Philip Ward Jackson describes the bust as ‘a painstaking attempt to amalgamate the two portraits of Shakespeare which were supposed to possess a flawless pedigree’. See Public Sculpture of the City of London (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2003), 2.
  5. ‘To the Most Noble and Incomparable Paire of Brethren’, in Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories & Tragedies: A Facsimile of the First Folio 1623 (London: Routledge, 1998).
  6. Heminge and Condell both served as ‘sidesmen’ in the church. Charles Connell in They Gave Us Shakespeare: John Heminge and Henry Condell (Stocksfield: Oriel Press, 1982) incorrectly describes them as ‘churchwardens’. In the Anglican church sidespeople report to churchwardens.
  7. The same qualifying assertion is to be found in Connell’s They Gave Us Shakespeare, which begins with a survey of the Aldermanbury monument, and recuperates Walker’s tone and line of argument: ‘without their devotion, assiduity and indefatigable efforts, the world would have been poorer by what is generally referred to as the Shakespeare canon’ (2). See also Christian E. Hauer, Jr., and William A. Young, A Comprehensive History of the London Church and Parish of St Mary, the Virgin, Aldermanbury: The Phoenix of Aldermanbury (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1994): ‘their contribution to the preservation of his works cannot be overestimated’ (80).
  • Laurie E. Maguire, ‘Composition/Decomposition: Singular Shakespeare and the Death of the Author’, in The Renaissance Text: Theory, Editing, Textuality, ed. Andrew Murphy (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), 135–53 (p. 139).
  • Jackson, Public Sculpture, 2.
  • Charles Clement Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, Friends and Fellow- actors of Shakespeare, and What the World Owes to Them (London: privately printed, 1896).
  • Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, 3.
  • Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, 4.
  • Henry Irving placed the same emphasis in the speech he delivered at the unveiling. In October of the same year, laying the foundation stone of the Dulwich Public Library, Irving had eulogized Edward Alleyn as a fellow ‘player’; and in his speech at the unveiling in Aldermanbury of a monument to Heminge and Condell, he had taken the same tone: ‘these two players who lived in affectionate friendship to another player, William Shakespeare’. Austin Brereton, The Life of Henry Irving (London: Longman, Green, 1908), 2:254.
  • Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, 6.
  • Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, 5–6.
  • An example is the red granite obelisk in the grounds of St Philip’s Cathedral in Birmingham.
  • Eric de Mare, Wren’s London (London: Folio Society, 1975), 87.
  • Quoted in Peter J. Larkham and Joe Nasr, ‘Bombed Churches as Memorials and Mementoes: Physical Traces in the Urban Landscape’, 12–13. Available at…/Birmingham_churches_conference_paper_spoken_2.doc [Accessed 2

February 2010].

  1. Quoted Larkham and Nasr, ‘Bombed Churches’, 6.
  2. The Times, 15 August 1944.
  3. Bombed Churches as War Memorials (Cheam: Architectural Press, 1945). A reprint of the August 1944 letter to The Times forms the frontispiece.
  4. Bombed Churches as War Memorials, 21.
  5. Cf. T.S. Eliot: ‘Water and fire shall rot / The marred foundations we forgot / Of sanctuary and choir’. ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, (London: Faber and Faber, 1963), 216.
  6. Bombed Churches as War Memorials, 11–12.
  7. Hauer and Young, Phoenix of Aldermanbury, 359.
  8. The Doha Players Theatre, destroyed by a suicide-bomber, is planned to re-appear as the ‘Phoenix Theatre’ of Qatar. See Graham Holderness and Bryan Loughrey, ‘“Rudely Interrupted”: Shakespeare and Terrorism’, Critical Survey 19:3 (2007), 107–23.
  9. A management consultancy company offering ‘strategic counsel’ and investment advice goes by the name of ‘Heminge and Condell’, though the names of the partners are Wilkinson and Eidinow. The company name invokes the historic Heminge and Condell partnership as a model of constructive facilitation.
  10. ‘It may be noted that this is the only public bust of Shakespeare in the City of London’ (Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, 26). One of the residential blocks in the Barbican is called ‘Shakespeare Tower’ (see my Shakespeare Myth [Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988], ‘Introduction’).
  11. The illustration in Walker’s pamphlet (facing p. 25) enhances this effect by showing the Folio enlarged and re-scaled relative to the monument.
  • John Weever, Ancient Funeral Monuments (London, 1631), B1r.
  • Maguire, ‘Composition/Decomposition’, 142.
  • Maguire, 139.
  • Maguire, 138.
  • Walker’s phrase ‘Age has not dimmed its brightness’ echoes Shakespeare’s Cleopatra (‘Age cannot wither her’) and anticipates Binyon’s now famous ‘Age shall not weary them’ from ‘For the Fallen’.
  • The Times, 30 December 1940, p. 1
  • Hauer and Young state that the church was hit on 29 December, but the Times

reports appear to indicate that it was on the following night. Phoenix of Aldermanbury (353).

  • Quoted in Hauer and Young, Phoenix of Aldermanbury, 354–55.
  • Especially in Angus Calder’s The Myth of the Blitz (London: Jonathan Cape, 1990).
  • Quoted in The Times, 12 September 1940, p. 1.
  • ‘Defence of the Islands’, Collected Poems.
  • T.S. Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 220.
  • Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, 13.
  • A grocer and a publican, as they are sometimes scathingly described.
  • Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure (London: Penguin, 1995), 118.
  • ‘Ruined City Churches’ calls for ‘a memorial to the thousands of Londoners who died in the Blitz for whom those walls of calcined stone were once not monuments, but tombs’.
  • Dylan Thomas, ‘A Refusal to Mourn the Death by Fire of a Child in London’,

Deaths and Entrances (London: J. M. Dent, 1946), 8.

  • Jennifer Wallace, ‘Tragedy grapples with gap between human meaningfulness and despair’, Times Higher Education Supplement, 6 September 2002, p. 16. Later expanded as ‘“We Can’t Make More Dirt …”: Tragedy and the Excavated Body’, Cambridge Quarterly 32:2 (2003), 103–11.
  • Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 220.
  • ‘I.M.S.’, ‘On Worthy Master Shakespeare and his Poems’ (1632), in William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, ed. Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), xli.
  • Eliot, ‘East Coker’, Collected Poems, 196.
  • Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited (London: Penguin, 1945), 203.
  • Martin F. Chaplin, ‘The Memory of Water: An Overview’, Homeopathy 96:3 (July 2007), 143.
  • Martin F. Chaplin, ‘The Memory of Water’, 144. See also my ‘“Dressing Old Words New”: Shakespeare, Science, and Appropriation’, Borrowers and Lenders: The Journal of Shakespeare and Appropriation 1:2 (Fall/Winter, 2006).
  • For the difficult relationship between place and the sacred see my ‘Rome, Multiversal City: The Material and the Immaterial in Religious Tourism’, Cross Currents 59:3 (Autumn 2009) (New York: Wiley Blackwell), 342–48; and ‘“The undiscovered country”: Philip Pullman and the “Land of the Dead”’, Literature and Theology 21:3 (September 2007), 276–92.
  • ‘History is a pattern / Of timeless moments’. See ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 222.
  • Walker, John Heminge and Henry Condell, 4.
  • The Times, 15 August 1944.
  • Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 221.
  • Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 221.
  • Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 223.
  • Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 215.
  • Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’, Collected Poems, 215.

Anne Askew


Truth is laid in prison. The law is turned to wormwood. And there can no right judgment go forth.

                                                                                – Anne Askew

Newgate Prison, 2 July 1554

My God, my God, look upon me; why hast thou forsaken me: and art so far from my health, and from the words of my complaint? (Ps. 22)

The words of the Psalmist are a great comfort to me, knowing that my own dear Saviour himself spoke them from the Cross. No sorrow was like unto his sorrow, no pain so great as the pain he endured. What then that I, a poor weak woman, should suffer a little hurt in the few days before my death? For I hope by His grace very soon, at Smithfield, to wear the intolerable shroud of flame, and my soul like the smoke of sacrifice rise up to God.

This writing I do now, which has always been such a pleasure to me, I can scarcely perform, injured as I am from the tortures of the rack.

I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. (Ps. 22)

On Tuesday last I was sent from Newgate to the Tower, where Master Rich with Lord Chancellor Wriothsley charged me upon my obedience to reveal the names of any of my sect at court. My answer was, that I knew none. He asked me of many ladies, such as my Lady of Suffolk, my Lady of Sussex, my Lady of Hertford, my Lady Denny, and my Lady Fitzwilliam. I told him that even if I were to pronounce anything against any of them, he would be able to prove nothing.

Though my words were bold, I was sorely afraid.

My heart also in the midst of my body is even like melting wax. (Ps. 22)

For I knew that they had already condemned me as a heretic, from my opinion on the Eucharist alone, and that only God’s mercy or the king’s could save me from the flames. I had told them that after the priest has spoken the words of consecration, the bread remains but bread, though the same is a most necessary remembrance of his glorious sufferings and death. They say, and teach as a necessary article of faith, that after those words be once spoken, there remains no bread, but even the self-same body that hung upon the cross on Good Friday, both flesh, blood, and bone. To this belief of theirs say I, nay. Christ sits at the hand of the Father Almighty; he is not baked into a common loaf. Lo, this is the heresy that I hold, and for it must suffer the death.


The Tower of London, 29 June 1545

As I was already condemned, they needed no further confession from me, and no need to put me to the pain. So it was clear that their intention to torture was for the purpose of gaining information, not for the purpose of proving guilt. I knew they would stint nothing in applying their punishments, since they were merely breaking a body soon to be burned; and I knew that since I should tell them nothing, the suffering they would visit on me would be most severe.

They told me that the king knew of a great number of my sect in his own court. I replied that in this he was deceived, as in many other matters. Meaning by their dissemblance and untruth. They demanded to know how I had been supported while in the Counter prison, if certain gentlewomen had sent me money. I said there was no creature that therein did strengthen me.

All they that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out their lips, and shake their heads, saying, He trusted in God, that he would deliver him: let him deliver him, if he will have him. (Ps. 22)

 And so because I confessed no ladies or gentlewomen to be of my opinion, then they did put me on the rack.


Newgate Prison, 2 July 1545

You will think it strange, gentle reader of the future, that such cruelty should be used by men of authority on the tender body of a woman, for no reason other than her holding fast to a true and honest opinion. It is my hope that sufferings such as mine may move the consciences of some of those in power, and that the spirit of God my Saviour will prompt them to bring the people of England back to true religion. I have seen that spirit at work, even in some of those who have been set on to torment me: such as the jailor who tried to guard my modesty, even on the rack; or the brave Lieutenant of the Tower, who put himself in danger by refusing to torture me further. For nothing I have ever preached, or said, or confessed to my accusers, is in any way contrary to the truths of scripture. Nor have I ever broken any laws, knowing better than my accusers the laws of God as laid down in that same holy gospel.

I cherish the hope, that after my death, these my beliefs will become in the future as familiar and uncontested, as today they are held heretical and unlawful. Let me here rehearse some of the interrogations to which I was subjected before my ordeal in the Tower, so that you may see the common sense of my opinions, and the absurdities of those set upon to question me.

My first examination took place at Saddler’s Hall in Cheapside. I was asked by the Lord Mayor whether the sacrament of the altar was indeed the very body of Christ? In return I asked my interrogator why St Stephen was put to death, and he said he knew not. He asked me if I believed that God did not dwell in temples made of hands? I cited to him chapters 7 and 17 of the Acts of the Apostles. He said it was reported of me that I had said, I had rather read five lines of the Bible than hear five masses in the church. I confessed that I said no less, and offered to defend this opinion from the text of holy scripture. If my lord knew the scripture as well as the Mass, I told him, he would better be able to debate theology with me.

Then he asked me a question designed to trap me: whether a mouse, eating the host, received God or no? I made him no answer, but smiled. For if I said no, they would take that as proof that I disbelieved in the sacrament of the Eucharist. If I said yes, I would be speaking folly, that a mouse can receive Christ.

Then the bishop’s chancellor rebuked me, and said that I was much to blame for preaching on the Scriptures. For St. Paul, he said, forbade women to speak or to talk of the word of God. I answered him that I knew Paul’s meaning as well as he, which is, in 1 Corinthians xiv., that a woman ought not to speak in the congregation by the way of teaching: and then I asked him how many women he had seen go into the pulpit and preach? He said he never saw any. Then I said, he ought to find no fault in poor women, unless they had offended the law, which for my own part I never had.

All they were able to allege against me, is that I often read the Bible in the minster at Lincoln. Some had told me beforehand that the priests would harass and assault me if they found me reading, so when I heard that, I went swiftly there, not being afraid, because I knew my matter to be good. Moreover I remained there nine days, to see what would be said unto me. And as I was in the minster, reading upon the Bible, they approached me, two by two, and stared at me, but said nothing, and went their ways again without words speaking. Not one of those priests had the knowledge to challenge my understanding, or the courage to forbid me to read the word of the Lord.

In several examinations, at Saddler’s Hall, the Guildhall, in St Paul’s Church, great lords of the realm, bishops, priests and doctors again and again questioned me, and sought to compel me to acknowledge the bread of the sacrament to be the body of Christ, flesh, blood and bone. This doctrine was both the king’s will, they said, written in his own work called the King’s Book, and the law, as enacted by Parliament in the Six Articles some five years past. If I did not believe in this transubstantiation, then I was a heretic, damned by the church, and condemned by the law to death at the stake.

Now it was my earnest desire that they should fully understand my opinion on this doctrine, and so I took trouble to explain it to them. Christ said unto his apostles, I reminded them, ‘Take, eat, this is my body which is given for you’. He gave them bread as a visible sign or token to receive his body, which would be crucified for them, and to understand his death to be the only health and salvation of their souls. The bread and the wine were left us for a sacramental communion, or a mutual participation of the inestimable benefits of his most precious death and blood-shedding, and that we should, in the end thereof, be thankful together for that most necessary grace of our redemption. And I referred them to the scriptures where St. Paul says, ‘The letter slayeth, the Spirit giveth life’; and to the sixth chapter of John, where all is applied unto faith; and to the fourth chapter of St. Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians, which says that things which are seen are temporal, but they that are not seen are everlasting.

Is the consecrated bread the body of Christ? They repeated their question. ‘My belief is’, I said, ‘that the sacramental bread was left us to be received with thanksgiving, in remembrance of Christ’s death, the only remedy of our soul’s recovery; and that thereby we also receive the whole benefits and fruits of his most glorious passion’. But still they urged, is the bread in the box, God, or no?  I said, ‘God is a Spirit, and will be worshipped in spirit and truth.’ Then they demanded, ‘Will you plainly deny Christ to be in the sacrament?’ I answered, that I believe faithfully the eternal Son of God not to dwell there; in witness whereof I recited again the history of Bel, Daniel xix., Acts vii. and xvii., and Matt. xxiv.

Still they persisted, becoming more and more angry, ignoring my arguments, and demanded to know, if I would deny the sacrament to be Christ’s body and blood? I said, ‘Yes, I deny it. For the Son of God, that was born of the Virgin Mary, is now glorious in heaven, and will come again from thence at the latter day, to judge both the quick and the dead. And as for that ye call your God, it is a piece of bread. Let it but lie in the box three months, and it will be mouldy, and so turn to nothing that is good. Whereupon I am persuaded that it cannot be God’.

At last they were satisfied. They had their answer. And so I was condemned.

Will you have a priest, they asked, thinking that facing death I would wish to confess. I smiled. Why do you smile, they said? Is it not good to confess?  I said, I would confess my faults unto God, for I was sure that he would hear with favour. They shook their heads, and laughed me to scorn.

‘I neither wish death’ I said in conclusion, ‘nor yet fear his might. God have the praise thereof’.


Newgate Prison, 10 July 1545

After my condemnation I was sent again to Newgate for present execution at Smithfield. But first they had me to the Tower to be laid on the rack, in the hope that I would betray my fellow Protestants by informing on them. Since I was now a condemned heretic, any connection or correspondence they could discover between myself and others could be used to condemn them to the same fate. In the event they showed no interest in the common people I knew to be engaged in the Lord’s work of Reformation, and I was scarcely acquainted with any great ladies at court. Rumours had reached me that my lady Queen Catherine herself was secretly of our number, that she had the tutelage of the young prince Edward, and that once he succeeded his father he would complete the great work of Reform. But I knew no more of this than every man or woman with eyes to see, and ears to hear. God is at work in the world, and he is preparing the way for his faithful children. I am only sorry that like Moses, I will not live to see the Promised Land. So in refusing to provide them with the damning evidence they sought, and testifying to the truth of the Gospel, I was only speaking the truth, though the truth has condemned me to the fire.

After my racking I was returned to the prison, and laid in a bed, with as weary and painful bones as ever had patient Job.

My strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaveth to my gums: and thou shalt bring me into the dust of death. (Ps. 22)

And here in great pain and anguish I have written this confession, and this prayer.

O Lord! I have more enemies now, than there be hairs on my head. With all the spite they can imagine, they fall upon me, who am thy poor creature. Yet, sweet Lord, I heartily desire of thee that thou wilt of thy most merciful goodness forgive them that violence which they do, and have done, unto me. Open also thou their blind hearts, that they may hereafter do that thing in thy sight, which is only acceptable before thee, and to set forth thy verity aright, without all vain fantasies of sinful men. So be it, O Lord, so be it!

                                                                      – By me, ANNE ASKEW.


Newgate Prison, 16 July 1545

This day is the day appointed for my execution, so presently this narrative will, perhaps abruptly, cease. Be of good comfort, gentle reader: for know that once my presence has departed this page, I will be looking upon the face of God. My Lord said, on the Cross, to the penitent thief, this day you will be with me in Paradise. I too, like him, have been so tormented, that I cannot live long in such great distress. And so I yearn for death, and the release from suffering it brings. For He shall wipe away every tear from my eyes.

I have looked upon the scene of my death, and found strange comfort in the sight. Since I cannot stand or walk, I begged my friend the jailor to lift me up to the window so I could behold the place of execution. He urged me not to do so, saying it was better not to dwell on bodily things, but to think only of heaven. I assured him that it would be of comfort for me to see the shape of the future, and I should fear it less. And so he lifted me in my chair, so I could gaze down at Smithfield.

There in the centre of the market-place stood the stake, surrounded by a great pile of faggots and straw. Heaps of fuel lay nearby, ready to cast onto the flames should they be needed. Men were busy at work constructing a dais under the wall of the hospital, which provided a covered platform for the nobles, churchmen and court officials to sit and watch the spectacle of my burning. I knew that Wriothsley the Lord Chancellor would be there, and the Dukes of Norfolk and Bedford, the Lord Mayor of London, sundry bishops and priests and lawyers. All eager to see the immolation of this woman whose mouth they could not shut, this ‘fair Gospeller’ who would speak out of turn, and shame men by showing she knew more than they; whose beauty thy both desired and hated, and whose voice they could neither ignore, nor harness to their own will. Well, they have marred my fairness, and soon my voice will be stilled for ever.

Facing the stake in the marketplace was a pulpit, from which a priest will deliver a sermon before I am put to the fire. I believe it will be Dr Nicholas Shaxton, that great Judas who professed our reformed faith, and then recanted to save his skin. I told him it were better he had never been born. If I am able, I will answer his discourse, and correct his learning, a still small voice speaking out of the whirlwind of flame. 

I must needs be carried to the stake in a chair, since I cannot go on my feet, by means of my great torments. They will tie me to the stake with a chain about my middle, to hold up my body. Other Protestants who have seen their friends go to the stake tell me that the common practice is to lay gunpowder about the body of the condemned, to shorten the suffering. In my case, I can tell, there will be no such relief. Those bold and honourable men, my accusers, would not sit so close to the site of an explosion. Because of my intransigence, because I would not submit to their will, say what they want me to say, tell them what they wanted to hear, they have resolved to prolong my torment, and deliver me here to a slow and agonising death.

Perhaps they will offer me a reprieve, the king’s pardon, if I will recant. But even in the face of such terror, I must say to them that I have not come here to deny my Lord and Master. The priest will finish his sermon, and commend my soul to the mercy of God. The lord mayor will command that fire be put to me, and cry with a loud voice, fiat justitia.

And so I, Anne Askew, having passed through so many torments, will there end the long course of my agonies, being compassed in with flames of fire, as a blessed sacrifice unto God. And so at last I will sleep in the Lord.


It is time. They are come. I must go. Pray for me, gentle reader. Pray for my soul.

(From Graham Holderness, Meat, Murder, Malfeasance, Medicine and Maryrdom: Smithfield Stories [EER, 2019])

Samurai Shakespeare

Early modern tragedy in feudal Japan

​Graham Holderness

ISBN 9781913087197  Hardback    £75.00    Order
ISBN 9781913087180  eBook          £42.50    Order
229mm x  152mm c. 172 pp.

12 illustrations.

​About this book​

This highly original new book by a leading Shakespeare expert and cultural critic is a book of convergences.

First, the collision between Japan and Shakespeare, who was imported by the Meiji Empire in the 1880s, along with western technology and culture, as a contemporary dramatist.

Second, the later historicist juxtaposition of Shakespeare’s plays with the 600-year long samurai era, as engineered by Japanese cinema and theatre directors such as Akira Kurosawa and Yukio Ninagawa, whose major productions of Shakespeare’s tragedies form the focus of this study.

And third, the encounter between these masterpieces of Japanese Shakespeare adaptation and the author’s own idiosyncratic perspective on the world of the samurai, shaped over a lifetime of diverse cultural influences.

Here the focus is much broader and more eclectic: 1950s war films, CND anti-nuclear propaganda, Ian Fleming’s You Only Live Twice, Edward Zwick’s film The Last Samurai. Nothing is off limits in this personal testimony, as the author writes frankly about his wife’s Buddhism, his collection of samurai swords, his problems with alcohol, his wanderings in Kew Gardens, his experience of Coronavirus lockdown.

This frank revelation of how a specific hermeneutic perspective is formed throws light on Japanese Shakespeare, on the nature of critical interpretation, and on the role of imagination in our reception of literature and drama.

Introduction: One Man’s Japan

  • The Samurai
  • Narrow Road to the Deep North
  • You Only Live Twice
  • The Last Samurai
  • Tales from Shakespeare
  • Shakespeare into Japan
  • Samurai Shakespeare

Chapter One: Hamlet

  • Hamlet in Japan
  • Hamlet and the 47 Ronin
  • 47 Ronin
  • Yukio Ninagawa’s Hamlets
  • Hamlet and Revenge
  • Samurai Hamlet: Castle of Flames
  • Conclusion

Chapter Two: Macbeth

  • Samurai Macbeth: Throne of Blood
  • Macbeth and History
  • NINAGAWA Macbeth
  • Conclusion

​Chapter Three: King Lear

  • King Lear
  • Samurai King Lear: Ran
  • Conclusion

Afterword: Door in the Wall

  • The Door in the Wall
  • Floating World
  • Swords
  • ‘Sato’s Sword’
  • Fragments
  • Conclusion

About the author

Graham Holderness is a writer and critic who has published, as author or editor, more than sixty books, many on Shakespeare, and hundreds of chapters and articles of criticism, theory and theology. His more recent work has pioneered methods of critical-creative writing, exemplified by Nine Lives of William Shakespeare (Bloomsbury/Arden Shakespeare, 2011); Tales from Shakespeare: Creative Collisions (Cambridge University Press, 2014); and Re-writing Jesus: Christ in 20th Century Fiction and Film (Bloomsbury, 2014). He has published several works of fiction: The Prince of Denmark (University of Hertfordshire Press, 2001; EER, 2021); Ecce Homo (Bloomsbury, 2014); Black and Deep Desires: William Shakespeare Vampire Hunter (Top Hat Books, 2014); andMeat, Murder, Malfeasance, Medicine and Martyrdom: Smithfield Stories (EER, 2019). His new novel Ancestors: Adventures in a Foreign Country will be published by Edward Everett Root in 2022.


“A valuable addition to the scholarly literature on Shakespeare in Japan, full of fresh insights.“ – Kaori Ashizu, Otani University, Kyoto

“This is a deeply personal book by one of the most prolific Shakespearean scholars within the English speaking world on his love of Shakespeare and Japan. The book is an unprecedented essay on both Shakespearean tragedy and Japanese Samurai culture, amalgamated in personal and professional, historical and contemporary, literary and political terms”.  – Ted Motohashi, Tokyo University of Economics 

SAMURAI SHAKESPEARE: Early Modern Tragedy in Feudal Japan

Graham Holderness


Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

The Samurai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Narrow Road to the Deep North . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

You Only Live Twice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

The Last Samurai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Tales from Shakespeare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Shakespeare into Japan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Samurai Shakespeare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Chapter One: Hamlet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Hamlet in Japan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Hamlet and the 47 Ronin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

47 Ronin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

Yukio Ninagawa’s Hamlets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Hamlet and Revenge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

Samurai Hamlet: Castle of Flames . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72

Chapter Two: Macbeth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

Samurai Macbeth: Throne of Blood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

Macbeth and History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97

NINAGAWA Macbeth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103

Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

Chapter Three: King Lear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

Samurai King Lear: Ran . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

King Lear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148

Afterword: Door in the Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

The Door in the Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154

Floating World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

Swords . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158

‘Sato’s Sword’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160

Fragments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162

Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163



‘Almost any liar writes more convincingly than the man who was there’.

– Ernest Hemingway, Across the River and Into the Trees

Think of this book as the work of an amateur. In its pejorative sense of course the term means unqualified, less than professional, only partially equipped for the task in hand. No-one would, I hope, dispute my qualification for writing another book about Shakespeare. But Japan? I have never visited the country. I do not speak or read Japanese. My knowledge of the history, the society, the culture is virtual: derived entirely from books, photographs, films, pictures, maps, art-objects, music, dance, drama, acquaintance with expatriate Japanese people. But it is the work of an amateur in the literal and best sense: a lover, a devotee, an enthusiast. It is the product of a long and varied love-affair with a distant, still in many ways remote, complex, difficult and intimidating culture.

Shakespeare too wrote about many countries, peoples, histories, on the basis of available contemporary knowledge, from the insularity of his island home. When he wrote of France, Spain, Italy, Greece, even perhaps the New World, he drew his knowledge from books, art-objects, maps, music, dance, expatriate people. For him it was enough. When some years ago I wrote about Shakespeare and Venice (Holderness 2010), it was from what I felt was, sociologically and culturally, a superior position: he never went there, where I had visited many times, spent much time there, had some access to the language, and had at my disposal a much longer and wider history of the city. Setting aside Shakespeare’s awe-inspiring, intuitive, disabling and demoralising genius, I convinced myself I had an advantage.

But in the end, the Venice that I found myself compelled to write about was not, after all, the Venice you can reach by EasyJet, or the A57, or the night-train from Cannes; not the Venice of the romantic weekend, the academic conference, the guided tour; but the Venice of Shakespeare’s imagination – something that only exists on paper, on the stage, on the screen, in books, and films, and voices, and bodies. The Japan that appears in the following pages is equally an imaginative construct, a figment of my own imagination, a fantasy if you prefer, derived from texts and images, dispossessed objects and diasporic people. It is an ukiyo, a virtual, ‘floating’ world (see Michener 1989).

Like most academics of my generation, before starting work as a lecturer I had no professional training, beyond a literary education and instruction in scholarly methods. As I had fallen under the spell of the formidable F.R. Leavis, even the latter seemed scarcely necessary. Nor was there anything like in-service training for university teachers. In order to assess my pedagogic abilities my Head of Department sat in on my first lecture. His only feedback was to advise me to read quotations more slowly. This was sound advice I have always followed, but hardly amounted to teacher-training. In another context he did, on the other hand, impart an exhortation that stuck with me – though at the time I regarded it with derision and not a little scorn – and that was that, in the end, all a teacher of literature can do is ‘communicate enthusiasm’. Looking back over a long career, with its inevitable mixture of failure and success, I find myself inclined to agree with him. As the title suggests, this book is about two discrete objects of enthusiasm which at some point became, in my mind, inseparably twinned: the samurai of Japan, and Shakespeare. To ‘communicate enthusiasm’  for examples of their convergence in 20th century film and stage productions is the principal objective of this book.

Of course no-one, at least until the invention of time-travel, can access the Japan of the samurai, the warrior caste who dominated the history, politics and culture of the country for at least six centuries. Not only is that world a thing of the very remote past, as far back as Angevin England: in one sense it always was, since the literary, historical and visual sources from which its history is derived tend, much like Shakespeare’s history plays, to be already retrospective, nostalgic celebrations of an already vanished world. My subject area is in any case much more limited, since it concerns literary, cinematic and theatrical convergences between the samurai and Shakespeare, who was unknown in Japan before the late 19th century. Much of the material in this book is selectively addressed to the work of two great Japanese directors, one in theatre and the other in film – Akira Kurosawa and Yukio Ninagawa – since my interest here is only in cinematic and theatrical adaptations that situate Shakespeare’s plays within the samurai era of Japanese history. Even within that restricted compass the book is highly selective, focusing only on three of Shakespeare’s great tragedies, Hamlet, Macbeth and King Lear. The book is nothing like an exhaustive study, or a comprehensive introduction to any of the areas and topics touched upon. I have addressed only those texts that most conveniently conform to my interests, and ignored everything else. I have used scholarship and criticism in a similarly predatory way, insofar as they serves my purposes, leaning heavily on a few writers who seem to me to have contributed most usefully to this field.

Perhaps the best way of characterising this book is to describe it as an essay: opinionated, idiosyncratic, individual, opportunistic. I have made little use of theoretical paradigms, or of specialised, technical methodologies, especially those that tend to be prevalent in film criticism. The predominant ‘intertextual’ method deployed, which I have practised extensively elsewhere, is derived from adaptation studies, though here used in a naïve and unsophisticated way. Each film or theatrical production is a of course a version of a Shakespearean text, but I have also taken account where possible of intervening texts such as screenplays that mediate between source and final composition. The critical methods deployed are relatively informal, impressionistic, reminiscent of the now antiquarian ‘practical criticism’ in which I was trained over half a century ago.  Each chapter includes a substantial essay on the Shakespeare tragedy under consideration, focusing on one theme relevant to the examples discussed: revenge in Hamlet, history in Macbeth; religion in King Lear.

The following Introduction sets out to tell the story of one man’s relationship with Japan, of the twisted and seemingly random circumstances that lie behind the writing of this book. But in order to clarify the field of exploration, it is first necessary to sketch a brief history of the samurai.

The Samurai

The history of the samurai is the history of Japan, at least from the 13th century up to 1868, and this section makes no pretensions toward comprehensiveness, but is rather a highly selective sketch of the main outlines of Japanese history during that period, concentrating on particularities only of relevance to the dramatic and cinematic works discussed below.

The samurai were of course the warrior caste of mediaeval Japan, a class of mounted soldiers initially serving the Emperor, which subsequently rose to power as retainers of feudal lords (the ‘daimyo’), as well as the military guard of the imperial court, and eventually established an entirely new political order that dominated Japan from 1603 to 1867. They began as tribal warriors, in the background during the zenith of imperial power in the Nara period (650-793), and then grew to dominate the state the emperors had shaped and formed. Eventually their military function merged with the requirements of the body politic. (see Friday 1992). Groups and individuals recognisable as samurai first emerge around the 8th century, as mounted archers whose military skills were harnessed to wage war on behalf of the emperor or a great landowner

The word ‘samurai’ starts to be used between the 9th and 11th centuries, meaning ‘those who serve’. The samurai are then prominent across six centuries of war, followed by three centuries of peace in which their military function gives way to the role of administrator and peacekeeper. This latter period, 1603-1868, when the state was rukled by, but no longer needed, belligerent clan warriors, is where the romantic image of the samurai, and the samurai code of ‘bushido’, a way of life based around values of physical courage, moral integrity, mental fortitude and unimpeachable loyalty, are fully developed. Here samurai history was recorded and performed in literature, theatre and the fine arts: in the stylised Noh drama, the more popular kabuki theatre, and in woodblock prints.

Groups and individuals recognisable as samurai first emerge around the 8th century, as mounted archers whose military skills were harnessed to wage war. The earliest written source, the historical chronicle Konjaku Monagatori (‘Anthology of Tales from the Past’), compiled in the late 11th or early 12th century, already describes the conduct of highly ritualized warfare between groups motivated by values of honour, loyalty and the demonstration of martial skill, particularly in archery.

During the Heian period (794–1185) Japan was ruled by a succession of emperors in a polity modelled on the Chinese state. National politics were dominated by the powerful Fujiwara clan, who maintained influence by imperial intermarriage and by monopolising positions of authority.  As the samurai class rose in power through the 11th century the Fujiwara gradually lost control, to be replaced by the Taira clan who following the Gempei war (1180-5) dominated the early part of the Kamakura period (1185-1333), but eventually lost power to the rival Minamoto clan. Minamoto no Yoritomo established the Kamakura shogunate in 1195, thus placing the samurai at the apex of power, a system that was to last for 800 years. (see Piggott 1997). The shogun was a military dictator, nominally appointed by the emperor and ruling on his behalf, but in practice acting as de facto ruler of the country from his power base in Kamakura, while the emperor presided from the capital Kyoto. The samurai had taken control of Japan, and formally established the samurai feudal system in which the daimyo, the landowners, were subject to the shogun.

Yoritomo remained resolutely in Kamakura where he found himself in possession of a unique organisation that was capable of assuming all the functions of government. This organisation was the samurai feudal system which clans like the Minamoto had used for many years. Yoritomo was to apply it to the whole nation. His most decisive step was to have himself proclaimed shogun in 1192. The shogun commission to go forth and make war on the emperor’s enemies before always had been a temporary one, but the commission that Yoritomo received in 1192 was to be finally handed back to the Japanese emperor in 1868 … the samurai had triumphed. (Turnbull 1982, 36).

The primary literary source for the Kamukura period is The Tale of the Heike, which chronicles the rise and fall of the Taira clan. This epic poem is a long moralizing Buddhist parable, in which the Taira are seen as doomed because of their evil deeds. Their leader Taira no Kiyomori is depicted as a villain, not unlike Shakespeare’s Macbeth, haunted by his own karma. A famous mid-19th century woodcut by Ando Hiroshige, ‘The Spectral Vision of Kaira no Kiyomori’, shows the warlord, clasping his sword, seeing the skulls of those he has killed emerging from the heaped snowdrifts of his garden. The Tale of the Heike begins:

The arrogant do not long endure:

They are like a dream one night in spring.

The bold and the brave perish in the end:

They are as dust before the wind. (Tyler 2014, 3)

– and ends with a petition to Amitaba Buddha, deity of the ‘Pure Land’ (see Chapter Three below for a discussion of Pure Land Buddhism). At the same time the eclipse of the Taira is mourned, in a nostalgic lament for the extinguishing of a heroic way of life. This mixture of moralistic critique and nostalgic commemoration is typical of samurai literature, and feeds into the modern examples discussed below. (see Farris 1995).

The Kamakura period saw a balance of power between emperor and samurai. Kyoto remained the cultural centre of the nation, the seat of the emperor and the nobility while Kamakura, the base of the shogun, formed the apex of the feudal hierarchy in the samurai homelands. Here over time an alternative culture also emerged. Kamakura saw the emergence of a new religious centre, as the Minamoto established the worship of their clan war-god Hachiman, a Shinto god of war, at the shrine of Surugaoka, which became a centre of religious pilgrimage (see below, Chapter Three for a discussion of Hachiman). When Kublai Khan’s Mongols launched their second invasion of Japan in 1281, the samurai, ‘the sons of Hachiman’ took to the battlefield, while in Kyoto an imperial envoy was sent to the Great Shrine of Ise in Kyoto to petition the Sun Goddess to destroy the enemy. Their joint efforts clearly worked, when a violent tornado destroyed the Mongol fleet. The victorious samurai named the storm the kami-kaze or ‘divine wind’, a term that came to haunt later Japanese history.

During the 13th century the samurai came under the influence of Zen Buddhism, the meditative sect that encouraged personal enlightenment and rejected the scholasticism of Buddhist monastic sects. Rigorous military training merged with strict spiritual discipline, producing an enlightenment that would enable the samurai to be in the world but apart from it, free from attachment and anxiety, ready to risk everything in combat, prepared even for death. Unlike previous more monastic and contemplative sects. The Buddhist tendencies that emerged during the Kamakura and Ashikaga periods preached the certainty of salvation and its potential availability to all (Kitagawa 1966, 111). Pure Land, Nichiren and Zen Buddhism placed a pragmatic and practical emphasis on this world rather than the next. ‘Zen Buddhism so identifies the transcendent with the immanent, the “other shore” with “this shore”, that there is no reason for people to raise their vision above the level of this empirical world’ (McMullan 1984, 280-1). The Zen disciple, writes Dumoulin, ‘does not seek the absolute outside himself … he finds in himself the Buddha-nature as the foundation of his own being’ (Dumoulin 1963, 167). Enlightenment is to be found by penetrating the delusions that mask the truly impermanent nature of corporal reality and the material world. ‘To Zen the enlightened mind is the truly natural mind, the mind allows to be itself apart from all delusion and desire. It is awakened in meditation but is ultimately demonstrated in all arenas of life: work, caring for others, artistic creativity’ (Ellwood and Pilgrim 1985, 119). Dumoulin speaks of enlightenment as a state of ‘motionless rest, where no wind blows, the fire is quenched, the light is extinguished, the stars have set, and the saint has died’, and admits that such words and images suggest annihilation. (Dumoulin 1963, 14). In fact, this state of liberation from suffering and the cycle of rebirths ‘furnishes the basis for a supreme wisdom and a commitment to the world’ (Dumoulin 1963, 25). This insight is exemplified in Musashi: ‘When your spirit is not in the least clouded, when the clouds of bewilderment clear away, there is the true void … Know well this spirit, act with forthrightness as the foundation and the true spirit of the Way’. (Musashi 1987, 95). While other Pure Land Buddhism and the Nichiren school were more widely adopted in Japan, Zen provided the samurai with exactly the religion they needed for their occupation. (See below Chapter Two for further discussion of Zen).

The next period (1338-1573) is known alternately as the Ashikaga period, from the name of the ruling clan (a branch of the Minamoto) which suppressed an attempted coup by the emperor and captured Kyoto, or the Muromachi period after the district of Kyoto from which the Ashikaga ruled. In a series of wars, the struggle for power between the samurai and forces loyal to the emperor Go-Daigo concluded in uncontested samurai supremacy. It was at this time that an increase in hand to hand fighting in wooded country saw the emergence of the sword, rather than the bow, as the premier samurai weapon, the long no-dachi (tachi) replacing the long-bladed naginata. Gradually the sword became the defining samurai weapon both functionally and symbolically, eventually becoming a badge of rank when only the samurai were permitted to wear two swords, the longer blade katana, and the shorter wakizashi. The third category of blade, the short tanto, was in much more common use, though employed ceremonially in the practice of ritual suicide or seppuku (commonly known by the crude term hara-kiri, ‘belly-cutting’), which is recorded from as far back as the 12th century as a means for a defeated samurai to avoid shame and dishonour. The Tale of the Heike describes for example the suicide of Yorimasa Minamoto, who on his defeat by the Taira composed a farewell poem, written on the back of a fan, then cut two long slits in his abdomen, the most painful form of death imaginable.

This period witnessed a cultural revival: it saw the building of the Golden Pavilion in 1397, the elevation of the tea ceremony from a small gathering of friends to an art form of the utmost elegance; the development of suiboku ink-painting; the establishment of the famous Daisen-in Zen garden in 1473. The classical Noh drama theatre also developed in this time, much patronized by samurai. Noh took its subjects from samurai legend, in particular the heroes of the Gempei War. Noh enacted stories of heroic battles and tragic deaths, hauntings by ghosts, uplifting tales of self-sacrificing retainers. All these art-forms show the influence of Zen Buddhism.

From 1490 we now enter the Sengoku, the ‘Age of the Country at War’ which overlaps with the Muromachi period, provides the setting for most of the examples discussed in this book, lasted for over a hundred years, and ended in the unification of Japan under Tokugawa Ieyasu. (See Turnbull 1997). The daimyo had become powerful local leaders, constantly jockeying for position and power, and both the emperor and the shogun proved powerless to control this chaos of social upheavals. 

Japan entered one of its periodic purges of noble houses: once-great names sank with the declining fortunes of their families, and entire clans were wiped out. The emperor, of course was powerless to intervene and the shogun unable to fulfil the conditions of his title. The country would not stabilize again until a single individual could gather together all the fragmented clans of domains and unite them all, thereby allowing for the proclamation of a new shogunate. The rise of such an individual would take a century, as the small clans fought and merged to from bigger clan, until eventually all Japan was split into only a handful of rival factions, fighting to determine who was the ruler. (Clements 2010, 169).

During the Sengoku period the nature of samurai warfare changed with the widespread adoption of firearms. The first guns, the matchlock arquebus, were acquired from trade with the Portuguese in the 1540s on the island of Tanegashima. Despite resistance from more conservative samurai, who thought them a passing fad and inferior to the bow, they were soon adopted by samurai armies. The Japanese were not unfamiliar with gunpowder, but the deployment of a portable arquebus was an innovation. The weapons were named tanegashima after the site of their initial ‘discovery’. In warfare the centrality of the skilled bowman or swordsman inevitably declined in favour of large numbers of infantry armed with muskets. One of the warlords involved in the civil strife of the 16th century, Takeda Shingen, acquired large supplies of the arqebus, and in 1575 declared the musket ‘the most important weapon’ for the samurai:

Hereafter, guns will be the most important weapons. Therefore, decrease the number of spears, and have the most capable men carry guns. Furthermore, when you assemble your soldiers, test their marksmanship and order that a selection of gunners be in accordance with the results. (Quoted Clements 2010, 172).

Armour was developed and tested in this period to withstand the impact of a musket ball. Ironically Shingen fell victim to a sniper and was killed, an incident dramatized by Kurosawa in Kagemusha. Kurosawa often used the sudden startling death of a shot samurai to dramatic effect, for example in The Seven Samurai, and not least in Ran, where sieges and pitched battles often involve massed volleys of musket fire, and where the young hero, the Cordelia figure, is killed by a sniper.

Shingen was one of the great daimyo whose military adventures helped to bring about a unified Japan. Shingen’s life is a classic story of the Sengoku period: an accomplished poet in his youth, he rebelled against his father to take control of his clan. In a battle with his rival Uesugi Kenshin, Shinghen is reputed to have engaged his rival defending himself only with a fan. He entered into an alliance with Oda Nobunaga, who later joined with Tokugawa Ieyasu to fight against Shingen. Encouraged by the Ashikaga shogun, Shingen took Kyoto and brought the Muromachi period to an end. The next period is known as the Azuchi-Momoyama period (1574-1600) named after the castles of Nobunaga and his successor Hideyoshi, who dominated Japanese politics from 1568 to 1603. Hideyoshi took the reins of power not as shogun, but as imperial regent (kampaku) with power donated from the emperor, becoming ‘military master of all Japan’ (Clements 2010, 180).

Tokugawa Ieyasu, the third of Japan’s ‘Great Unifiers’ along with Nobunaga and Hideyoshi, defeated all rivals at the Battle of Sekighara in 1600, and became supreme military ruler of all Japan. He consolidated the feudal system by distributing land to his supporters; enemy leaders were executed or forced to commit suicide; the populace was disarmed; and he died in 1616, the same year as Shakespeare, having established a political order that lasted until the Meiji Restoration of 1868.  The samurai became hegemonic by removing the primary reason for their existence, as warriors required to defend the emperor, the daimyo or the nation.

During the long Tokugawa shogunate Japan remained relatively, though never completely, closed to the outside world, and it was here that the romantic culture of the samurai legend was fully developed. The great classics of Bushido, the samurai warrior code, were composed in this period: Minamoto Musashi’s The Book of Five Rings (Musashi 1974), written around 1643; and Yamamoto Tsunetomo’s Hagakure, written in the 18th century. The perception that the great age of the samurai had long since vanished before their power was finally assured permeates the era. When the poet Basho on his journey to the north came across the ruins of Takadachi Fort, where Yoshitsune, half-brother to Yoritomo, and his Minamoto followers had made their last stand in 1189, he was moved to write an elegy for a longed-for, impossibly vanished past:

The summer grasses

As if the warriors were a dream.

(Basho quoted Clements 2010, 253).

This romantic mood of melancholy, nostalgic contemplation, which characterises much of the modern samurai fiction discussed below, can here be found eloquently articulated as far back as the 17th century. Nonetheless the samurai government of the Tokugawas remained in place until his mid-19th century, when a new Japan, stimulated by internal discontents and external opportunities, brought together an alliance of samurai powerful enough to overthrow the shogunate and restore the empire. The Emperor left Kyoto and moved to Edo, now renamed ‘Tokyo’. The old feudal dominions were abolished, their lords re-titled along the lines of European nobility. By 1873 the Meiji government had established a new army, so the samurai warrior elite were no longer needed. The distinctive dress of the samurai began to disappear and was eventually outlawed, along with the top-knot and their right to bear two swords and to execute non-samurai who offended them. In 1877 the government removed the rice stipend from samurai, depriving them of their centuries-old assured income. In the course of few years the samurai class that had dominated Japan had been abolished. The last gasp of their indomitable spirit was the Satsuma rebellion of Saigo Takamori, who led some 20,000 followers in a provincial revolt. The new imperial army defeated the rebels, and Saigo either committed suicide or died from a bullet wound. For avoidance of doubt a retainer decapitated him, so as to provide proof of the obligatory honourable death.

Traditional Japanese culture became an object of great admiration for the West in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. In 1900 the Japanese lecturer Nitobe Inazo wrote, in English, a book called Bushido: The Soul of Japan, codifying the ‘way of the warrior’ for subsequent generations:

This ethical and spiritual legacy we call Bushido, which literally signifies Fighting-Knight-Ways, or better translated, Teachings of Knightly Behaviour. It was the moral code of the samurai – the class of knights whose badge and privilege it was to wear two swords. Do not imagine that they were only swaggering, bloodthirsty youths. The sword was called the soul of the samurai. (Quoted Clements 2010, 300).

In the West this idealized image of the samurai as kindred to the knights of chivalric romance, or as enlightened Renaissance men, quickly caught on. H.G. Wells in his 1905 novel A Modern Utopia called his enlightened rulers ‘samurai’. Within Japan itself this survival became a dangerous legacy: embarked on a war with America in 1941, Japan called on its entire people to embrace the spirit of the samurai, to sacrifice themselves in battle, to never accept defeat and never plan for retreat. People were told to advance to battle in the conviction that they were already dead, following Musashi – ‘the Way of the warrior is resolute acceptance  of death’ (Musashi 1974, 38) – and the Hagakure – ‘by the Way of the warrior is meant death … this means choosing death whenever there is a choice between life and death’ (Tsunetome 1979, 17). The Shinpu Tokubetsu Kagekitai (‘Divine Wind Special Attack Unit’) pilots who were instructed to fly their planes into US battleships were awarded, by a code-switch between Chinese and Japanese readings of the character, the title kamikaze, recalling the divine wind that fought off the Mongol invasion. In the Pacific the US confronted an enemy that simply refused to retreat or surrender, a position resolved only by the use of atomic weapons. Emperor Hirohito addressed his people with the command to ‘endure the unendurable’ and lay down their arms. In his famous speech ‘the Declaration of Humanity’ he renounced his ancestral claim to be a child of the Sun Goddess and revealed himself to be no more than a man. Offensive warfare was renounced and Japan disarmed.

Naturally attitudes to the samurai were quickly and abruptly revised. The US War Department circulated a propaganda film Know Your Enemy: Japan (1945), which connected the officer class of the wartime military to the mediaeval samurai, particularly focusing on the symbolism of the sword. The samurai were denounced as an idle ruling class, distinguished by their right to carry swords and summarily execute commoners. Bushido was regarded as a code of absolute obedience to superiors, and an irrational commitment to victory at any cost. Thus the sword of the samurai was the symbol, it was argued, that more than anything else had prevented Japan from embracing the modern world.

Narrow Road to the Deep North (Basho 1966)

The preceding sketch of samurai history is of course the product of academic study, though I emphasise again that this is not a work of history or of oriental scholarship. My personal relationship with Japan has a much longer history, and it is time now to recover some of that story. As a boy growing up in the northern city of Leeds in the 1950s and 1960s, I naturally read war comics, and later watched war films, including classics like Bridge on the River Kwai, and later American films about the War in the Pacific, The Halls of Montezuma or From Here to Eternity. The Japanese were the enemy, in the same category as the Nazis: a violent, militaristic nation, cruel and sadistic, implacably dedicated to the humiliation and destruction of their foes, utterly indifferent to the rules of conventional warfare. To me Japan was Alec Guinness sweating in solitary confinement; khaki uniforms and the distinctive peaked forage caps; officers carrying swords that were not ceremonial but anachronistically deployed as weapons; the guttural barking of orders; bombs falling on the fleet in Pearl Harbour; kamikaze pilots sending their planes hurtling downwards towards the deck of a US battleship. At the same time, of course, one could not but reserve some admiration for that exotic, implacable enemy. After all, the qualities they exhibited – courage, love of country, devotion to duty – were the same virtues we were taught to respect and value. Although I don’t recall coming across the word ‘samurai’, I remember being fascinated by the distinctive form of the Japanese sword, the apparently clumsy way it was worn slung from the belt, contrasted with the ease with which it would be whipped from its scabbard and put to deadly use.

This conventional exposure to post-war stereotypes then collided, in the most extreme fashion, in a starkly contrasting encounter. Around the age of fourteen I was recruited into the nascent Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), went on marches, and attending meetings screening documentary films that showed the aftermath of the atomic bomb detonations over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Suddenly the image of the Japanese people as arrogant, cruel and violent was abruptly replaced by the image of a people terribly subdued and defeated by what was presented as the worse atrocity ever visited by human beings upon their fellows. Although today I hold a more nuanced view of this event, and indeed of the role of nuclear deterrents in maintaining world peace, I’ve been haunted all my life by those grainy monochrome images of destruction and devastation, terrible injury and agonising death, lingering sickness and crippling mutation. Japan the aggressor became Japan the victim; fear and loathing was replaced by compassion and pity. As we shall see, that ambivalent image of a nation as both distributor and victim of excessive violence lies at the heart of the work of Akira Kurosawa.

The earlier impressions did not of course disappear overnight: I was never thoroughly brainwashed by doctrines such as unilateral disarmament. As we entered the 1960s, a grudging respect for the heroism and dedication of the Japanese military fed into a widely-shared admiration for a nation that could recover so quickly and so comprehensively from so devastating a defeat. Japan presented itself to the world as a mass of contradictions, at a time when I believed ‘contradiction’ to be, in the Marxist sense, the great driver of history. Here was an ultra-modern society, capable of staggering industrial development, leading the world in technological innovation and design, and yet everywhere permeated by what seemed an impossibly remote past of temples and castles, geishas and samurai, kimonos and cherry-blossom. It took me a while to appreciate that such cultural duality has been endemic to the Japanese experience of history from the Meiji restoration onwards, and remains so today.

You Only Live Twice

The next exposure to an influential version of Japan remains in my memory as the film of Ian Fleming’s You Only Live Twice, which came out in 1967. Already a Bond fan, having read the early novels in the 1960s, in an encounter I have described elsewhere (Holderness 2018). I was also an early enthusiast for the film versions, which I had already seen in cinemas between 1962 and 1965, and which were quickly becoming the defining interpretations of Bond for my generation as well as those of a later period. 

Whereas most Bond films involve location filming in several different countries, You Only Live Twice is singularly focused on Japan. Toho Studios, the producer of the great Akira Kurosawa films that dominate this study, provided sound stages, personnel and the female Japanese stars. The film richly represents a diverse range of Japanese locations, encompassing different facets of society, the present and the past, city and country, urban and rural. Early scenes show the famous Ginza district of Tokyo, at once brilliantly neon-lit and seedy. Bond’s first assignation takes place at a sumo wrestling match, conducted in the now-demolished sumo hall, the Kuramae Kokugikan. The sequence includes a cameo performance by an actual Sumo wrestler, Sadanoyama Shinmatsu, who meets Bond in the sumo training stable. The film shows a tournament in process, beginning with centuries-old rituals derived from Shinto, the ancient native Japanese religion. They include the wrestlers performing the shiko, or ‘sumo stamp’, intended to scare off demons, and the purification ritual known as shiomaki, the scattering of salt, while the referee, wearing the robes of a Shinto priest, is seen intoning ancient prayers. This was certainly very different from the all-in wrestling matches that were obligatory TV viewing at home. None of this topographical detail is relevant to the action of the film, and is there only to deepen the spectator’s immersion in Japanese tradition.

Ultra-modern industrial Japan is represented by the headquarters of ‘Osato Chemicals’, using Tokyo’s New Otani Hotel, and by the Port of Kobe in Osaka. The modern buildings are decorated internally with objects from the feudal past, samurai armour and weapons, displayed in museum-quality exhibits, as well as impressive pieces of modernist fine art. Bond’s associate Henderson, a long-term resident and partly Japanized, lives in a traditional Japanese house with sliding shoji paper partitions: he is also surrounded by beautiful artefacts displayed in an unfamiliar minimalist style. An intriguing sequence in which the newly-Japanized Bond fakes his marriage to ‘Kissy Suzuki’, shows an elaborate wedding ceremony conducted in a Shinto shrine. This was filmed in Nachi, in the south of Honshu, not far from the old capital of Nara, with some accuracy of detail, notwithstanding the grotesque anomaly of Bond’s ‘transformation’ into Japanese. Tiger Tanaka’s ninja training camp is housed in and around the magnificent 16th century Himeji Castle, and the coast of the Satsuma Peninsula, in southern Kyushu, was used to film the sequences involving the Ama (‘sea-women’) divers. Altogether the movie displays a sumptuous travelogue of Japanese locations, both ancient and modern, natural and metropolitan, filmed in a stunning technicolour medium.

The impact of this exposure to the fascinating complexity of Japanese culture on a young man who had never been out of England (I didn’t travel abroad until the mid-1970s) cannot be overestimated. Let me take only one example, the use of Himeji Castle. Built and remodelled over some three centuries, from 1333 to 1600, significantly expanded in 1581 by Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and again in the early 17th century by Ikeda Terumasa, a supporter of Tokugawa Ieyasu, Himeji (also known as ‘White Egret Castle’ or ‘White Heron Castle’ from its bird-like wings) was always an important defensive fortification. It remains one of Japan’s three premier castles, the most-visited in the country, and one of the first UNESCO World Heritage sites.

Bond approaches the castle by helicopter, so it is possible to see the whole structure, with its massive banked stone walls, the stacked wing-like towers, the extensive gardens; and also the surrounding conurbation that incongruously embraces it. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Was it possible for such ravishing beauty in a building to co-exist with a fairly ordinary modern town? Could the past survive so unscathed into the present? Accustomed only to the mediaeval stone castles and Gothic cathedrals of the North, this building seemed to me literally fabulous, more like a castle of fairy-tale than a real fortification. An iconic emblem of traditional Japanese culture, and a representative example of samurai architecture, Himeji plays significant roles in Kurosawa’s Kagemusha and Ran.

After seeing the film I immediately read Ian Fleming’s 1964 novel, as soon as I could get hold of it. Although I possess a first edition, here I have cited references from the paperback edition I read in the 1960s (Fleming 1965). (So in the Bibliography I have cited You Only Live Twice – twice).

I soon realised that in this case the film version had taken significantly more liberty with its original source than had its predecessors, Dr. No, From Russia with Love, Goldfinger, and Thunderball, which by and large seemed to have adhered more closely to the books. The nuclear threat crisis that provides the plot of the film is present in the novel, though the culprit is not The Peoples’ Republic of China (which is not specifically identified in the movie, but was certainly obvious enough to everybody at the time) but from the Soviet Union, and targeted specifically at Britain rather than America. Here though the crisis never comes to anything, since information on the threat is discovered by Japanese intelligence and in a rare coup of international diplomacy facilitated by Bond, passed to the West. It is then resolved politically, by a combination of internal repressive measures in Britain (the government restricts the movements of all resident Soviet personnel), and an aggressive counter-threat against the USSR from President Kennedy of the United States. The whole thing is over by the end of Chapter Six. Typically for Fleming’s books, espionage and intelligence actually form a relatively minor element of the plot and action. You Only Live Twice evolves into something quite different, a revenge story involving Bond and his arch-enemy Blofeld (who had murdered his newly-wedded wife in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service) combined with an immersive travelogue-style journey through Japan, and an extraordinary amount of expository talk.

The narrative is thickly furnished with topographical details about Japanese society, mostly focused on the kind of cultural traditions favoured by tourist visitors to Japan. In the opening chapter we meet Bond and the head of the Japanese secret service, ‘Tiger’ Tanaka, in a Tokyo geisha house, drinking sake and discussing topics such as sumo wrestling. (Later Tanaka will discuss with Bond haiku verses and the work of Basho, which Bond makes lame efforts to imitate). Tanaka himself is described as having a ‘formidable, cruel, samurai face’ (Fleming 1965,14), while the ‘Madam’ of the geisha house is ‘so thickly made up that she looks like a character out of a Noh play’ (14). Bond’s associate Henderson, an impossibly stereotyped blunt Australian, has taught Bond to hold a kind of exasperated respect for this impenetrable culture, which perpetually countermands and defeats Western notions of order and propriety:

‘The bloody Japs to do everything the wrong way round. Read the old instruction books wrong, I daresay. Light switches go up instead of down. Taps turn to the left. Door handles likewise. Why, they even race their horses clockwise instead of anticlockwise like civilised people. As for Tokyo, it’s bloody awful. It’s either too hot or too cold or pouring with rain. And there’s an earthquake about every day. But don’t worry about them. They just make you feel slightly drunk. The typhoons are worse’. (Fleming 1965, 38)

Henderson’s irritable grumbling about the apparently counter-intuitive nature of Japanese society is coupled with a grudging respect for the Japanese themselves, who are in his view utterly different from the modern, democratic peoples of the ‘civilised’ west:

‘Underneath the stiff collars and striped pants in the government departments, there’s still plenty of the old samurai tucked away’. (Fleming 1965, 38)

This difference is then explained in a full-blown orientalist diatribe that again characterises the Japanese as still wedded to that autocratic, violent past, the era of the samurai, whose legacy drove them to military ambition and crushing defeat in the recent world war.

‘The Japanese are a separate human species. They’ve only been operating as a civilised people, in the debased sense we talk about it in the West, for fifty, at the most a hundred years. Scratch a Japanese and you’ll find a samurai’. (Fleming 1965, 42)

A ‘separate species’ does not of course mean an inferior race, and Henderson takes care to convey to Bond both the need to respect Oriental conventions, and not to underestimate these inscrutable and resourceful partners. And it is of course the Japanese who save Britain from potential nuclear attack of the kind they themselves had only recently endured at the hands of their new allies,

The Japanese perspective is provided by Tanaka, who is as forthright in defending his culture as Henderson is in attacking it. Tanaka served in the war, and remains an admirer of his country’s military capability and fighting spirit. Working as an intelligence officer in Europe, he follows the fortunes of the war as American advances through the Pacific begin to threaten Japan. He learns of the kamikaze initiative, and harbours the ambition to die as a fighter pilot carrying the force of the ‘divine wind’ to the enemy.

‘I listened to the accounts of this brilliant invention, the corps of kami-kaze. That is the “Divine Wind” that saved my country from invasion by Kublai Khan in the thirteenth century by destroying his fleet. I said to myself that that was the way to die – no medals, total death, suicide if you like, but at enormous cost to the enemy. It seemed to me the most heroic form of personal combat that had ever been invented’. (Fleming 1965, 87)

Tanaka defends the nobility and self-sacrifice of this suicidal military tactic as buried deep in the Japanese spirit: ‘suicide is a most unfortunate aspect of the Japanese way of life’. (70) This leads the conversation on to a discussion of suicide and its place in Japanese tradition, which Tanaka exemplifies by reference to the story of the 47 Ronin, the partial subject of my next chapter.

‘Our word for suicide is jisatsu, literally “self-murder”, and although it is a violent solution to a personal problem, it carries no stigma as it would in your country. In fact, one of our most famous folktales, known to all children, is of the forty-seven ronin, or bodyguards. Through their negligence, their Lord, Asano, was assassinated. They swore to avenge him and they did so. But then they came together at a place called Ako and all committed seppuku to expiate their negligence. This is what you know as hara-kiri, which is a vulgar term meaning ‘belly cutting’. Today, at the time of the festival at the Ako shrine, special trains have to be laid on to accommodate the respectful pilgrims’. (Fleming 1965, 71)

Fleming has attributed to Tanaka an unlikely error in relaying this well-known narrative – Asano was not assassinated, but forced to commit seppuku himself – as well as a mistranslation of ronin – ‘masterless samurai’ – as ‘bodyguards’. Tanaka defends ritual suicide as a quasi-judicial custom, citing the example of Admiral Ohnishi, who invented the kamikaze corps and sent many young pilots to certain death, and who in defeat committed seppuku in the most gruesome way imaginable, or as Tanaka puts it, ‘in a most honourable fashion’ (89), clearly following the example of Yorimasa Minamoto:

‘When you commit seppuku you invite two of your best friends to be present to finish you off if you fail. The Admiral executed the cross cut from left to right of the belly, and then the upward cut to the breastbone, most admirably. But it did not kill him. Yet he refused the coup de grace. He sat there contemplating his insides for a whole day before he finally died. A most sincere gesture of apology to the Emperor’. (Fleming 1965, 89)

The issue of suicide and its long history in Japanese culture provides the background, as we shall see, for the novel’s main plot. Tanaka remains quite unapologetic about Japanese military ambitions, making it clear to Bond that in his view the war could have gone very differently, with Japan perhaps left in control of Australasia:

‘You were lucky that we struck at Pearl Harbour rather than Australia. Can you doubt that we would have occupied that country and New Zealand if we had done otherwise? These are big and important land spaces, insufficiently developed, you could not have defended them’. (Fleming 1965, 48)

Fleming would have known that this assertion was of course accurate, and indeed the Allies are reputed (so I was told by Peter Holbrook of the University of Queensland) to have a plan with the codename ‘the Brisbane line’, which involved, in the event of Japanese invasion, surrendering the northern half of Australia, and concentrating defence capability in the south. Tanaka’s national pride is matched by a contempt for the West, and its growing influence on Japanese culture:

‘We are being subjected to what I can best describe as the “scuola di Coca-Cola”. Baseball, amusement arcades, hot dogs, hideously large bosoms, neon lighting – these are the part of our payment for defeat in battle. They are the tepid tea of the way of life we know under the name of the demokorasu. They are a frenzied denial of the official scapegoats for our defeat – a denial of the spirit of the samurai as expressed in the kami-kaze, a denial of our ancestors, a denial of our gods’. (Fleming 1965, 59)

He extends this impatience to a searching critique of Western attitudes to Japan, insisting to Bond that Britain has thrown away its great empire, and transferred power from the government to the trades unions (77). He then explicitly identifies the American approach to Japan as what we would now call ‘Orientalism’, an admiration based on ignorance and projected fantasy:

‘Our American residents are the sympathetic type – on a low level of course. They enjoy the subservience, which I may say is only superficial, of our women. They enjoy the remaining strict patterns of our life – the symmetry, compared with the chaos that reigns in America. They enjoy our simplicity, with its underlying hint of deep meaning, as expressed for instance in the tea ceremony, flower arrangements, Noh plays – none of which of course they understand. They also enjoy, because they have no ancestors and probably no family life worth speaking of, our veneration of the old and worship of the past’. (Fleming 1965, 59)

The reason for this focus on aspects of the Japanese past – samurai culture and ritual suicide – provide the real central action of the novel, understandably rejected in the making of the film. Bond’s old enemy Blofeld has been drawn to Japan by exactly these features of the national life. He has acquired an old castle, and created a garden filled with toxic plants and poisonous animals, designed to lure in candidates for suicide. This grotesque idea is presented as another of Blofeld’s insane strokes of criminal genius. ‘It is very difficult’, he says, ‘to invent something that is entirely new in the history of the world’, and feels that he has done so in constructing this garden of suicide, or as his partner Irma Blunt calls it, ‘a Disneyland of Death’. (154)  Blofeld patrols his estate in what Fleming describes as ‘mediaeval chain armour with the jagged, winged helmet of ancient Japanese warriors’. It is by no means clear what access Fleming had to antique arms and armour while he was in Japan, and his descriptions are certainly ambiguous. For instance Blofeld carries ‘a wide bladed samurai sword’, when no such thing existed.

Blofeld, in his gleaming chain armour and grotesquely spiked and winged helmet of steel, its visor closed, was something out of Wagner, or, because of the oriental style of his armour, a Japanese Kabuki play. His armoured right hand rested easily on a long naked samurai sword … (Fleming 1965, 151)

The Wagnerian allusion is out of place, and no-one would carry an unsheathed samurai sword. Later Fleming describes Blofeld’s sword as resembling a ‘scimitar’, quite a different style of sword, and refers to it as possessing a ‘boss’. Inside the Edo period fortification Blofeld finds protection and the freedom to indulge his masochistic appetite for murder; while the armour affords him both protection from his own toxic herbarium, and the desired anonymity. He expresses his contempt for Bond, and his readiness to kill, by assimilating himself to the ancient code of the samurai:

‘Have you ever heard the Japanese expression kirisute gomen? … It dates from the time of the samurai. It means literally “killing and going away”. If a low person hindered the samurai’s passage along the road or failed to show him the proper respect, the samurai was within his rights to lop off the man’s head. I regard myself as a latter-day samurai’. (Fleming 1965, 171)

Thus the revenge story and the Japan-based travelogue coalesce in a an improvised action, in which Bond (typically) has no plan or strategy other than to reach Blofeld and kill him. As is usual in such narratives, his arduous and intricate undercover journey, in this case a protracted ocean swim, simply lands him in captivity and in the enemy’s power. Nonetheless he manages to kill both Blofeld and Irma Bunt in hand-to-hand combat, and to escape from the castle suspended from a convenient helium balloon.

Both novel and film in their different ways effected an eye-opening introduction to Japan for a Western observer. I was immediately conscious of the intricate, disconnected relationship between the two, and the fact that the original novel-based stories typical of the earlier films had in this case been supplanted by a recycling of the plot of Dr No. Later this process proved to be an interesting test-case of adaptation. The screenplay was written by Roald Dahl, who thought You Only Live Twice to be Fleming’s worst book – more like a travel book than a novel, completely unfilmable – and felt obliged to rewrite it by poaching an earlier Fleming plot.

Dahl was correct: Fleming in fact initiated the novel out of his own travel writing, since his first three-day visit to Japan in 1959 was on behalf of the Sunday Times. He was accompanied by his associate Richard Hughes, Sunday Times correspondent in the Far East, and Tora Saito, a Japanese journalist nicknamed ‘Tiger’, who supplied the basis for the characters of Henderson and Tanaka in the novel. Fleming had stipulated that on his trip there were to be ‘no politicians, museums, temples, Imperial Palaces or Noh plays, let alone tea ceremonies’. Fleming wanted to see real life rather than tourist heritage. He had a list of things he did want to experience, including visits to a judo academy, in pursuit of his interest in ju-jitsu, and a Japanese fortune-teller. (Lycett 1994, 357) Visits to a massage parlour and a geisha house, both borderline sex-trade facilities, supplied some of the detail used in the novel, and further developed in the film.

Fleming returned to Japan for three weeks in 1962 with a view to researching for the book. Again, Fleming enjoyed the company of Hughes and Sato, informing them they would provide the basis for the characters in the novel. At one point the three companions could be found relaxing in a huge bath, drinking sake. On this trip Fleming was clearly searching for detailed information that would be of use in the writing of the book, as he investigated locations and probed into local customs, such as the system of giving and receiving favours, and methods of producing beef, both of which feature in the book. He visited the Mikimoto pearl-diving operation in Ise, which of course supplied much of the background for the operation against Blofeld, and visited the Shinto Ise Grand Shrine. From there he went to Matsusaka, centre of the famous specialist beef-rearing business. When based in Kyoto he visited the Jinya, the preserved samurai district in Takayama City, near Nijo Castle (another UNESCO World Heritage site), and took a keen interest in the workings of the Shimabara brothel district, now a tourist destination. His trip ended at the active volcano Mount Aso, which in the film houses Blofeld’s underground missile operation.

Fleming’s novel proved to be a useful introduction to Japan and Japanese history, not merely for its detailed observations of modern Japanese society, but for its witness to the complex and ambivalent rapprochement between present and past. In addition, two dominant perspectives on the samurai emerge from the novel: the early 20th century Western fascination with the samurai, casting them as the romantic counterparts of Arthurian knights; and the harsh Western propaganda of the immediate post-war period, which saw the samurai as an incongruous survival of mediaeval barbarism. Tiger Tanaka retains a positive view of the samurai as ‘the soul of Japan’, while Blofeld adopts and appropriates only the cruelty, the insane pride of privilege, contempt for the people, and reliance on mediaeval methods of warfare and despotic social control. Fleming’s book weaves together in a complex tapestry the idealism of Nitobe Inazo, and the simplistic antipathy of post-war American propaganda.

The Last Samurai

The catalyst for my third major rapprochement with ‘virtual’ Japan was Edward Zwick’s 2003 film The Last Samurai. Bear in mind that in my first encounter, with the war films of the 1950s, the Japanese military, heirs of the samurai, were negatively orientalised as a cruel, implacable enemy. Now the wheel had come full circle, and in a new millennium the samurai were positively projected as an idealised, alluring Other, representing a highly ethical, spiritualised life of nobility and discipline that could serve as an antidote to modern Western imperialism, capitalism, and secular materialism. The Last Samurai notoriously centres on the character of Nathan Algren, played by Tom Cruise, an invented American cavalry officer who in the 1870s accepts a commission to train the new Imperial Army of the Meiji emperor. Algren is a physical and mental wreck, afflicted with alcoholism and traumatic stress disorder after his experiences in the Civil War, and in the 7th cavalry in the Indian Wars, specifically a brutal massacre of native American women and children, which supplies his recurrent nightmares. (The screenplay identifies this massacre as the ‘Battle of Washita River’, an 1868 raid on a Cheyenne camp subsequently labelled a ‘massacre of the innocents’). Algren frequently alludes to the Battle of the Little Bighorn of 1876, which he regards as a strategic disaster undertaken by a deluded commander ‘in love with his own legend’. We meet him initially involved in the arms trade, working for the Winchester Company doing sales promotions for a new rifle. Sacked for his erratic and dangerous behaviour, he is persuaded by an old army comrade to take the job in Japan, obliged to serve again under the officer who led the massacre of the Cheyenne, an object of Algren’s implacable hatred.

Meiji Japan is presented reasonably accurately as a nation newly opened to trade with the west, with an agenda of industrial technological and commercial modernisation, but struggling to contain civil unrest from vested interests of the past, notably the samurai.

Like all Japan, Yokohama is at the cusp of a new era. Ancient sampans and wooden schooners beside freighters and steamships … In the bustling streets, white-face-painted geishas walk alongside bearded Russians. Traditional Japanese kimonos alongside European suits and hats; a schizophrenic world of ancient Japan versus modern commercialism.  (Logan 2003, scenes 12, 14)

The Americans are competing for influence and trade access with European powers such as France and Britain. The Japanese government, effectively run by a corrupt and ruthless group of former samurai, led by the treacherous and mendacious Mr Omura, with the young Emperor apparently powerless and kept in the background, has established a conscript army, and needs foreign specialists to train them. Their immediate purpose is to face an insurrection led by former government minister Katsumoto and his army of disaffected samurai, who disappointed at the Meiji government’s resolute rejection of the traditional political order and way of life, are organising a rebellion. An expatriate Englishman Graham, who acts as Algren’s guide, explains the context:

‘Katsumoto was [once] the Emperor’s teacher and his most trusted advisor. You must understand, for centuries it was the Samurai who guarded Japan and fought her wars. But now the creation of a modern army … the Samurai, well, some have accepted the change, taken money instead. But some just couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Thus, the rebellion’. (scene 27)

Algren finds the new conscripted army hopelessly unprepared, and advises against leading them into action. His counsels are overruled, and he is forced to lead them against Katsumoto. On the way Algren witnesses an example of the new progressive Japan, in the form of a traditional village torn down and burned to make space for a railway which, we learn, will have the advantage of enriching Omura. Predictably the troops are easily defeated and routed in a surprise attack by the formidable samurai, and Algren is taken prisoner, though not before Katsumoto observes his courage in battle, and immediately begins to respect him as a fellow warrior. The screenplay envisages an earlier scene in Edo/Tokyo in which we see Katsumoto’s chief retainer Ujio behead two men in the street as punishment for their disrespect towards him, thus exercising the samurai privilege of kirisute gomen, discussed in You Only Live Twice by Blofeld. Wisely the scene was cancelled, and the mystique of the samurai held in reserve for the powerful scene in which the warriors ambush the Imperial Army by riding out of the fog: 

Algren can see nothing through the dense fog. The tension is unbearable. Then a FORM APPEARS on horseback… GHOSTLY… like some sort of medieval monster. A horned helmet. Like something from a nightmare. And then another figure, and another … A terrible, beautiful moment of absolute stasis. The Samurai suddenly CHARGE, emerging from the fog in a great wave — roaring out ancient war-cries that chill the blood — sweeping forward like a tsunami – swords and spears flashing. (scene 38)

In the aftermath of the skirmish Algren witnesses, to his disgust, the general of the imperial army, a samurai who has chosen to serve in the imperial army, obliged to commit seppuku, assisted by Katsumoto who beheads him.

Compelled to spend the winter among the samurai, Algren quickly however develops a deep respect for their way of life, growing to affection and eventually love – for both Katsumoto himself, and the leader’s sister who is forced to play host to him. Disaffected from his own culture, Algren finds in the samurai village values and principles his own society seems to have lost, as described in the screenplay:

This is the other Japan. The Japan we have not yet seen. After the turmoil of Tokyo, this place seems a bucolic paradise. A valley below with rice fields. The sense of harmony so markedly absent from the cities. (scene 38)

The setting for this Japanese ‘bucolic paradise’ had to be found in the unspoiled countryside of New Zealand, where the film was shot. Algren’s observations are recorded in a journal, extracts of which are conveyed to the spectator in voice-over, inviting an obvious comparison with Kevin Costner’s Dances with Wolves (1990), in which a Union soldier finds an expatriate home among the Lakota tribe, coming to regard the ethnic Other as immeasurably superior in every way to his own society and culture. Similarly Algren has nothing but admiration for the samurai way of life. He sees the warriors practising kendo, jujitsu, kyudo (archery, or ‘the way of the bow’), and observes Katsumoto often kneeling in prayer before a statue of the Buddha, or seated in Zen Buddhist contemplation. Katsumoto explains that the temple in which he prays has been his family’s shrine for thousands of years. Katsumoto is often also seen writing, and confides to Algren that he writes poetry. He is intellectually curious, showing a great interest in ethnography, questioning Algren about the ‘Red Indians’. And he is an aesthete, celebrating the transient perfection of the cherry blossom:


‘A perfect blossom is a rare thing’ … Katsumoto sits, zazen-style, meditating … ‘You could spend your life looking for one. And it would not be a wasted life’. (scene 116)

In short, Katsumoto is the perfect samurai: skilled in martial arts and strategy, poet and philosopher, aesthete, respecter of tradition, ancestors, and the past.

‘And then I come to this place of my ancestors. And I remember… like these blossoms, we are all dying. (looks back at him) To know life in every breath. Every cup of tea. Every life we take. That is the way of the warrior … That is Bushido’. (scene 116)

During his enforced sojourn in the village Algren becomes more and more like Katsumoto, dressing in Japanese costume, learning ‘bushido’ and eventually, for the final battle, inheriting the armour of the man he killed. When Katsumoto returns to Edo to meet the Emperor, Algren is released: but observing the marked transformations in Japanese society that are acting to the detriment of the samurai – the laws prohibiting the wearing of two swords and the samurai top-knot – as well as Omura’s treachery, he decides to throw in his lot with the rebels and returns to the village with them. From their base the samurai organise a defensive operation to meet the Imperial army. By now Algren has become Katsumoto’s firm friend and strategic adviser, and both agree that a heroic defence, though with little chance of survival, is worth undertaking. Algren tells Katsumoto about the Battle of Thermopylae, when three hundred Spartans, in a desperate last-ditch defence of their homeland, held out against the vastly superior Persian army. The samurai fight bravely and with some success, but eventually are resigned to a last suicidal cavalry charge against the new howitzers and machine guns acquired by the Imperial army. Algren manages to kill his former commanding officer, thus taking revenge on behalf of the Cheyenne as well as the samurai. Seriously, perhaps fatally wounded, Katsumoto is assisted in taking his own life by Algren, who survives to carry a message to the Emperor. Presenting the ruler with Katsumoto’s sword, Algren appears to succeed in re-establishing a more appropriate respect for samurai culture as Japan’s true character.


‘My ancestors have ruled Japan for 2,000 years. For all that time we have slept. During my sleep I have dreamed. I dreamed of a unified Japan. Of a country strong and independent and modern… (touches the sword lovingly) And now we are awake. We have railroads and cannon and Western clothing. But we cannot forget who we are. Or where we come from … Ambassador Swanbeck, I have concluded that your treaty is not in the best interests of my people’. (scene 179)

The Emperor refuses to sign a trade deal with the US, the corrupt Omura is removed from office, and Algren returns to Katsumoto’s village to resume life with the samurai community.

The film has been roundly condemned, as period fictions often are, for its distortions of history. Algren is based on a historical figure: but the real one was French, not American. Jules Brunet was sent to Japan in 1866 to train the new army, and when ordered to return home refused, instead fighting on the imperial side in the Boshin War against the shogunate, which defeated the Tokugawa government and brought the Meiji to power. The Last Samurai thus conflates quite different moments of civil unrest, the Boshin War of the 1860s and the Satsuma Rebellion of 1877, into one action, as well as giving America an improbable role in the history. Katsumoto is based on Saigo Takamori, the prominent leader of the imperial faction who later led the Satsuma Rebellion against the Meiji government. But as many commentators have pointed out, to depict the samurai as motivated entirely by honour, piety and loyalty to tradition distorts Takamori’s role in crushing the Tokugawa shogunate, the four-centuries old samurai regime. Furthermore, this latter rebellion was triggered by nothing more disinterested than the loss of samurai privilege, while many other samurai accepted the new dispensation and served the new government. Perhaps the most extreme example of the fictional distortion of history is the rejection of firearms by Katsumoto, clearly invented simply to provide a suicidally heroic ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ glamour to the final battle. The samurai were using firearms as early as the 16th century, and Takamori’s army was well supplied with rifles and even field artillery, though short of ammunition (as indeed was the imperial army).

While admitting that the plot of the film is broadly based on history, critics have condemned the film as purveying a ‘white saviour’ narrative in which a bankable celebrity Hollywood star is credited with saving the soul of the Japanese nation. Viewers of the film on Sky Cinema are met with a warning that the seventeen year old film ‘may contain outdated attitudes’ that might ‘offend the viewer’. Algren is responsible for bearing the symbolic message of Katsumoto’s legacy and persuading the Emperor to acknowledge the samurai as ‘the soul of Japan’.

Allowing for the necessary fictionalisation of history, and accepting the centrality of a star such as Cruise as the unavoidable condition of a big-budget movie, The Last Samurai succeeds in a broad-brush introduction to this historical moment. Perhaps the most significant factor in its reception, notwithstanding the agonizing of western critics over cultural appropriation and white saviour narratives, is that it generated higher box office receipts in Japan than in the US, and met there with a generally positive critical reception. Japanese sources praised the film for meticulous historical research, accuracy in the use of costumes, armour and weapons, the use of prominent Japanese actors in the major roles, the employment of dialogue coaches to secure idiomatic accuracy. Insofar as the film was criticised in Japan, in an echo of much earlier national controversies, it was for its idealised and romantic view of the samurai, who in reality were much more self-serving and wedded to privilege.

Shakespeare into Japan

Thus, the samurai. And now to Shakespeare. In Britain, from the 19th century onwards, the default ‘setting’ for Shakespeare’s plays (by which I mean costume, mis-en-scene, and assumed historical and cultural context) has been mediaeval and early modern: the time of the plays’ composition (late 16th and early 17th centuries) or the time of their historical location (mediaeval Britain or Europe, ancient Greece or Rome etc.). In this visual and physical context Twelfth Night would normally be performed or imagined in Elizabethan or Jacobean, Macbeth and Hamlet in mediaeval, Julius Caesar in ancient Roman, dress and settings.  In the historical context of their original production, the plays were performed in contemporary dress with minimal mis-en-scene; through the Restoration and 18th century in fashionable modern dress and increasingly naturalistic settings. Today in Britain Shakespeare can be performed in any style of costume, setting and cultural context, from the time of the plays’ reference to the immediate contemporary present, and often in an eclectic blend of some or all. But strong forces of tradition and cultural memory tie the plays, in their visual and physical realisation as well as their language, to the mediaeval and early modern past. We dress Shakespeare in the costumes of all the ages; but we know that he truly belongs, as in the various portraits, in doublet and ruff.

When Shakespeare was first imported into Japan, in the late 19th century and early 20th centuries, following the opening of Japan to the outside world effected by the Meiji empire, these cultural attachments to the plays’ own past did not travel with them. Though it would have seemed natural for Shakespeare productions to be set back into the Azuchi-Momoyama period (1574-1600), aligned with Shakespeare’s own time or the time of the plays’ reference, in practice this didn’t happen. Although initially from the 1880s the stories of Shakespeare’s plays – derived from Charles and Mary Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare, often mediated through Japanese novels – were adapted into Kabuki, Shakespearean drama proper, in the form of complete translations, was received in Japan as the work of a modern Western dramatist more aligned with the present than with the past. ‘Shakespeare first arrived in Japan with Ibsen, Chekhov, Gorky, George Bernard Shaw and trams’. (Kishi and Bradshaw 2005, 2). Nor was there any immediate synthesis between translated Shakespeare and the native traditions of Japanese theatre, Noh and Kabuki, although Kabuki began in Shakespeare’s lifetime, and Noh emerged in the Middle Ages.

Thus early Japanese Shakespeare was assimilated to the modernising and westernising tendencies of the Meiji regime, and kept well away from that very recent but dangerous feudal past to which at least some of the plays should surely have been seen to belong; even though, as Kishi and Bradshaw point out, ‘Shakespearean poetic drama is closer to traditional Japanese drama like Noh or kabuki than it is to modern Western realistic or naturalistic dramas like that of Ibsen or Shaw’, and ‘the Japanese were politically and socially far closer to feudalism than contemporary British or American readers and audiences’ (Kishi and Bradshaw 2005, 3).

Although some early productions saw Shakespeare adapted into kabuki (such as an 1885 kabuki adaptation of The Merchant of Venice based on a Japanese novel, in turn a version of Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare) dominant forces in Japanese theatre, like those in society in general, were relentlessly modernising and westernising. In 1886 the Engeki Kairyo Kai (Society for the Reformation of Theatre) was formed in order to shift the drama away from tradition and towards modernity. The theatre became dominated by the Shingeki (New Drama) movement, and Shakespeare was incorporated into this climate of reform.

This conflict between native and foreign theatrical traditions is the story of Shakespeare in Japan, a story in which Shakespeare is seen alternately as a welcome ambassadorial gift, or a hostile colonial imposition, but always as the modern counterpart of Ibsen and Shaw, Gorky and Chekhov.  And overall the modernist tendencies continually triumph. The Shingeki movement, which assimilated Shakespeare to western modernity, has been correctly identified as ‘a form of deference towards the west, rather than the discovery of a culturally relevant idiom’ (Mulryne 1998, 4),  yet dominated both early (1900-1914) and later (post-World War II) Japanese Shakespeare. Between the two World Wars Shakespeare faded away in Japan with the rise of nationalism and the resurgence of militarism and xenophobia. By the 1960s, once Japan had recovered from the damages of World War II and acquired a new economic self-confidence (see Senda 1998,17), theatrical practitioners returned to Shakespeare, but were more interested in aligning Shakespeare with modern Japan than with an increasingly distant tradition. Shakespeare’s plays were re-imagined into modern contexts of contemporary Japanese business and crime, or the Vietnam war, or colonial Hong Kong. 

Japanese society is everywhere presented as quintessentially modern, urban, commercial and industrial, technologically sophisticated, not least by the Japanese themselves. And yet, as Mulryne observes, ‘a peculiar mix of past and present … characterises Japanese society today’ (Mulryne 1998, 2). Even within the great cities, and more so beyond them, the past is lovingly preserved, reproduced, even reconstructed, and displayed. Almost 30 million international tourists enter Japan each year to visit the old capitals of Kyoto and Nara, drawn by the magic of castles, ancient temples, swords and samurai, geishas and sumo, maple leaves and cherry blossom. Where in all this is the real Japanese Shakespeare, the equivalent of our Elizabethan and Jacobean dramatist in doublet and ruff? Where is ‘Samurai Shakespeare?’

1955 saw the first Shakespeare post-war production in Japan, a Shingeki version of Hamlet translated and directed by Tsuneari Fukuda. In 1957 Fukuda directed his own play Akechi Mitsuhide, a story of murder, betrayal and revenge among 16th century samurai lords. The story is drawn from history, but modelled on the plot of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. By connecting Shakespeare to the Japanese past, Fukuda set out to ‘transplant Shakespeare to Japanese soil’ (Kishi and Bradshaw 2005, 47-49, 129).

In the same year Akira Kurosawa released his great film of Macbeth, Kumonosujo, known in the west as Throne of Blood, which I have praised as ‘the most complete translation of Shakespeare into film’ (Holderness 1986, 189). Here the plot of Macbeth, without Shakespeare’s language, is brilliantly relocated to feudal Japan. Kurosawa followed his version of Macbeth up in 1960 with a modernised film of Hamlet – The Bad Sleep Well – and much later in 1985 with his samurai version of King Lear, Ran.

Meanwhile in the theatre Yukio Ninagawa, who began working with Shakespeare in the 1970s, staged in 1980 what is perhaps the greatest ever Japanese production of Shakespeare, his Macbeth set in mediaeval Japan. Ninagawa deployed the full panoply of Japanese cultural traditions to anchor Shakespeare into the past: ancient costumes and armaments, cherry blossom, sliding doors, the framing device of a Buddhist altar. (see Senda 1998, 22-5, and Kishi 1998, 115-118). Later Ninagawa produced The Tempest in an equally traditional style, as ‘A Rehearsal of a Noh Play on the Island of Sado’ (the island to which Zeami, the great playwright of Noh, was exiled). (Kishi and Bradshaw 2005, 85-6)

Across that period of 30 years (1957-1987) these great theatre and cinema artists finally resolved the conflicts between Shakespeare and Japan by setting the plays back into their own beloved but disputed past. These ‘Samurai Shakespeare’ productions were initially received in the west and in Japan with wild enthusiasm, though not without some critical reflection on the dangers of ‘exoticism’ and ‘orientalism’ (see Kishi and Bradshaw 80, 95-6). Kishi even uses the term ‘samurai Shakespeare’ as a critical reservation, and puts Kurosawa’s Ran  together with The Last Samurai as a piece of ‘inflated but hollow magniloquence’ (see Kishi and Bradshaw 2005, 136 and 142).

After this great florescence of ‘samurai Shakespeare’ (1957-1987), the theatre in Japan returned to its Shingeki roots, preferring modernity to tradition. But the phenomenon of samurai Shakespeare became a definitive cultural moment, and many subsequent  productions allude or pay homage to the work of Fukuda, Kurosawa and Ninagawa. However ultra-modern a Japanese Shakespeare production may be, it will also have the facility to acknowledge the country’s own past as one of Shakespeare’s multiple global histories. 

Samurai Shakespeare

These then are the constituent elements of this book: a personal interest in the history of Japan, and an enthusiasm for stories of the samurai; a professional engagement with intercultural exchange, the ways in which English classics are absorbed into a foreign culture, and a historical investment in the specific example of Shakespeare’s arrival in Japan in the late 19th century. Hence, I am exclusively concerned with adaptations of Shakespeare that set the plays back into Japanese history, usually the Sengoku period. Much critical work on Shakespeare and Japan by western scholars is haunted by fears of misrepresentation, natural enough when confronted by so bewitching and alien a culture, but also potentially destabilising and demoralising to an honest appraisal. I have been as open a possible about the cultural conditioning of my own perspective, while letting the Japanese artists responsible for these adaptations speak for themselves. I will attempt to show that the ambivalent view of the samurai with which I grew up is as Japanese as it is western, visible as early as the epic poems and historical chronicles that created the legend of the samurai in the Middle Ages, and crystallised into an urgent national debate at key moments of Japanese history, such as the Meiji Restoration and the end of the Second World War. Were the samurai romantic heroes, or tyrants consumed by ambition? Were they the saviours of the nation, or enslavers of the people? Were they, as Clements puts it, ‘blinkered fools who opposed modernization in favour of an impossible mediaeval time warp?’ Or did they represent rather ‘the indomitable will to reform, which led the opponents of the Tokugawa to topple the shogun, restore the Emperor are last and modernize Japan as his willing “servants”?’ (Clements 2010, 318). These controversies are actively and energetically put to work in the Shakespeare adaptations studied in the following pages: hybrid, intercultural works of art which will prove to be as consistent with our own western engagements with Japan, as they are true to the spirit of Japanese culture.

The English Rugby Football Union is debating whether or not to ban the singing of the spiritual Swing Low, Sweet Chariot as an anthem by its spectators. Although the hymn was apparently adopted by crowds as a way of honouring the achievement of black players, it is being described as ‘controversial’ and ‘problematic’ because of its links with slavery.

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot was indeed written by a former slave, Wallace Willis, though he was hardly a stereotypical one. He was the property of the Choctaw Nation of Native Americans, who ran plantations with slave labour in Oklahoma. The Choctaw sided with the Confederacy in the Civil War, and were obliged to manumit their slaves after the war as part of a treaty with the US government signed in 1866. Thus, Willis became a ‘freedman’ of the Choctaw nation.

Why should a song of anguish and hope from the past be something to censor in the present? The spiritual is seen as problematic by those who regard its expressions of longing and pain as a gesture of defeatist passivity, resigned to bondage as an inevitable condition of life, to be relieved only by death and the entry into heaven. This interpretation plays into the narrative of Christianity as an instrument of imperialist subjugation, designed to pacify the oppressed into submission: the opium of the masses. It fails to take account of both the political and religious significance of such songs in their time.

The chariot in the hymn is of course drawn from the prophecy of Ezekiel (Ezek. 1), linking American slavery with that of the Jews in Babylonian captivity. The motif of crossing the Jordan invokes the escape of the Israelites from slavery among the Egyptians, the liberation from bondage, the entry into the Promised Land. In the American South it denoted travelling the ‘underground railroad’, and crossing over into the freedom of the North. Frederick Douglass, former slave, Abolitionist and author of My Bondage and My Freedom (1855), wrote of the singing of spirituals:

A keen observer might have detected in our repeated singing of ‘O Canaan, sweet Canaan, I am bound for the land of Canaan,’ something more than a hope of reaching heaven. We meant to reach the North, and the North was our Canaan.

Similarly Harriet Tubman recalled that spirituals such as Go Down Moses operated as a code for escaping to the North (quoted in Sarah H. Bradford, Harriet Tubman: The Moses of Her People (1886). Here Jewish and Christian prophecy and Apocalyptic were not tools of oppression, but instruments of liberation. They gave enslaved black people a grammar of aspiration, enabled them to imagine a better place, in the here and now, as well as in the beyond. In the words of another spiritual:

I’ll meet you in the morning

When you reach the promised land

On the other side of the Jordan

For I’m bound for the promised land.

When Martin Luther King delivered his great speech ‘I have a dream’ in 1963 he was drawing on exactly this same tradition, using the Old Testament story of liberation from bondage and arrival in the promised land as a prophecy of the future in which all people of all colours could expect the same justice and equality. When, in Martin Luther King’s words,

all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

Is there a better way of remembering slavery than by keeping alive in those spiritual hymns and songs the hope that burned in the hearts of the people in bondage?

(The famous motif by Josiah Wedgewood reproduced here, which became a slogan of the Abolitionist movement, is also regarded as ‘problematic’ since it identifies the black slave, manacled hands raised in supplication, pleading for help from his ‘white saviours’. Many are probably unaware that the fashionable gesture of ‘taking the knee’ replicates this pose, while replacing the clasped hands with the straight arm and clenched fist of the 1960s ‘Black Power’ movement).

This special issue of Critical Survey, edited by Terri Bouros, situates that controversial text into the context of its early publication history, and the recent critical and editorial interest it has generated. The first edition of Hamlet – often called ‘Q1’, shorthand for ‘first quarto’ – was published in 1603, in what we might regard as the early modern equivalent of a cheap paperback. Q1 Hamlet is becoming increasingly canonical not because there is universal agreement about what it is or what it means, but because more and more Shakespearians agree that it is worth arguing about. If we read or perform it, rather than simply dismissing it (as was done for most of the twentieth century), Q1 makes us think: about performance, book history, Shakespeare’s relationships with his contemporaries, and the shape of his whole career.