26
Exposé 2006-2007
Brian Chen
Smashing the Hall of Mirrors:
The Layers of Meaning in the Play
within the Play of Hamlet
A
t the most basic level, Shakespeare uses the “play within the play” of Hamlet as a plot
device to confirm Claudius’ guilt, to corroborate the ghost’s accusations of fratricidal
regicide. Hamlet himself has “heard / That guilty creatures sitting at a play / Have, by the
very cunning of the scene, / been struck so to the soul that presently / They have proclaim’d their
malefactions” (2.2.584-8). He concludes that “The play’s the thing / Wherein I’ll catch the conscience
of the King” (2.2.600-1). Critics who read the play within the play as more than a simple narrative
contrivance have commonly interpreted it as Shakespeare’s own attempt to praise the dramatic
form for its ability to bring truth to light. But while certain elements of the play can provide some
ostensible evidence for this position, a closer examination of the text reveals that the play within the
play is neither a cute narrative ruse nor an attempt at self-promotion. Shakespeare does not promote
drama for its ability to expose truth and mirror reality; rather, the play within the play and the
elements surrounding it actually undermine the whole purpose of playwriting by questioning and
rejecting the ability of drama to achieve its fundamental aims, including that of reflecting reality.
Moreover, by understanding the play within the play as just such a rejection, we are
better
able to relate it to what is traditionally thought to be one of Hamlet’s most
Through this apparent
central elements—Hamlet’s own rejection of existential meaning. Just as Hamlet denies
contradiction between the existence of a rational justification for playwriting, Prince Hamlet finds no convincing, sensible reason to continue living. But a juxtaposition of Hamlet and Shakespeare’s
their thoughts and philosophical positions with their actions reveals an existential irony: despite their acute
awareness of the potential futility of their positions, they choose nonetheless to continue—
actions, the play further to continue writing, in Shakespeare’s case; to continue living, in Hamlet’s. Through this
apparent contradiction between their thoughts and actions, the play further
undermines the idea of undermines the idea of the necessity of rational purpose, reaching, finally, what I will call
“second-order” nihilism—a nihilism about nihilism itself. Though largely accurate,
the necessity of rational nihilism is itself void and meaningless.
The scenes in which the play within the play is prominent but not actually performed
rife
with barbs at the expense of drama’s audience. Polonius, in an attempt to sound
are
purpose, reaching,
learned, categorizes plays into many laughably stereotypical groups, such as
finally, what I will the “pastoral-comical”, or the “tragical-comical-historical-pastoral” (2.2.394-5).
Shakespeare parodies the effort of playgoers to categorize, group, and thus make banal
call “second-order” the playwrights’ works, which could be condemned to be evermore part of the “tragicalcomical-historical-pastoral” genre. Hamlet is himself an obnoxious playgoer. He remarks
nihilism—a nihilism haughtily that a play he had seen “pleased not the million, ’twas caviare to the general”
(2.2.432-3). Hamlet shows the presumption of self-styled connoisseurs, who define
about nihilism itself. greatness—“caviare”—according to their own taste and impose these observations,
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Exposé 2006-2007
under the guise of objectivity, upon others. In
the process, these guardians of taste undermine
the inherently subjective nature of artistic judgment. Polonius, on the other hand, displays the
short attention span of the vulgar. He interrupts
an actor’s soliloquy with the complaint that the
speech is “too long” (2.2.494). Through these
scattered elements, Hamlet parodies the audience
itself, composed with artsy snobs, crass
philistines, and faux intellectuals, among other
critical and judgmental people. How can
playmaking be meaningful, if those for whom
plays are written are so grossly inane?
The play within the play itself is hardly an
example of drama’s revelatory power.
Considered on its own merits, The Mousetrap,
with its bombastic pontification and unrelenting
rhyming couplets, is unironically moralising and
tackily contrived. More importantly, the play
evokes little emotion and response from its
audience, and achieves effect only through
Hamlet’s excited, insinuating commentary.
Gertrude’s comment on the realism of the
play—“the lady doth protest too much,
methinks” (3.2.225)—truthfully reflects her
past actions, but escapes only as a result of
Hamlet’s well-timed inquiry into her affection
for The Mousetrap. In fact, Hamlet asks
“Madam, how like you this play” just as the
Player Queen noisily promises to be exclusively
monogamous (3.2.224). Hamlet talks so much
during the play that Ophelia retorts he is
“as good as a chorus” (3.2.240), suggesting,
appropriately, that Hamlet’s commentary is
itself an integral part of the play. Claudius, the
intended audience member, initially asks
whether there is “offence in’t,” bored with the
heretofore slow, crimeless play (3.2.227-8). He
rises immediately after Hamlet’s summary of the
play’s plot and his allusive remark regarding
how Claudius “shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife” (3.2.257-8).
The play, by itself, provokes no response; it is
Hamlet’s innuendo that achieves the desired
result of confirming the king’s guilt.
Hamlet’s own analysis of plays’ shortcomings, however, forms the heart of the play’s
critique of theatre. His soliloquy at the end of
the second act serves as a forceful rejection of
the importance and significance of drama.
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann’d,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to her,
That he should weep for her?” (2.2.545-54)
Hamlet lambasts the unnatural gestures and
affectations of the actor. He contrasts the
poignancy of the actor’s actions—a “wann’d”
visage, “tears in his eyes”—to the “conceit”,
“fiction”, and “dream” of the play. He synthesizes
this apparent contradiction, noting how this
emotional display is “all for nothing,” pointing
out the apparent absurdity of trying to make fiction seem real to an audience—which, though
guilty of many inanities, is fully aware of the
contrived nature of drama. Hamlet then undercuts the very significance of a play’s content by
asking, “What’s Hecuba to him, or he to her, /
That he should weep for her?” This rhetorical
question articulates the crux of the problem—
the insurmountable disconnection between the
reality of the play and actual reality itself.
Hamlet again makes his case in terms of juxtaposition, one between a fictionalised, mythical Hecuba and the
actor’s tangible, real self. He then The play, by itself,
inverts the comparison, repeating it
in an even more absurd manner by provokes no response;
questioning the actor’s significance
it is Hamlet’s innuendo
in Hecuba’s fictional world.
Moreover, the play is haunted by
another fundamental problem—the that achieves the
impossibility of a dramatic character with an interior life. Actors, desired result of conmust “drown the stage with tears,
/ And cleave the general ear with firming the king’s guilt.
horrid speech /...and amaze indeed
/ The very faculties of eyes and ears”
(2.2.556-60). Characters communicate their
angst through melodrama, yet people hardly
launch into bombastic soliloquies in times of
personal difficulty. The onslaught against “the
very faculties of eyes and ears” could not be
further from many people’s internal, silent
confrontation of personal anxiety. Furthermore,
the playwright is at the mercy not only of the
audience, with all its faults, but also of the
actors and actresses—many of whom, as
Hamlet says, “imitated humanity so abominably” (3.2.35). Hamlet presents a convincing
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Exposé 2006-2007
Daniel Maclise,
(1806–1870). The Play
Scene in ‘Hamlet.’
Exhibited 1842. Oil on
canvas. Tate Gallery,
London, Great Britain.
Photo Credit: Tate,
London/Art Resource, NY.
case that drama is futile, with almost no capacity to achieve its lofty ideal of holding a “mirror
up to nature” (3.2.22).
The worthlessness of playwriting naturally
suggests some sort of parallel with another of
Hamlet’s central contentions, the futility of
living. The fundamental rationale for both
activities is questioned, with similar vigor, in the
play. Again, it is Hamlet himself who presents
many of the arguments in favor of life’s
meaninglessness. His discovery of Yorick’s skull
is but one such instance, among many. Hamlet
is overwhelmed by the ultimate worthlessness of
the jester’s existence. He asks “where be [his]
gibes now?” (5.1.183), underlining the contrast
between Yorick’s life, full of “infinite jest”
(5.1.179), and his remains—an empty, hollow
skull. But Hamlet’s most incisive
Hamlet presents a commentary on the pointlessness of
human existence is his central soliloquy, “to be or not to be” (3.1.56).
convincing case that He exposes life as a series of wrongs,
among which include “the whips
drama is futile, with and scorns of time, / Th’oppressor’s
wrong”, borne only out of fear of
almost no capacity to death and its associated uncertainty
(3.1.70-1). He thinks, at first, that
achieve its lofty ideal of death is a “consummation /
Devoutly to be wish’d” (3.1.63-4).
The word “consummation” suggests
holding a “mirror up that life does have a purpose, an
end: however paradoxical it may
to nature” (3.2.22) seem, Hamlet suggests that the goal
of life itself is to die. But Hamlet realizes that
death itself “Must give us pause” (3.1.68)—that
death cannot be life’s goal due to its inherent
uncertainty and our ignorance of the “undiscover’d country” (3.1.79). Striving for death is
illogical because no one knows what death
brings. Life, just like playwriting, amounts
to nothing.
However, this philosophical questioning—
by the playwright himself, through the medium
of Hamlet, and by his principal character—is
contradicted by their respective actions. His
trenchant observations on the lack of purpose
notwithstanding, Hamlet continues to live and
does not commit suicide. He lives, even though
his supposed raison d’être throughout the
play—avenging his father’s death, according to
the ghost’s instructions—is constantly brought
into question. And despite a strong argument
for the meaninglessness of playwriting,
Shakespeare makes Hamlet put on The
Mousetrap, finishes writing Hamlet, and goes
on to author other plays. Hamlet’s own quest
is realized in a haphazard and chaotic manner,
to the extent that the original intent is overshadowed and severely distorted. Any loftier
sense of justice in Hamlet’s endeavour is perverted by his wanton murder of Polonius (which
incites Polonius’ son, Laertes, to another pointless and destructive vendetta). Hamlet suffers
“The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”
(3.1.58)—the deaths of Ophelia and Gertrude—
and is guilty of “Th’oppressor’s wrong” in
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Exposé 2006-2007
Polonius’ killing (3.1.71). Hamlet fulfills his
own description of the problems of existence,
but continues to live—just as Shakespeare, fully
aware of the fundamental limitations of drama,
continues to write.
This contradiction between thought and
action calls into question the necessity of rational
purpose, and, by extension reveals the meaninglessness of meaninglessness itself. Both playwright
and character act in ways inconsistent with their
analyses of purpose: Hamlet rationally criticizes
life, exposing its quotidian cruelties and existential
void, but he ignores the implications of this
analysis; Hamlet exposes the inability of plays
to attain their goal of mirroring nature, yet its
very existence proves that Shakespeare himself
ignores this conclusion. They need no logical
justification to continue living or writing; in
fact, they live and write in the face of all reason
and all philosophy. Shakespeare’s play and life
themselves display a type of second-order
nihilism—a nihilism about nihilism—that
acknowledges the truth of nihilism but rejects its
significance. Meaninglessness itself is meaningless
because its implications are completely
disregarded. Hamlet, the character, and Hamlet,
the play, each struggle with a form of nihilism—
to the point where they accept its verity—but
ultimately go on, philosophy be damned.
Nihilism is true, and insignificant.
Yet by questioning the ability of drama to
accurately mirror reality and display truth,
Hamlet apparently undercuts its own ability to
believably communicate ideas. This would seem
to threaten even the central idea of second-order
nihilism by suggesting a third-order nihilism to
the audience: the meaninglessness of a play
philosophising about the meaninglessness of
meaninglessness! In other words, theatre cannot
offer audiences a credible philosophical vision
due to its inability to mirror reality, thus the
play’s vision—in this case, the meaninglessness
of meaninglessness—is itself vacuous. But the
unique nature of the play within the play
precludes the validity of this argument, allowing
no further nihilisms in Hamlet beyond the
second-order. Fundamentally, the only thing we
really, really know about Hamlet is that it exists,
and was written, presumably by Shakespeare.
The play and the act of writing it are unequivocally, incontrovertibly, relentlessly real. In and
of itself, the play’s existence means very little.
But the play within the play has actual narrative
substance and content, and it references and
comments upon the only facet of Hamlet that is
undeniably real. Consequently, the philosophical vision of the play within the
play, nihilism about nihilism, takes
on an unusual importance and rele- Shakespeare’s play and
vance, because the idea is ultimately
grounded in Hamlet’s very existence life themselves display a
and the reality proper of
type of second-order
Shakespeare’s playwriting. Other
interpretive ideas—Hamlet’s oftnihilism—a nihilism
touted Oedipal complex, for
instance—are based on the play’s
fictional universe, which inaccurate- about nihilism—that
ly mirrors reality. But the meaninglessness of meaninglessness is more acknowledges the truth
forceful, pressing, and relevant
because it is predicated upon the of nihilism but rejects
non-fictional act of writing Hamlet,
and thus not saddled with theatre’s its significance.
otherwise crippling incapacity to
legitimately comment upon the real world. In a
way, the play within the play justifies itself: it
undermines theatre’s reliability, forcing Hamlet
to make a tangible connection to the real world
in order to be philosophically relevant. But the
device is the link to reality. So Hamlet’s credibility, at least on the subject of existential purpose,
remains intact, thanks to the play within the
play. We should, in short, write on, live on, and
watch on.
Works Cited
Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. New York: Bantam
Books, 2005.
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Exposé 2006-2007
Notes from the Authors
Zach Arnold
This essay, or at least the motivation for it, originated at
the dinner table at home, talking with my family after my
brother or I would come back from protests and marches.
Those discussions inspired me to think about my personal
political responsibilities a lot more actively than I had been
before… so when we started talking about final papers in my
Expos section, I already had an idea as to what I’d like
to write.
Even so, I went through a long and tortured writing
process with this paper. I know there are a lot of Harvard
students out there who can write a good essay in one night, but
personally it takes me a few weeks of on-and-off work. I struggled to find sources that seemed relevant. And eventually my
paper went in a totally different direction from what I was expecting and became a lot more narrowly focused, as I cut out huge sections from my first draft (it was painful to go from a comfortable,
within-requirements 8 page essay to six or so) and developed certain parts some more. I devoted time
to unproductive-seeming (but essential) things like writing the same idea five different ways, then
deleting every one.
Or calling friends and going to Herrell’s when I needed a break. In my experience, knowing when
to step away really helps. Things I write look different after a break; problems get more apparent
and central ideas stand out a bit more, begging for development. That’s one reason why I write most
everything, including this essay, in spurts (although I’m also just easily distracted).
I have to admit that even after rounds and rounds of editing, I definitely don’t feel that my paper
is bulletproof, and I still haven’t fully made up my mind about the larger issues of political
obligation and civil disobedience. That’s OK, though, as I’m coming to realize that the standard isn’t
(and can’t be) perfection.
Brian Chen
I like writing, but writing is often daunting and frustrating. When I first start to think about an essay, I sit with a blank
pad of lined paper and a pen. In the back of my head, I know
that I could potentially sit and think for a long, long time without coming up with anything useable. I scribble down my ideas
without any order. Then, much later, I may need to find quotations from the book I’m commenting upon, to see if there is
enough evidence to support what I want to say. This involves
much unenjoyable flipping, back-and-forth, back-and-forth.
Then, even later, I have to overcome the inertia associated with
actually starting the essay. Putting that first paragraph down
on the computer word processor is always a challenge. There
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Exposé 2006-2007
is the constant temptation to surf the Internet, to check e-mail, to facebook. They’re all just a click
away. And if the essay is for Expos class, sometime later, I will need to revise it, thoroughly, and
maybe even repeatedly.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, there are a few moments that I really enjoy if I’m writing
a good essay. Before the actual writing of the essay, as I take a moment to contemplate what I’ve
scribbled, I may find a soaring coherence to a page of unorganized ideas. That is always exciting.
Or, it might be the moment when I finally come up with a concrete, somewhat original thesis, after
groping wildly for it but never quite grasping it. These happy moments might also involve
language—a sentence that I think is particularly smart, a phrase that I fancy. Sometimes, while
revising an essay, yet again, I will see my own, old ideas with a new clarity and understanding. These
experiences are all unexpected, inspiring, and exciting. I never know when an idea will suddenly
crystallize, or when a sweet turn of the phrase will strike me. It’s scary. They might never happen.
But I write on—oblivious to the fear, inured to the pain, reconciled to the tedium—ceaselessly
hoping, against all hope, that I will be read.
Sophie Chen
I’m lucky—I’ve only had one mouse in my house. Still, I’ve
never been so annoyed by something so tiny. One moment I’d
be settling on my stomach on the floor to happily watch The
OC and, the next moment, watching a gray ball of fluff zoom
across the floor. I wanted to squish it flat every time I saw it
making the rounds, and my dog didn’t help matters by watching lazily, nose to paw, as the mouse skittered inches in front
of him. I consulted Google and tried several methods, including attempting to net it with my sister’s bug hunting kit. In the
end, it was a classic mousetrap and lump of cheese that got it.
About a month and a half later (I’m a painfully slow writer,
clocking in at about 300 words per day, but, on the bright side,
I don’t usually do a whole lot of revising), I had The Piano
Teacher’s Wife. Writing about Cole’s mounting aggravation was both fun and therapeutic. Writing
this story was, in general, fun, more so than writing my other stories. The voice and style here are a
departure from what I normally do—sharper, lighter—and I had a good time experimenting, trying
to convey the frustration of mouse-hunting and a character who is boring and ordinary, yet somehow off. As to the story’s setting, I live about twenty minutes from Carmel and have been there many
times; it’s quaint and adorable and struck me as the perfect backdrop.