Mistaken Identity (Caturday)

Big Cat, Little Cat: Mistaken Identity

Mistaken Identity: The Oldest Trick in the Book

It’s interesting to me that we continue to read Shakespeare’s comedies. On a separate note, it’s interesting to me that we no longer read the comedies of his contemporaries, such as Ben Jonson. But in a way, it’s the most natural thing in the world not to find a four-hundred-year-old joke funny. It’s much more unusual–even unnatural–to continue to find something funny after that long.

Which brings me back to my original point: that Shakespeare’s comedy remains relevant.

And then let’s not forget the fact that, as comedians go, Shakespeare is pretty one-trick. And that one trick was stolen, like a pie from off a windowsill, from Plautus. Which means that the jokes are… 2300 years old? Or is it 2400? It’s a lot of years. It’s a lot of put-upon Latin teachers explaining to their students that long vowels are long and short vowels are short. Except when a short vowel comes before two consonants in a row. Or when a vowel disappears into another through elision, or… It’s a lot of work just to laugh at some jokes about dicks.

What is Mistaken Identity

What I have learned from the fact that Shakespeare is still popular (and even Plautus occasionally receives some stage-time, courtesy of adaptations like A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum) is that people really like mistaken identity. Why?

Or more basically, what is mistaken identity?

It’s the idea that the person you think you’re talking to is… wait for it… not the person you’re actually talking to. You know the type of routine: you’re trying to tell some guy that you find him hot, but you’re actually talking to his sister in disguise. And she’s in love with the duke, who’s in love with you. I mean who among us hasn’t been there?

Why Mistaken Identity Continues to Amuse

Part of the issue is that half of Shakespeare’s romantic comedies could be solved by Act 3 if the characters were queer. And the other half could be solved by Act 2 if the characters were polyamorous. And yet we keep going back for more.

Maybe we love them precisely because they’re just so wildly implausible. In Shakespeare’s A Comedy of Errors, there are two young gentlemen of means–twins separated at birth–both named Antipholus. And between them they have two servants–also twins separated at birth–both named Dromio. That’s not a thing that’s literally ever happened in human history. And that’s almost not the worst part. Because I’ve seen the play live and I tell you: the only way it works is if the two sets of master-and-servant are dressed exactly the same, even though one of the pairs lives in a different city. What are the odds?

But of course the situation that got them there, however implausible, doesn’t matter. What matters is that bone-deep feeling that you never really know who you’re talking to. Even if you think you know the person, you may not know that they have been unfaithful to you in some way. Or they once sold a guitar to Tom Waits. Or they used to sell hot dogs for the New York Yankees. That last one was me (2007-2010 or thereabouts). Now you know.

But… Why Bother?

Is Shakespeare’s comedy really so good that we couldn’t find anything in the last 2-3 centuries to equal it?

Part of the issue is institutional memory. Shakespeare is hard… but that’s because all acting is hard. If you’re a professional, it’s likely you have a real fondness, and facility, for Shakespeare; a deep and abiding belief that you can make his plays sing for a new generation of viewers. And it’s also probable that you have a decades-old desire to try your hand at one of the classics: Viola or Dogberry or the Puck.

I suppose in an era that sees the release of like thirty new Marvel films every year, it’s naive of me to ask why people gravitate to the familiar.

Shakespeare and Mozart

Why Shakespeare, though? I don’t know. I haven’t read enough plays throughout the ages. But I do know that Shakespeare’s works are refreshingly simple, despite the ornamentation of the language. He’s a bit like Mozart in that regard. It takes real skill–I mean once-in-a-millennium skill–to find something that works, stick to it, and not add any unnecessary modifiers.

Part of the problem is that we read Shakespeare too much–as opposed to watching. It’s necessary, but not good for the plays. You spend your time trying to parse this word or that word and, in doing so, lose track of how effortlessly the stuff flows from scene to scene when a really good company is performing it. Have you ever seen Twelfth Night performed live? It’s the dumbest thing ever. All of the characters are absurd. All of the situations are absurd. The ticket-taker lets you in, and then you watch a dozen people scheming and screaming for two hours. And then you go home and pay the babysitter. But it’s wonderful. “Sublime” is not a stretch.

So that’s the lesson. Next time you’re at a loss for how to continue your story or novel, just contrive to put two people in a compromising situation and then… have them spout sex-related puns at each other until they start sword-fighting. Then the police show up, but the police are idiots and just make matters worse (the more things change…). There’s comfort in that kind of formula; in that kind of simplicity. And maybe, after a hard day’s work tilling a field or tanning leather or fighting the Spanish for control of the Low Countries, we really need that comfort.

Description

Four identical panels, two on top and two on the bottom. In each, two cats sit together on a cushion, one as large as a large house-cat; the other as large as a small house-cat. The larger of the two is orange with darker orange strips, and looks down at his companion the way one cat looks at another when they’re sitting together on a cushion. The other looks out of the frame as if signaling to me that this joke has run its course and I should wrap it up.

Panel 1

Little Cat: It’s go-time, Big Cat.

Panel 2

Big Cat: What happened?
Little Cat: Saw a rat. I will stalk and kill and feast.

Panel 3

Big Cat: That’s… Human-mom’s niece is visiting.
Little Cat: …oh.

Panel 4

Little Cat: I guess I’ll just ralph in her shoes.