Making Shakespearean soliloquies personal and engaging.
Inviting the audience to be a part of the story can elevate their experience, as well as yours.
Shakespeare is meant to be accessible to everyone, not just the erudite, educated elite. Sure, the poetry and scansion can be a bit lofty or complex at times, but when performed well, Shakespeare’s plays can unite theatergoers of all backgrounds, whisking them off together into a spellbinding story.
But to ensure his plays did just that, Shakespeare chose to write into his work a mechanism that virtually guaranteed it. The soliloquy.
I suppose it would be wise to begin with discussing the difference between monologues and soliloquies. A monologue is, simply put, a speech delivered by a character. Now, one might rightly assume that the definition of a soliloquy would be much the same thing. But, believe me, there is a distinction between the two that must be made.
A monologue is usually delivered to another character, whether that character actually appears onstage or not. In modern plays, this can happen quite often, especially in musicals. An actor delivers their speech straight out at the audience, but not to the audience.
And there’s the major difference between the two.
Shakespearean soliloquies can be an enigma to those actors who have been instructed never to break “the fourth wall.” They instinctively fight the urge to let the audience in on the fact that they are indeed an actor, and that this is indeed a play, in a theatre, for which they’ve purchased a ticket. The actor will attempt to limit the relationship between themselves and the audience. But I believe this handicaps the moment. I’ll give you an example.
In Measure for Measure, Angelo, the powerful and overtly pious governor, has just encountered the beautiful soon-to-be-nun, Isabella, and he’s instantly enthralled by her. When he’s finally left alone onstage, he turns to the audience and says:
What’s this? What’s this? Is this her fault or mine?
Now, this isn’t some rhetorical question Angelo is asking of himself. He’s not “thinking out loud,” or working things out on his own. It’s a legitimate plea for the audience to get involved in the story. He’s asking them directly, “What’s going on here? Is she seducing me or am I actually falling in love?” And he needs an answer.
Obviously, the actor playing Angelo knows that he won’t get an answer. But he should still play that moment as though he expects someone in the audience to come to the rescue with a response. The character, not the actor, has reached the limit of what he can do on his own, and now he’s looking to the audience for help.
The beauty of this approach is twofold. First, it creates a sense of immediacy for Angelo. He needs an answer now, and the lack of one propels him into his next lines. He’s in a new scene now, and his scene partner is the audience. Their reactions will shape how he moves through the speech.
Second, and perhaps most importantly, it allows the audience to step through the veil between their world, and the world of the play. They are suddenly in the play. What a wonderful discovery to find that a character has just turned to you, and asked your advice? The audience is now a vital character in the play, and they can feel it. They’re drawn into the story, more invested in the outcome, and it’s all because the actor simply broke the fourth wall, looked them in the eye, and shared a genuine moment with them.
I’m not here to proselytize. No performer needs to do things exactly the way I think they should be done. The only obligation a Shakespearean actor has is to make the text come alive, and to make it as relatable, understandable, and accessible as humanly possible. And knowing how to invite the audience into the world of the play through Shakespearean soliloquies is a giant leap toward that goal.
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