Singing, screaming and soliloquies: spotting Shakespeare in modern culture

If you’ve ever been unlucky enough to get a lift with me, then you’ll know that somewhere between Eminem and Fiddy, a Les Misérables tune will inevitably pop up in my playlist.  No – I will not turn it off. And yes – I will be singing along (earplugs not included). Written in 1862 (99 years pre-Warwick), and immortalised in Cockney rhyming slang in 1985, the fire of the revolution burns just as brightly today.

Musical nerds around the world belt out ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’ unafraid when displeased with the powers that be, even if the full meaning of the revolt can only truly be appreciated by other musical nerds. But what is it that still sparks this fire inside of us, over 200 years after the French Revolution and the death of Marie Antoinette herself? (Don’t get me started on that poor, non-cake-loving woman.)

It is not the setting of young revolutioneers, or the love of defiance that is the true heart of Les Mis. Neither is it god; nor the Stars; nor even the lovely ladies that parents usually forget are in the play until it’s too late and they’re sat there with their little kid asking ‘daddy, what’s that lady doing?’[1]. The true heart of Les Mis, the moral argument at its core that keeps it still oh so relevant today, is what the true definition of justice should be.

Is justice rigid? Unfeeling? Unmoving and constant like the Stars? Or should justice be merciful? Nuanced? Forgiving and loving, and accepting of flaws? It’s a question that feels just as modern as it did back in 1985, or indeed 1862, or even 1799 when the real-life Mariuses won their battle for France.

But it’s also a question that had been wrestled with centuries earlier, back in 1596 when Sir[2] William Shakespeare wrote one of his most uncomfortable plays: The Merchant of Venice. A courtroom drama disguised as a comedy, the play revolves around a debt, a contract, and a man who insists – with alarming calm – that the law should be followed to the letter, despite the cost (here’s looking at you Javert). Shylock, a believer in the old-testament view of an eye for an eye, is not asking for cruelty just for cruelty’s sake – he is asking for consistency within the law. Justice as justice is written, and nothing more.

A true lover of the bard, I believe his genius comes not from writing storylines, but from writing humans within said storylines

What makes The Merchant of Venice so very unsettling is that Shylock is, technically, right. The law is on his side. And yet, Shakespeare engineers a world in which the strict application of justice feels morally wrong. Just as the French King’s strict laws, where justice means 25 years for stealing a loaf of bread, feels morally wrong, so does a pound of flesh in lieu of monetary payment.

Here, Valjean is Antonio: on the wrong side of the law, but the right side of morality. They are both characters who see justice not as a constant, but as something that should bend towards mercy. And yet they are both still on the wrong side of the law; on the wrong side of justice. Javert and Shylock are the opposite side of this coin: both fighting for the law as is written, despite the cost.

And so, it was upon seeing this thematic similarity that I truly began to wonder: What else is Shakespeare in disguise?

A true lover of the bard, I believe his genius comes not from writing storylines, but from writing humans within said storylines. It is not Antonio and Shylock, or indeed Valjean and Javert that are still so interesting, but the themes of justice behind them (unless of course you just want to watch Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe having a big dick contest over who is the most moral for a few hours, which is totally valid).

So, what else is Shakespeare in disguise?

 

1. Bridget Jones

But no – I promise I haven’t lost the plot (yet). For Pride and Prejudice – enemies to lovers; witty heroin; dual weddings – is in fact Much Ado About Nothing in disguise

Let’s start off lightly with an old favourite of mine. Bridget Jones – everybody’s favourite granny-knickers-wearing, potty-mouth-speaking, cigs-and-booze loving Brit – is, of course, based off of Pride and Prejudice. Mark Darcy shares his last name with the legendary Mr Darcy (both played by the ever-handsome Colin Firth); the storyline follows the same enemies-to-lovers trope following a brief misunderstanding that we have all come to be so accustomed to; and Bridget shares the same fiery wit as Elizabeth Bennet, the ever-loved feminist heroin.

So now you’re probably reading this and thinking that I’ve gone crazy. ‘Pride and Prejudice was written by Jane Austen, not Billy Shakes!’ you shout at your laptop/mobile listening device, fist shaking in the air with anger. But no – I promise I haven’t lost the plot (yet). For Pride and Prejudice – enemies to lovers; witty heroin; dual weddings – is in fact Much Ado About Nothing in disguise.

Benedict, or Benedick, is the cruelly misunderstood Darcy; Beatrice is the lovely Elizabeth, who is the lovely Bridget; and they all live happily ever after (until Mark Darcy is cruelly killed and, for some unknown reason, turned into an owl).

 

2. Gladiator

Now we come onto one of the best films ever made. Set in Ancient Rome, Gladiator follows the story of a Roman General who must defy the odds and fight for justice against a pre-Joker (but just as creepy) Joaquin Phoenix.

Here is a brief overview of the basic plot points: good emperor, or King, is killed in a tent on a battlefield following a victory by a bad man. Bad man then becomes emperor (or king), despite his evil doing. Bad man learns of a good man who may threaten his rule, and so has good man and his family killed. Good man escapes, lest his family do not! Good man then must overcome his grief to seek revenge on the ruling bad man, and ultimately raises an army, and kills him. Sound familiar? (Hint: switch Rome for Scotland).

Gladiator is Macbeth but written from Macduff’s perspective, with the true and good moral character ultimately overthrowing the rotten apple (and thus restoring the Divine Right of Kings and clearing Shakespeare from treason charges, but I don’t think that Ridley Scott was ever suspected of trying to blow up Queen Elizabeth II[3]).

Gladiator = Macbeth. Except Gladiator also has tigers in it, which is awesome.

 

3. The Dark Knight

No discussion of Shakespeare in disguise would be complete without a mention of Hamlet, Shakespeare’s most introspective and indecisive hero (or anti-hero, depending on how patient you are feeling). Hamlet is paralysed not by fear, but by thought. The more he reflects on the morality of action, the less able he becomes to act at all: ‘the conscience doth makes cowards of us all.’

Where Hamlet asks ‘to be or not to be?’, Batman asks whether it is better to break his own moral code or to watch Gotham collapse. In both cases, reflection is noble – but not without cost

Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight offers us a modern Hamlet in a very expensive cape. Much alike the Danish Prince, Bruce Wayne is haunted by ghosts; haunted by fear; haunted by the idea of wrongful action so much that he seeks indecision. Rachel, like Ophelia, becomes collateral damage in a world where male indecision has very real consequences for women.

Bruce spends much of the film questioning whether action itself will make him morally indistinguishable from the very evil that he is trying to prevent. Is he a hero? Simply a vigilante? Or truly a villain? To intervene is to become judge, jury and executioner; to hesitate is to allow chaos to thrive.

Where Hamlet asks ‘to be or not to be?’, Batman asks whether it is better to break his own moral code or to watch Gotham collapse. In both cases, reflection is noble – but not without cost.

 

4. Bonus round: Succession

Ok, so this one is pretty common knowledge. If Shakespeare were alive today, aside from celebrating gay marriage[4], he’d probably be writing for HBO – and his crowning jewel would be Succession.

In both cases, anti-intellectualism, fuelled by fragile pride and greed, corrodes families and empires alike, making power not just dangerous, but tragically human

Succession is King Lear; King Lear is Succession; and King Lear is played by Brian Cox – not to be confused with the other Brian Cox (the slow-speaking, big-haired particle physicist). An ageing patriarch must divide his ‘kingdom’ between children who both crave and resent his approval in equal measure. Lear – sorry, Logan – demands his children publicly prove their love (publicly meaning in a shareholder meeting), and the central tragedy is not inheritance, but ego. Power corrupts not because people are inherently evil, but because families are messy, pride is fragile, and nobody ever quite says what they really mean[5].

Interestingly here, a deep anti-intellectualism runs throughout the Roy family, most vividly exemplified by Frank. Steeped in literary references and Shakespearean knowledge, Frank’s insights are constantly dismissed: ‘You know, why don’t you take your library card and fuck off.’ Within the capitalistic Roy household, intellect is a liability; knowledge and moral reasoning often clash with profit-driven ideals; and anti-intellectualism becomes both a survival strategy and a tool of control: reinforcing hierarchy, ego, and familial dysfunction.

Similarly, in King Lear, the patriarch’s failure to value wisdom and honest counsel exposes his vulnerability – a weakness felt deeply by his children. In both cases, anti-intellectualism, fuelled by fragile pride and greed, corrodes families and empires alike, making power not just dangerous, but tragically human.

 

‘And what other examples of Shakespeare in modern contexts do you have?’, you ask eagerly.

Well – I’d like you to tell me. The next time you sit down to watch a rom-com, a superhero film, or an overly serious historical epic (see: Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey), it might be worth asking yourself: ‘have I seen this before – just in tights?’

Keep an eye out. Spot the ghost. Find the prophecy. Listen for the soliloquy hiding behind a dramatic screaming match, or the all-singing-all-dancing musical number. And if you find Shakespeare lurking somewhere unexpected – in a Netflix binge (Bridgerton, for example); a guilty pleasure TV-show (perhaps Euphoria); or even your own liked songs (even a mention of Taylor Swift’s The Fate of Ophelia will have you immediately barred from future lifts) – please do let me know…

Just don’t expect me to turn off Les Mis in the car.

 

 

 

[1] See also Martin Freeman’s storyline in Love Actually

[2] I don’t actually think Shakespeare was ever actually knighted, but it just feels wrong that Ian McKellan should get a knighthood for speaking the words, when the man who wrote them did not

[3] I may be wrong

[4] ‘37 academics just punched the air.’ Just a little WhoSoc shout-out there

[5] Seriously, wtf even is a ‘ludicrously capacious bag’? And why is it actually kind of cute?