Original subtitles

Well, Kit, not so dusty, eh? Things are looking up for me and no mistake.

Already I have not one but three plays in Burbage's repertoire.

And what's more, they are all called Henry VI.

Which must surely be some sort of record.

No doubt about it, Will,

you're absolutely ripping London theatre a new arsington. Big respect, cuz.

Feels good. Can't deny. And there's more.

See here, I have an invitation to Lord Southampton's saucy prancings.

Think of it.

Me, a Stratford bum-shankle,

a-hobbing and a-nobbing with the cock-snobbled folderols.

Hell of a step up for you. And one in the eye for Robert Greene.

Him and his varsity wits think the Southampton prancings

their own private literary salon. Tch!

He's going to crap a dead cat when he hears you've been invited!

Which is, of course, brilliant. I salute you.

- Thanks, mate. - Mind you, not sure about this teenage romance thing

you've been banging on about.

I'm not going to lie.

Sounds lame.

Same. I think it's wet.

I love it.

Well, as it happens, I've decided to shelve Romeo for now.

I need a guaranteed smash to cement my reputation and, sadly,

lovey-dovey smoochy-woochy just ain't going to cut it.

Yeah, you got that right. The plebs want violence and murder.

Of course we do!

So this morning I knocked out a really satisfying Richard III.

Oh...

Bit too much information, Will.

I mean, why do we need to know?

- It's a play. - Oh, right. - Oh!

Even Richard must wait,

because the one I'm really pleased with is my big new Jew play.

Oh, yes!

Love a Jew play! No chance you'll give it to me, I suppose?

No, Kit, I'm afraid not.

Come on, it's just the sort of thing I should be writing.

- Then why don't you? - You know why.

Ah, of course. Your other job.

Hunting Catholics for Walsingham's torture chamber.

Defending the one true, pure and divine faith.

This being the one true, pure and divine faith that Henry VIII basically invented

so that he could dump his missus and have it away with bonker Boleyn?

Yes, that's the one.

A romance so spiritually true, pure and divine

that it went from rumpy-pumpy lovey-dovey

to choppy-woppy heady-deady

in just three years.

I don't make the rules, Will.

Well, I'm sorry, but you can't have my Jew play.

I'm on a roll and it's my time to shine.

Fine. Can't really blame you, I suppose.

I'm off to the bawdy house for a quaff and a roger.

Pretty hose, Mr Marlowe.

Very trendy.

Tres joli, monsieur.

Italian. Latest thing.

Gosh, I envy you, Kit.

I could never carry off tights like that.

- I'm afraid they just wear me. - Oh, don't be ridiculous. You've just got to strut!

- Oh! - That's all.

You're too apologetic. Just get out there and show the world

- that you don't give a damn. Hey! - Oh! - I love you loads.

Easy for him to say.

The problem is, I do give a damn.

I crave approval and people sense that in me.

It's true. You're very needy.

Not needy. Just nice.

People don't like nice. They look upon it as weakness.

I want to be liked, and so for some

dark reason located deep in the human soul,

people are less inclined to like me.

Feet!

Marlowe, on the other hand, doesn't give a tosslington,

- so everyone wants to be his mate. - I'm just like you, Mr Shakespeare.

Girls used to call me a try-hard because I wanted to make friends.

But the more I tried, the more they'd pull my hair

and stab me with their knitting needles.

But, in the end, I made three great pals.

Latin, Greek...

and mathematics.

A good lesson for all us farts and try-hards, Kate.

What we lack in easy charm we must

make up for with talent and hard work.

And mine is finally paying off!

I have my big new Jew play ready for Burbage.

And an invitation to Southampton's prancings

in the pocket of my puffling pants.

Even Robert Greene, who doth hate my gutlings,

must now admit I am the coming man.

William Shakespeare.

Curse him for an oafish country bum-snot.

Already are his first three Henrys hits,

whilst mine own sublime Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay

fades in the fickle memory of the mob.

Many a time and oft have I thought

to dispatch this upstart crow with steel.

But such a death would be too quick for one so base.

Instead, have I employed

a crueller weapon.

Tomorrow, all London will know

how Robert Greene doth treat a low pretender to the rank of gentleman.

For never more a poet will I be.

Instead...

.. I am become...

... a critic.

A critic...

A critic!

Greene's review is out and it's an absolute stinkington.

Oh!

No!

Ouch. "Upstart crow."

That'll hurt.

You are right, Condell.

He'll hide away for a while after this.

Hm, yeah, nasty.

Mind you, might be the wake-up call he needs, so...

I beg your pardon, Kempe?

This is the 16th century.

He has to move on.

Test the boundaries, challenge the form, yeah?

Like with his comedy. Comedy isn't jokes.

Comedy is attitude.

It's not what you say.

It's what you don't say.

Do shut up, Kempe.

"Upstart crow"?

He calls me "upstart crow"?

I can't believe it.

I mean, one welcomes intelligent criticism, but this is just abuse.

I thought you never read reviews.

We all say that, Bottom, but it isn't true, obviously.

We contrive to bring the good ones to the notice of our friends

while letting the bad ones eat into our souls until the day we die!

That used to be the case,

but since printing took off, bad reviews hang around for ever.

Woe to Albion that through this new invention,

any clueless arse-mungle may make

his puerile twitterings known to the world...

.. as Robert Greene has done with his oh-so-amusing pamphlet,

a Groatsworth Of Wit.

You have to admit it's a pretty good title.

Huh! If such little wit be worth a groat,

then a king's ransom would not purchase my brilliant gag

about waking up in an enchanted forest and falling in love with a donkey.

Seriously, Master, you didn't expect Greene to be nice to you?

He's a rival poet.

For a genius, you don't know much about human nature.

Actually, understanding human nature is one of my big things.

Well, then, you should be able to see that he's jealous.

He's jealous like... like...

The green-eyed monster that doth mock the meat it feeds on?

Well, I was going to say, like a talentless turd in tights, which...

.. actually, I think is better.

The point is, don't let him live in your head rent free.

Huh? Who cares what he thinks?

I care! These salty barbs will ruin me.

All London will revel in my shame.

Yeah, cos everyone in London's talking about you, aren't they(?)

Got nothing else to worry about at all(!)

"Got the plague. Could be worse -- I could've been called an uppity crow."

"Starving to death? Ooh, at least you haven't had a bad review!"

Yes, all right, Bottom!

"You're burned alive for refusing to deny Jesus were made of wine and wafers?

"Well, that's nothing! Will Shake got called upstart crow by a posh boy!"

"All your kids dead? Well, that's nothing..."

All right, Bottom! I get the gag.

- Yeah. And you know I'm right, too. - I do not know you're right,

and getting a bad review is much worse than getting the plague,

because at least with the plague, the person that gave it to you dies!

Of course, Kit. Always welcome.

Oh-ho-ho! Absolutely!

You got a serious bitch-slapping.

- Still, forget about it, eh? - I can't forget about it, Kit.

It's... it's eating away at me.

Well, in that case, kill him. Ain't no thing.

Challenge him to a duel when you see him at the prancings.

I can't fight him, Kit. I'm no dashing blade.

Where I went to school, we did our duelling with conkers,

and the loser had to give everyone a bite of his carrot.

Besides which, I can't go to the prancings now.

Why not?

Because I'll look a fool.

Will, please! Grow a pair of Bolingbrokes.

But I do care, and all will know it. 'Tis writ upon my face.

- He's transparent. - Come on, Will!

The noble peacock doesn't hang his head.

He displays his bum-shank with magnificent feathery plumes.

Show this churl your feathery bum-shank!

But how?

Strut, man! Rock some fine thread! Put on a show!

Confidence is attractive.

Believe me, the only way this review can hurt you is if you let it.

Go a-prancings in silken tights of figure-hugging Italian cut,

and Lord Southampton will see you are a dainty man of taste and breeding,

and Greene will look a fool he ever called you upstart!

Do you know, I think that could really work.

If I turn up in form-fitting tights,

everyone will see I've got balls.

My sweet wife Anne is a pretty seamstress

and for a few pence-worth of silk

will she stitch me hose fit for the thighs of a prince.

Sounds like a plan.

Then ho for Stratford.

As I always say, the apparel oft proclaims the man.

I still think that should be "clothes maketh the man".

Well, I imagine that's how it'll end up getting misquoted.

Father is returned. Let joy be unbounded.

Ugh!

Where's our presents?

Uh... "Hello, Dad. Nice to see you."

Did you bring us anything?

Blimey!

Here's your bloody sugar sticks.

How did it ever get to be the rule that as soon as a father

takes one step outside his front door,

he's obliged to bring his children presents on his return?

Methinks that in future, less-indulgent ages,

kids will not be suffered to demand sweets on an almost-monthly basis.

Oh, this is a nice surprise, Will.

We weren't expecting you.

- Mwah! - Dad!

We've been practising for the May Day stupid dance.

Mum's making us costumes! Will you watch us?

Run along and play, kids. Give your father a minute.

Good journey, Will?

Absolutely. Good seat, clean coach, on time.

Well, that makes a nice change.

Except... Hang on -- no, that was in my dreams!

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of travelling in the real world

so, no, appalling journey.

- Will you stay long? - Sadly not, my love.

I'm just so busy in London churning out plays,

I can only stay a night. I really am becoming quite a success.

In fact, I'm invited to saucy prancings at Lord Southampton's.

Oh, zounds, that is posh.

Posh indeed, good wife, and a good show must I make,

which is why I've come home. I need your help.

Take this shilling and with it

stitch me tights in the Italian style.

Italian style, Will?

People'll see the contours of your Bolingbrokes.

Ooh, Mum!

That's exactly what I want them to see, Anne.

My big, bad, country-boy Bolingbrokes.

I think I am actually going to be sick.

It seems this upstart crow still flies.

Word has reached me that he is seen about the town in fine new tights.

'Tis clear the rustic fool intends to try to brazen out

the shame of my savage review

by showing the world the contours of his Bolingbrokes. Well...

Well...

If he be so vain as to think he can

come a-prancing 'mongst educated men,

then, perchance, I can turn that vanity against him.

Nice bloody tights, Mr Shakespeare!

Nice indeed, Kate.

Strutted have I from Fleet Street to Fenchurch,

and many a cheeky whistle have I got!

I'll wear these to the prancings, brazen out Greene's review,

and then my big, new Jew play will

make my reputation as London's best bard.

Actually, I wanted to mention the big, new Jew play, Mr Shakespeare.

- I read it. I hope that's all right. - No problem, Kate. Enjoy it?

The bit where the wicked Jew poisons an entire convent full of nuns?

The end, where the Jew gets boiled

in a big pot by the righteous Christians?

Yes, I was wondering about those bits, particularly.

Well, they are good. Nothing like whipping up violent

prejudice against small, defenceless ethnic groups

to get bums on seats.

Actually, it's that aspect I was wondering about.

I just thought... well, that you were a bit better than that.

Oh, here we go.

I might have seen that coming.

Lighten up, Kate.

Has theatre got so sensitive and correct

that a writer can't even start a pogrom without causing offence?

Jew-baiting is funny.

It's a joke.

Get a sense of humour.

But you actually feel that,

or is it that, deep down, you know it's mean and cruel and divisive,

but you can't resist easy thrills and cheap laughs?

Look, it's... it's layered.

I... I'm being ironic

and post Renaissance.

Oh... It's irony, is it?

Yes. By massaging prejudice, I'm actually satirising it.

B-B-But really, though, are you? Honestly?

It's a joke.

It...

Goodness. 'Tis Robert Greene. Shall I get Bottom

- to heave a bucket of wee over him? - Yes. - Yes! - No... - No.

He must've come about some purpose and I would know it.

But since he hates you, surely he'll dissemble,

concealing his true thoughts and seeking to gull you into further shame.

You're right, Kate.

So, what I'll do is, I'll hide me behind this chair

and bend my little ear to hear the secrets of his heart,

for doubtless will he speak his thoughts out loud,

as is the custom 'mongst the dainties.

Brilliant idea!

You hide, I'll go and let him in.

Good Master Shakespeare...

But soft! The room is bare.

That foolish girl mistaken must have been.

'Tis shame indeed

for I am come all contrite

to make amends for my foolish slander in the Groat

and offer a token of my future love.

God's conkers, here's a minty fix.

He has come to make amends, and I am hid.

I will reveal myself but dissemble of the cause.

But soft!

What's this? Why, good Master Shakespeare be here after all!

Sirrah, are you well?

What? What? Oh...

Yes, quite well, sir.

W-Weary was I and so did lay me down to rest

behind this... chair.

Well, now, Greene, it seems right strange

that one who dubbed me crow comes now a-calling.

I am come to beg your pardon

for the wrong I have done thee.

Wow.

Really? That's... that's extremely sweet of you.

Sweets, like the honeyed goat balls that toothless crones

do suck on Lammas Eve.

Thanks. I will grant thee my pardon gladly, cuz.

And for the new love I bear thee,

all clad in silken hose.

I beg thee, cuz, to think again. The fashion changeth daily.

Silken hose is banished in Florence just now.

Instead, purple puffling pants,

yellow tights and really silly cross-garters are all the rage.

Any who come a-prancing dressed not so

will make a poor show indeed.

- Really? - Really.

Goodness. M-My heartfelt thanks for telling me this,

for I would fain make a good impression.

Then I will see you at the prancings.

Well, what did he want?

Isn't that lovely?

does not turn joyful pink, like the one-eyed trouser-monster

in so swift a time.

Hmm. It is a bit strange, when you put it like that.

He told me my tights weren't fashionable enough

and that I should wear purple puffling pants,

- He's trying to trick you into looking stupid. - Exactly!

So must I go all clad in sombre garb,

like a God-prodding pure-titty

and thus filch him of his gulling.

Absolutely.

And yet...

.. why does this Greene hate me?

Because he's jealous.

Exactly, Bottom.

Because I'm a genius.

That's not actually what I said.

And... and since he knows how clever I am,

he must know that if he tells me to wear stupid prancing pants,

I will get his bluffle and come in sombre garb,

whilst he besports his dainty leg

in finest Italian cross-gartered yellow.

You're over-thinking this, Master.

And so must I practise on him a double-bluffle

and go a-prancing in purple pants!

Where be Will Shakespeare and his Jew play?

This is most frustrating.

Well, bad review -- knocks you back. I know the feeling.

Except, hang on, I don't,

because I've never had one!

Personally, I never read reviews.

Oh...

Although there was a lovely piece of graffiti about my Faerie Queene

scratched on the wall behind the privy at the Red Lion!

Master Burbage!

Why, Mr Greene, to what do we owe this honour?

You know very well.

I sent word suggesting a revival of mine own sublime Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay

for your next production.

You have not replied.

Ah, yes. Well,

- lovely idea, Bunglay And Bacon. - Bacon And Bungay.

Brilliant stuff, and all that.

It's just that we await a new piece from Mr Shakespeare.

Really?

Shakespeare...

Well, you may yet find you come crawling back to me 'ere long.

This crow you speak of

is invited to saucy prancings at Lord Southampton's,

and methinks he'll put up so poor a show

he'll ne'er be seen in this town again.

I'll await your summons.

Good day.

Unbelievable!

He just stopped. Stopped dead.

Susanna, your father's home. Help him with his cloak.

Oh, yeah. That's right.

I forgot I'm a slave!

What stopped, doll face?

The coach. We were just pulling into Leamington Spa when it stopped

barely 50 yards from the post house.

No explanation! No apology!

It just stood there... for a day!

I mean, why? Just why?!

What are you doing home, anyway? Did you miss us?

I mean, not your mother, obviously. You're not insane!

I can hear you, Anne Shakespeare, and you're a very common woman.

To tell the truth, Wife, I've had a bad review

and must put on a really good show, so...

Oh, we might have just the thing, William. Go on, John.

Tell him your idea.

Idea? Dad, wh-wh... What idea?

Don't listen to him, love. He's a nasty, jealous old arse-mungle.

It seems to me

you've made quite a success of yourself with your ready wit

and uncanny command of language,

but you're not that bloody clever.

I'm as witty as you are, easy.

Hmm.

I'm... I'm... I'm wondering where we're going with this.

He wants to get in on it. Don't you let him.

You want to write plays, Dad?

No, not plays. I hate your plays.

But you're not just a playwright, are you?

You're also a poet, a wit and an all-round smartarse.

A raconteur, Husband.

In Paris, they say "raconteur",

which is French for smartarse.

And I was thinking, we could do it together.

- Together? - Like a sort of double act.

You the famous, witty, successful son,

me the grumpy old dad who's unimpressed by your success and fashionable ways.

The only one who can really point out what a knob you actually are.

Because he's your dad.

M-Maybe...

I'm n-n-not sure.

You're ashamed of me cos I'm a convicted criminal.

No, no. I just...

Oh, you think you've got above us with your bloody London ways?

But I fear you'll never truly be accepted by the cock-snobbled folderols

on account of the fact you're a turnip-chomping country bum-shankle.

Not so, Father!

As you well know, I'm invited to Lord Southampton's saucy prancings,

and you don't get more cock-snobble than that!

On which subject, Wife, I need new tights.

It seems, to fit the fashion, I must

come all attired in purple puffling pants,

yellow tights and really stupid cross-garters.

You must stitch them for me.

And how am I to afford the material?

Why, from what remains of the shilling I did give thee last time.

- I've spent it. - Spent it? On what?

On what(?)

On what, mate(?)

I've got a bloody cottage to run and a family to raise, that's what!

I'm having the roof thatched, the chimneys are being swept,

I've had the rat-catcher round to do the beds,

Hamnet's wooden tooth needs re-varnishing,

and I bought a ferret for Judith's hair, to eat the nits.

I paid off the witch-accuser so he won't accuse me and Susanna of being witches,

even though I think she might actually be a witch!

Oh, God, Mum! Thou art so funny(!)

I bought the twins lovely new outfits for the May Day stupid dance,

a beautiful purple doublet and hose for Hamnet,

and a lovely yellow dress for Judith!

Dad, you came back! You're going to watch our May Day dance!

We love our new clothes,

and thanks for this wonderful colourful ribbon!

Hmm...

Um...

Look, kids, it's bad news.

You... you're not going to watch us?

Actually, it's a bit worse than that.

Oh, yes! Yah!

Kate, Bottom, I just thought I'd drop by to check out Will's tights

before the prancings, you know, make sure he's hanging properly,

showing good Bolingbroke contour.

- He's already gone, Mr Marlowe. - Yeah, he were too excited to wait.

Ooh, I bet he was. How did he look? Pretty cool?

Mmm... not exactly cool.

He looked like a massive futtocking cod-dangle.

Robert Greene came round

and told him to wear really silly pants, tights and cross-garters.

So, obviously, he realised it was a bluffle, to make him look a fool?

Yeah. But then he decided it was a double-bluffle.

Hang on, hang on.

You're not saying that Will thought that Greene would guess

that he would spot his bluff to bluff him into wearing stupid prancing trousers,

so thought his actual plan was to twice-bluff him

into not wearing stupid prancing trousers,

so he decided to counterbluff by wearing stupid prancing trousers?

Exactly. It's that simple.

Yes, hello.

I'm here for My Lord Southampton's saucy prancings.

Yes. The artists' entrance at the back door, please. And hurry up,

the other clowns have been here half an hour.

Will! Will! Will, thank God I've caught you.

Greene's been playing you, mate. Trying to make you look a fool.

- No! - Well, well, well!

Our upstart country bum-snot come a-prancing 'mongst the dainties?

I know. I see now you are come as a jester to amuse the children.

The apparel oft proclaims the man and you,

sirrah, are proclaimed a fool.

I salute you, Greene.

You knew that I would guess

and so, with fiendish cunning, did you triple-gull me.

No, I just told you to wear stupid pants, and you did.

Happy prancing!

Well, that's that, then.

Thank heavens you got here in time to stop me, Kit.

If I'd gone in there dressed like this,

I would have been laughed out of London.

As it is, I must skulk away like a lowly oik

and miss my chance amongst the folderols.

Skulk away? Skulk away?! Will, mate, have you learned nothing from what I told you?

A gentleman doesn't skulk.

He struts!

Kit, you'd go to the prancings dressed like that? For me?

Course I would. You're a mate.

Besides which, I quite fancy the skit.

By the time cool kid Marlowe's danced a jig or two dressed like this,

the whole of London will be wearing purple pants!

How can I ever thank you?

- I'll leave it with you. - Right.

And I hear Shakespeare made a huge success at the prancings after all.

The Jew Of Malta...

.. by Christopher Marlowe.

Ah!

I'm glad you gave that play to Marlowe.

Kate was right.

There's enough intolerance in the world without clever dicks like you

using it to thrill the mob.

Perhaps you're right.

You're bigger than that, doll. You know you are.

Yes. I think perhaps I am.

You should do another big Jew play sometime.

But give the Jews some sympathetic traits.

A nice Jew?

Bloody hell. Pretty radical, Anne.

Oh, I don't say he has to be nice, just human.

I don't know any Jews meself.

No-one does.

They were all thrown out of England by Edward I,

and none has ever been allowed back in.

But I imagine, if you prick 'em, they bleed.

If you tickle 'em, they'll laugh, just like we do.

These are bold thoughts, Wife,

but there may be something in it. I'll let it gestate.

Gestate?!

Gestate?

If you mean think about it, then why not just say it?

I'm not doing a double act with you, Dad. Go to bed.

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