There are three types of man in Volpone, or The Fox: evil, stupid, and evil and stupid. No hero, no even halfway descent human being to root for—not even a proper antihero. Just evil, stupid schemers and their evil, stupid schemes. Okay—but I was riveted. It’s exquisitely executed. The jokes land. And the sheer relish Ben Jonson takes in words, in the gloriously expansive, endlessly plastic English of the Renaissance, with its “turdy-facy-nasty-paty-lousy-fartical rogues,” its baths drawn from “juice of July-flowers, spirit of roses ... milk of unicorns, and panthers’ breath, gather’d in bags, and mixt with cretan wines.” A heady brew—more than enough to balance the acid humor. Volpone may be bleak, but it sure as hell isn’t boring.
I think it’s time I stop being surprised how much I love Elizabethan theater. I keep thinking of these 400-year-old plays as worth the effort, in the way that a difficult novel might be worth the effort, when what they really are is a treat—easily as entertaining, as absorbing, as anything else I read.