A winter of the heart descends upon a weak-minded king, setting in motion a sequence of potentially tragic events that unfold against a fantastical background. Such is the tableau that unfolds for the reader in William Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale.
The Winter's Tale was composed late in Shakespeare’s career - probably around 1610 or 1611, shortly before his retirement from the London stage; and it is a good example of the category of plays that are known as Shakespeare's “romances.” These later Shakespeare plays – The Tempest and Cymbeline, King of Britain and Pericles, Prince of Tyre are other good examples – do not fit neatly within categories such as comedy, tragedy, or history, the way so many of Shakespeare's earlier plays did. Rather, Shakespeare's romances take places within a dreamlike landscape, and seem designed to evoke a mystical, otherworldly feel.
And with Shakespeare’s theatre company enjoying by that time the official patronage of King James I, that company, now the “King’s Men,” would have had the resources to create elaborate stage sets that would have reinforced the audience’s sense of stepping into a fantasy world radically different from the harsh workaday world within which they lived.
The plot has a somewhat dreamlike and frankly illogical quality that is suitable to the fantasy genre. And it is a fairly grim plot; as the young prince Mamillius of Sicilia puts it, “A sad tale's best for winter.” Leontes, King of Sicilia, has received his boyhood friend Polixenes, King of Bohemia, on a state visit. When Leontes' wife Hermione successfully helps Leontes persuade Polixenes to extend his stay in Sicilia, Leontes suddenly, and unjustly, suspects that Hermione and Polixenes are having an affair.
As with Shakespeare’s earlier tragedy Othello, the invocation of jealousy brings with it the prospect of violence; Camillo, a lord of Sicilia, is ordered by Leontes to have Polixenes killed, but disobeys that unjust order and warns Polixenes. Knowing the danger he faces, Polixenes, who is often of a philosophical cast of mind - at one point, he states that "Nature is made better by no mean/But nature makes that mean" - leaves at once for Bohemia, and Camillo joins him, willingly going into a long exile.
The plot grows more complex from there. When Leontes says, “I am a feather for each wind that blows,” he speaks more truly than he knows; he is at the mercy of his turbulent emotions that create misery for many in his kingdom. It seems that nothing will turn Leontes from his irrational jealousy – until a sudden change of mind occurs in a dramatic courtroom scene.
By the time Leontes finally sees the error of his ways, it seems as though all must end unhappily; but this is a romance, where not all is as it appears, and things can change suddenly. There is a case of thwarted love in Bohemia – in this case, the love of the Bohemian prince Florizel for the Sicilian princess Perdita, a modest and blushing “queen of curds and cream” who has been brought up in exile as a humble shepherdess. The love-struck Florizel tells Perdita that "When you do dance, I wish you/A wave of the sea, that you might ever do/Nothing but that." Complications attendant upon this thwarted love make for a second flight-into-exile - this time, going the other way, west from Bohemia to Sicilia. And it is in Sicilia that (almost) all that went wrong will be made well.
This is how I would film The Winter's Tale, had I the chance and the production budget. The setting would have a Cold War look to it. For the first three acts, I would film in that grainy, color-desaturated look from the days of Walter Cronkite's late-1960's news broadcasts for CBS. For Acts IV and V, after sixteen years have passed, I would film using the same kind of video that one saw on CNN news broadcasts from the early 1980's – rich color saturation, really deep reds, slightly hazy outlines. Leontes' palace in Sicilia would have a definite White House look to it, with kings and courtiers going about in expensive suits and power ties. The seaport in Sicilia would become Dulles Airport, with Saarinen's immortal swept-wing design. The court of justice in Sicilia would look decidedly like the U.S. Supreme Court.
The palace of Polixenes in Bohemia, by contrast, would have a distinctly Kremlin-esque appearance. There would be Cyrillic lettering everywhere; Bohemia could become the Union of Bohemian Socialist Republics, or Союз Богемских Социалистических Республик. There would be red banners wherever one looks, “socialist realism” art at every turn, “The Internationale” constantly playing over loudspeakers. (It is in Bohemia, by the way, in Act III Scene III, that one sees what may be Shakespeare's most famous stage direction, as the actor playing the unfortunate Sicilian lord Antigonus is instructed to “Exit, pursued by a bear.”) It would be a fun way to emphasize the play's move from West to East and back again.
As always, Shakespeare had his eyes on all sectors of his audience; the well-to-do who could afford to pay for seats in the gallery would no doubt enjoy the intrigue of two royal courts, while the “groundlings” standing out in the open, in what passed for a mosh pit in the England of King James I, would enjoy the misdoings of the robbery-minded rogue Autolycus, who unapologetically describes himself as “a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles”.
The Winter's Tale is not among Shakespeare's greatest plays, but it is fun, energetic, and interesting. And then there is the poetry. There is always Shakespeare's incomparable poetic language.