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Introduction to "Shakespeare's female icons": sorcerers, celebrities, aliens, and upstarts.

A Shakespearean icon might include any form of a character, scene, idea, or moment as it circulates and is reproduced in a visual mode: a particular performance frozen in memory (Sarah Bernhardt as the cross-dressed Hamlet, for example); an often quoted scene, as it travels (i.e, Ophelia, floating to her death); or a particularly striking and highly recognizable visual representation of a character (i.e., Marge Simpson as Lady Macbeth). Icons allow us to explore issues of spectacle, visual pleasure, and ultimately audience. Icons are highly metaphorical and have a totemistic quality--their meanings and psychic power are often in excess of what is immediately apparent. Given icons' associations with religious worship and ritual, the study of Shakespearean characters' iconicity also helps us to understand the powerful resonance of Shakespeare's plays as makers--and unmakers--of cultural and even spiritual meaning, revealing why we continue to return to these particular characters. Why, for example, do we continue to think and rethink Katherine, as she is tamed or not? W. J. T. Mitchell theorizes that this return is built into the nature of the icon itself. Mitchell suggests that icons are relational--they operate in ways that elicit our response. As he provocatively proposes, icons are "something like life-forms, driven by desire and appetites"; they "want to be kissed." (1) Shakespeare's female icons are an especially effective way to think about how Shakespeare's plays continue to entertain, provoke, confound and seduce us--that is, how they stay alive, even as they shift and change.

From Lady Macbeth to Ophelia to Desdemona to Cleopatra, Shakespeare's female icons have become useful shorthand for exploring highly recognized, highly charged images of femininity in the contemporary moment. This special issue of The Upstart Crow explores the mass circulation of some of Shakespeare's most famous characters as they have grown to become icons, as well as their translation and adaptation into new forms that are highly visual and ultimately spectacular. Icons fascinate in the ways that they tap into the desires and anxieties of the culture that worships them and in the ways that they reflect a changing culture. Shakespeare's female icons both reflect Shakespeare's still central place in our culture and the transformation of Shakespeare's cultural value. Through the analysis of these icons in film, graphic novels, manga, performance, and other locations in the public sphere, the essays presented here not only seek to expand Shakespeare's meaning in our culture but also reflect ongoing transformations of sexuality, race, gender, and power as they get performed in Shakespearean adaptations and revisions.

As several recent critics have discovered, when we bring together Shakespeare, mass media, and gender, we uncover telling assumptions about women as representations, readers, and consumers. Starting with Laura Mulvey's work, feminist analyses of visual media such as film, television, and comics have asked us to think critically about the dynamics of desire, image, and the gaze. (2) These questions have become central, too, to feminist Shakespeare studies, especially those that focus on adaptation and appropriation. For example, Carol Chillington Rutter suggests that filmic adaptations necessarily supplement Shakespeare's texts, particularly in the mediums potentially more intimate treatment of embodiment and the gaze, through close-ups, framing, and raise en scene and other filmic techniques. Beginning with Mary Pickford's famous wink at the end of Taming of the Shrew, the history of Shakespeare on film parallels the heightened, even fetishized interest in the female body reflected in the history of film itself: "in beauty and its wreck, in the monstrous, the regulated, the stereotyped." (3) In addition to their formal qualities, film and other media exceed the meanings of Shakespeare's texts through their engagement with contemporary gender politics of fandom and popular filmic consumption. For example, Richard Burt charts young women viewers' negotiation of the 1990s loser/slacker image through the consumption of Shakespearean images of women, and suggests that teen Shakespeare films like 10 Things I Hate About You (1999) and Never Been Kissed (1999) reflect among other things a continuing bifurcation in our culture of sexual good girls (allied with The Bard) and sluts. Shakespearean random and identification with Shakespearean heroines might offer itself as a strategy to distance oneself from the 1990s loser-slacker image of cool for some women viewers, Burt argues. (4) And certainly the emergence of multiple feminist voices in the production and critique of Shakespearean adaptations, from Julie Taymor's Titus (1999) and The Tempest (2010) to the Canadian television series Slings and Arrows (2003-06), brings to light new issues of the cultural relevancy of Shakespeare's treatment of gender and sex. For example, Lisa Starks suggests that Taymor's Titus brings to the foreground issues of desensitization, abjection, suffering, and war through a feminist lens. (5) My own recent essay on Slings and Arrows considers the show's treatment of gender and specifically masculine vulnerability in the cultural context of The War on Terror. (6) Such issues of form, audience, and the larger cultural context will be key to the discussion of Shakespeare's female icons presented here.

In a spectacular example of the icon as both the repetition of a well-known image and that repetition with a difference, Taymor's film adaptation of The Tempest features Helen Mitten as Prospera, a reinvention of Shakespeare's sorcerer and patriarch. Mirren, 62 and fresh from her machine gun-toting role as a trained assassin in the graphic novel remake, Red (2010), as well as her signature tough woman work in Prime Suspect (1991-2006) and toughness of another kind in The Queen (2006) brings to the role a combination of warmth, vulnerability, and haughtiness. Distinct from Vanessa Redgrave's genderblind performance of Prospero on the London stage ten years before, Mirren's Prospera is most definitely female and human. In her first appearance on screen, she is orchestrating the tempest with her staff, and she wears a huge, flowing, feathered cape, the hood shaped like the head of an eagle. There on a cliff of Hawaiian black rock, overlooking the turbulent Pacific ocean, short greying hair whipping in the wind, her profile is powerful, but softened around the edges. She makes a war cry, and thanks to the clarity of digital film, we notice that she's either dripping in sweat or tears. Her cry, something like Kathy Bates's "Towanda!" in Fried Green Tomatoes (1991), conveys rage, retaliation for past hurts, vulnerability, and volatility at once. As Taymor tells USA Today, "Prospera is a volcano herself, about to erupt ... and you know Helen Mirren. When she invokes the black powers, she's got the rage. She's got it all." (7)

Prospera's anger is one of the most palpable ways that recent audiences can experience the transformation of Prospero into a distinctly feminist figure, calling on second wave feminism's focus on assertiveness and voice, as well as more recent feminist models of talking back and acting out, as in the 1990s Riot Grrrl movement. (8) In addition, Mirren's performance lends Prospera a charismatic sensuality that surpasses ageist assumptions about older women as desiring bodies. Moreover, Prospera's ambivalence about her own power over her daughter, as well as over Caliban and the rest of the island, engages recent Third World feminist discussions of empire that use The Tempest as a frame. (9)

Mirren's Prospera also provides Taymor with an opportunity to explore the creative and intellectual power of women, a theme she also pursues in other films. Tempest takes care to convey the "backstory" of Prospera's exile from Milan as the result of the devaluation of women's knowledge. She depicts Prospera in these sequences as a young Marie Curie, surrounded by test tubes and beakers, a small cradle containing Miranda just within sight. The importance of knowledge seeking and imagination were also important for her female heroines in Frida (2002) and Across the Universe (2007). Indeed, the trailers of the film invite us to identify Prospera with Taymor herself, as creative maverick. The opening frames announce: "From Julie Taymor, visionary director of Across the Universe, Frida, and Titus," and the film flashes on Mirren as Prospera, orchestrating her storm.

One of the most important aspects of this feminist reinterpretation of Prospero is its depiction of Prospera's warm friendship with her daughter Miranda, who frequently calls her "Mom." These scenes convey the closeness and complexity of mother and teenage daughter; the two walk arm in arm or put their heads together, whispering in conspiracy. Mirren translates Prospero's demands into gentler maternal guidance, sometimes tempering her words with a touch on the neck or back. Mirren conveys protectiveness of Miranda's innocence and also envy. We see regret and longing flicker across Mirren's face as she watches Miranda and Ferdinand's courtship from afar, sometimes hugging herself in sympathy.

Prospera is a more empathetic and empowered female icon of powerful womanhood than Jessica Lange's incestuously protective mother in Titus or the upper-class, undervalued, and ultimately ineffective suburban mother in Across the Universe. Critic Andrew O'Hehir describes Mirren's performance as that of a "sadly elegant morn-magician," and there is something strikingly domesticated about this description, a gendered take on Prospero's admission that once he returns home, "every third thought will be his grave" (5.1.314). (10) But counter to the retiring, death-imbued tone of this final scene, when Prospera does utter these lines in Taymor's adaptation and reconciles with Duke Ferdinand in this final act, she does so while implying that she has not fully given up her powers. Indeed, Prospera's costume and bearing shift from the gentle tattered nymph look of an Isadora Duncan to a postmodern, punky, Discipline and Punish, Lady Gaga-inspired leather frock, complete with form-fitting corset and multiple studs and golden zippers (designed by Sandy Powell). Taking up her lost position as Duchess of Milan, Mirren's Prospera is both forgiving and still a little intimidating, her lines delivered in her best Elizabeth II smartly decisive tones. What we might be seeing is a generational shift in the image of motherhood, from the soft, if witchy earth-mother to "bad mother (shut your mouth)" leather and studs. Here, we see the suggestion that feminist assessments of power must always be in a state of revision.

The film's handling of The Tempest's legacy of colonialism is a more muddled, sometimes troubling mixture of fear, sexual frisson and empathy. Mirren's tone vacillates from haughtiness to delight in her dealings with Ariel. And when Prospera confronts Caliban, conceived of stereotypically as a mud-painted, loin-clothed, African native and played by Djimon Hounson, the camera films them at a tilt, so that Caliban towers slightly above Prospera, emphasizing their differences in height and strength. There is frustration in Prospera's eyes and her throaty voice, compounded by barely contained fear, especially in the lines that allude to Caliban's attempted rape of Miranda in act one, scene two. As Mitten delivers the lines,
   I have used thee,
   Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee
   In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
   the honor of my child, (1.2.348-351)

she stands between Caliban and her daughter and brandishes her large black staff at him, her own black phallus countering his, shaken but determined. Interestingly enough, Taymor keeps Miranda silent in this scene, cutting some of these more explicitly racist lines:
   When thou didst not, savage,
   Know thine own meaning, but would gabble like
   A thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes
   With words that made them known. But thy vile race,
   Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures
   Could not abide to be with. (358-63)

But this production doesn't make the portrait of Prospera's relationship with Caliban entirely transparent, either. In Prospera's final scene, after she quietly acknowledges Caliban as her own "thing of Darkness," the two lock eyes in silence, a mystery language of unsaid tenderness exchanged. New York Times critic A. O. Scott suggests that "Ms. Mirren, regal and vulnerable, emphasizes the character's sometimes cruel dignity, her need for affection and also her stubborn loneliness." (11)

What might Taymor's film be suggesting about the continued valence of the "White man's burden" of authority and power found in many post-colonial critiques and revisions of The Tempest, from Cesaire to Gloria Naylor--and in particular, white women's role in them? Prospera continues the tradition of white women as the central, definitive figures of motherhood, even if this mother sweats, loses her temper, and lusts after her daughter's lover and her darker neighbor. But she brings a self-awareness about her position of power and eventually denounces her role as righteous matriarch. There is suggested in Prospera's meeting of Caliban's eye in that final scene a sense that the history of white over black should end here. This updating not only suggests the opening of the pantheon of Shakespeare's female icons. It also takes part in an ongoing conversation about femininity, whiteness, colonialism, and imperialism taken up by recent Shakespearean scholars like Jyotsna G. Singh, Ania Loomba, Dympna Callaghan, Natasha Korda, Kim E Hall, Joyce Green MacDonald, Sujata Iyengar, and Peter Erickson, among others. As Mirren's performance gets attached to the Shakespeare icon, as image of "culture," "history," and "universalism," we might insist that issues of race, gender and power continue to be important to how we understand Shakespeare's cultural relevance.

Shakespeare's female characters continue to provide powerful cultural scripts for racial, gender, and sexual representation and/or self-fashioning on the stage, screen, and in the public sphere. We might consider, for example, the ways that Nicole Simpson continues to be framed as a Desdemona figure, Katherine Heigl as "The New Shrew," or the embrace of Cleopatra as an image of glamour and power by Lady Gaga, Lil' Kim and Nikki Minaj. How does the recurrence of these characters work as a way of "explaining," justifying, or interrupting dominant notions of femininity in particular cultural moments, giving evidence to Marjorie Garber's notion that "Every age makes its own Shakespeare"? (12)

Helen Mirren's performance of Prospera gives testimony of the continued importance of Shakespearean performance as sites of interventions in gender, race, and power. Other examples might include Julia Stiles's riot grrrl Kat in 10 Things I Hate About You and Jessica Lange's tattooed Goth queen in Titus. Shakespearean feminist theory has had profound effect on the ways that Shakespeare's female characters are translated, acted, and performed, whether we consider this on the level of acting and directing, or of theoretical analysis.

Embodiment is a particularly important aspect of the construction of Shakespeare's female icons as they engage and elicit desire for their audiences. As Penny Gay suggests, "[b]eautiful, grotesque, sweaty, shouting, whispering, crying, laughing, moving bodies are, first and last, the producers of the texts of drama." (13) Several of the essays in this issue highlight new discourses on the interlocking identities of sexuality, race, class, and nation as they inform the ways that we analyze the performance of gender in Shakespearean characters. New and continuing representations of Shakespearean feminine embodiment, both within the context of the plays and as they travel outside of them--as desirable, untamed, unruly, pathetic, mysterious, seductive, even as sources of fear--will be explored by using the framework of icons and iconicity, emphasizing their circulation and their relational involvement with their audiences.

These essays also explore the meanings of Shakespeare's female characters as shaped by new technologies and economies, drawing primarily from popular cultural forms like Hollywood and Hong Kong films, graphic novels and comic books, as well as theatrical performances that make use of popular media and technology as central to their productions. As the global marketplace opens up the ways that Shakespeare takes form, our conversation ultimately also has to integrate new questions about circulation and audience, as well as content. What do we learn from these examples about the markets for Shakespeare, inside and outside of the classroom? What's gained and lost historically and aesthetically in the effort to be timely for contemporary audiences? In what ways might we think of these new icons as examples of the ways that Shakespeare must necessarily adapt to the language and media most used by its audiences? Many of these essays consider these questions, highlighting, as Mark Burnett suggests, how "global flows, media technologies and questions of difference as they play out in the screen" interplay with our ideas of "Shakespeare," in terms of identity, difference, and belonging. (14)

Recently, theater scholar Dorothy Chenski has suggested that "theater that doesn't address contemporary people with the communication modes that shape all other facets of their world is doomed to failure." (15) This holds true for other forms of art as well, especially given the ways that the exponential development of new technologies of entertainment and social interaction has meant that competition for our attention continues to grow. Ultimately, we think of these recent Shakespearean female icons as part of a history of a present that is in a state of rapid change.

Coming Attractions

Shakespeare on film is an important site for mass circulation of Shakespeare's female icons, probably one of the most noted aspects of Shakespeare's adaptation, revision, and reinvention. The first two essays in this collection consider female sexuality and subjectivity in popular film. As I've discussed, the casting of Shakespeare's female icons can have a powerful effect on the afterlife of Shakespeare's plays--Helen Mirren's Prospera a case in point. Likewise, Shakespeare's female icons have the power to transform the careers of their screen performers--consider the new level of artistic seriousness lent Elizabeth Taylor's career after performing in Zefferelli's 1967 "Faming of the Shrew. In her essay "Ordinary Stardom: The Tragic Duality of Julia Stiles's Ophelia," Natalie Jones Loper considers the new visibility lent to Shakespeare's female icon by actor Julia Stiles's stardom, from her breakout role as Kat in 10 Things I Hate About You, to her turn as Desi in O (2001), to her portrayal of Ophelia in Michael Almereyda's Hamlet (2000). Loper reminds us that a star's polysemy, or combination of other roles and publicly available image, can affect our interpretation of a particular character. Publicly, Julia Stiles has been portrayed as a fresh-faced beauty with Ivy League intelligence, liberal politics, and an ability to remain in the public eye, not for her romances with co-stars, but for her well-spoken opinions and public service. Stiles works carefully to maintain this image, both on-screen and off, choosing characters with rich interior lives or complicated back stories. Stiles's career as Shakespearean film diva illustrates the ways that new artists challenge and innovate these past images and conversations. Stiles transforms the iconicity of Ophelia, for example by lending her a richly developed private life. As a result, Ophelia's madness and death are even more tragic than they are in the play because the audience has been able to see more of her than exists in the world created for her by Shakespeare's text.

Dee Anna Phares turns to another Julia Stiles performance, as Desi in Tim Blake Nelson's revision of Othello, 0. In "Desi 'was a ho': Desdemona, Ocular (Re)proof, and the Story of O," Phares explores the film's reanimation of fears about female sexuality and power. The women of O inhabit a world that is hostile towards their sexuality and their ability to denigrate male reputation through infidelity, Phares argues. Women are offered far fewer opportunities to establish their characters and voice their thoughts and feelings. Instead, the women of O operate as voiceless bodies to be observed and scrutinized. This is especially true of Desi, whose character seems to undergo the most radical revision from the Shakespearean source. In comparison with the voluble heroine of Shakespeare's play, O's Desi is more often seen than heard and is forced to endure more surveillance, exposing her and her sexuality to greater speculation by Odin (Othello), Hugo (Iago), and the audience.

Kendra Preston Leonard's essay, "Rosalind's Musical Iconicity in Branagh and Doyle's As You Like It," explores the relationship between ocularity and aurality through soundtracks. Leonard interrogates film composer Patrick Doyle's use of Western and Pan-Asian musical conventions to convey the shift in Rosalind's gender identities. By employing motifs with differences in texture, instrumentation, and ethnic sources, Doyle's music for the film serves as a guide for audiences in understanding Rosalind's dual natures as both female and male, sophisticate and rustic, student and teacher. Leonard suggests that the film's visual and aural links to a fantastic Japan become a musical means to identify a split Rosalind, one linked to the feminine Western court, and the other, more androgynous Rosalind linked to the forest. Leonard suggests ways that visual iconicity is integrated with aurality to convey a fantasy of travel into newly gendered and national/ethnic worlds in the film.

Likewise, Niamh O'Leary considers filmic constructions of Asian identity and aesthetics in recent reinventions of Shakespeare's female characters, this time as produced from within Hong Kong cinema. In "Ambition and Desire: Gertrude as Tragic Hero in Feng Xiaogang's The Banquet (2006)," O'Leary takes into account the traditions of the dragon-lady and martial arts cinema to suggest that Xiaogang remakes Little Wan (Gertrude) as the emotional center of his film. Xiaogang changes all the faultlines of desire in Hamlet, invoking and critiquing the long critical and representational history interested in the Oedipal tensions between Gertrude and Hamlet. At the same time, The Banquet helps us understand Shakespeare's role in the trafficking of Hong Kong films for Asian and world-wide audiences, combining familiar storylines with new innovations in character, as well as movement, costume, and spectacle. Leonard's and O'Leary's essays foreground recent ways that the ideal of Shakespeare's "global" reach is represented and the ways that Shakespearean icons circulate transnationally on film.

Moving from popular film to graphic novels, Catherine Thomas explores the commanding presence of Lady Macbeth in recent graphic novels in her essay "(Un) sexing Lady Macbeth: Gender, Power, and Visual Rhetoric in Her Graphic Afterlives." Thomas pays particular attention to the way these illustrations figure the play's problematic relationship between gender and power in three pivotal moments in the play: the witches' prophecy, the "unsex me here" speech, and the pre-suicidal sleepwalking scene. Graphic novels' integration of text and visuality might potentially introduce new updatings of characters and multiple narratival directions to its often younger audiences. Thomas explores the feminist and dramatic potential of these new imaginings of Lady Macbeth and the witches as aliens and superheroes.

Moving from film to the public sphere, I foreground issues of racialized embodiment in the performance of politics in my essay, "Condi, Cleopatra, and the Postcolonial Condition: Performing Conscience in an Age of Celebrity and Neoliberalism." I use the iconicity of Shakespeare's Cleopatra as a figure of desirability, politics, mystery, and racial difference to reflect on the public image of former Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice. Given her significance as a black female leader in a pre-Obama age, why are we discouraged from examining her ambition, motives, and contraditions? In a social context irrevocably influenced by the circulation of black women's bodies as highly visible and hypersexualized, Rice's sometimes paradoxical image as an icon of both diplomacy and conspiracy adds a new layer to the ways that we think and talk about public, powerful women.

The issue concludes with a summary essay by Ayanna Thompson, scholar of Shakespearean performances of race, gender, and violence in contemporary culture. In her Afterword, Thompson returns to two aspects of iconicity presented in this volume: the masculine function of icon as doer and the traditionally feminine aspect of the icon as that which "is," "performs," or "embodies." Such questions bring back to the fore the ways in which icons reflect and also expand Shakespearean texts by engaging contemporary issues of representation, gender, and power.


(1.) W. J. T. Mitchell, What do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 6, xvi.

(2.) Foundational work on "the gaze," feminism, and the psychoanalysis of the power of looking includes Laura Mulvey's groundbreaking essay "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," Screen 16.3 (1975): 6-18, Kaja Silverman's The Subject of Semiotics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), Jacqueline Rose's Sexuality in the Field of Vision (London: Verso, 1986), and bell hooks' Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston: South End Press, 1992). We can see the impact of this work in Shakespeare Studies in scholarship that looks at the power of the gendered and raced gaze in early modern visual culture, including Kim E Hall's Things of Darkness: Economies of Race and Gender in Early Modern England (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995), Early Modern Visual Culture, ed. Peter Erickson and Clark Hulse (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), and Sujata Iyengar's Shades of Difference: Mythologies of Skin Color in Early Modern England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2005); the gaze in early modern theatrical performance, including Barbara Freedman's Staging the Gaze: Postmodernism, Psychoanalysis and Shakespearean Comedy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), Celia Daileader's Eroticism on the Renaissance Stage: Transcendence, Desire and the Limits of the Visible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), and Carol Chillington Rutter's Enter the Body: Women and Representation on Shakespeare's Stage (London: Routledge, 2001); and the gaze in Shakespearean film, including Courtney Lehmann's Shakespeare Remains: Theater to Film, Early Modern to Postmodern (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002), and many of the essays in the collection The Reel Shakespeare: Alternative Cinema and Theory, ed. Lisa Starks and Courtney Lehmann (Madison, NJ: Fairlegh Dickinson University Press, 2002).

(3.) Rutter, 243.

(4.) Richard Butt, "Te(e)n things I Hate about Girlene Shakesploitation Flicks in the Late 1990's," in Spectacular Shakespeare: Critical Theory and Popular Cinema, ed. Courtney Lehmann and Lisa S. Starks (Madison, WI: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2002), 205-32.

(5.) Lisa Starks, "Cinema of Cruelty: Powers of Horror in Julie Taymor's Titus, "in Starks and Lehmann, 121-42.

(6.) Francesca Royster, "Comic Terror and Masculine Vulnerability in Slings and Arrows, "Journal of Narrative Theory 41 (2011): 343-61.

(7.) Anthony Breznican, "First Look: Helen Mirren in Lead Role in Julie Taymor's 'Tempest,'" USA Today, May 9, 2010,

(8.) For an excellent critical discussion of the second and third waves of feminism, see No Permanent Waves: Recasting Histories of U.S. Feminism, ed. Nancy Hewitt (Rutgers, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2010).

(9.) Here, I'm thinking in particular of Sylvia Wynter's landmark essay, "Beyond Miranda's Meanings: Un/Silencing the 'Demonic Ground' of Caliban's 'Woman,'" in The Black Feminist Reader, ed. Joy James and T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2000), 109-27, as well as Michelle Cliff's novel No Telephone to Heaven (NY: Plume Books, 1996) and Gloria Naylor's novel Mama Day (New York: Vintage Books, 1989), both The Tempest reenvisionings set in Jamaica and in the Georgia Sea Islands, respectively. These reenvisionings have in common their attention to silenced or marginalized female characters in Shakespeare's play. Such changes also force us to rethink the "naturalness" of Prospero's power and are in line with the more reflective "Prospera" captured in Taymor's film. For more on Third World women's critical "retakes" of The Tempest, see Thomas Cartelli, "After The Tempest: Shakespeare, Post-Coloniality and Michelle Cliff's New New World Miranda," Contemporary Literature 36.1 (Spring 1995), 85-102, and Barbara Bowen, "Writing Caliban: Anticolonial Appropriations of The Tempest: Text and Reception in Southern Africa," Current Writing 5.2 (1992): 80-99.

(10.) Andrew O'Hehir, "'The Tempest': Helen Mirren's Sadly Elegant Morn-Magician,", December 10, 2010, This and all other quotes from Shakespeare's plays are taken from The Norton Shakespeare: Based on the Oxford Edition, ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al. (New York: W. W. Norton & Company), 1997.

(11.) A. O. Scott, "Dread Rattling Thunder! Yes, it's Shakespeare," The New York Times, December 9, 2010, tempest.html.

(12.) Marjorie Gather, Shakespeare After All (New York: Pantheon Books, 2004).

(13.) Penny Gay, As She Likes It. Shakespeare's Unruly Women (London: Routledge, 1994), 3.

(14.) Mark Burnett, Filming Shakespeare in the Global Marketplace (New York: Palgrave, 2007), 3.

(15.) Dorothy Chenski, review of Theater in a Media Culture: Production, Performance and Reception Since 1970, by Amy Petersen Jensen, Theatre Journal 61.4 (December 2009): 647-48.

Francesca T. Royster, DePaul University
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Author:Royster, Francesca T.
Publication:The Upstart Crow
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Date:Jan 1, 2012
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