Off The Cuff: A wry look at life

There was an article in the newspaper the other day, proclaiming, 'Shakespeare comes to Sharjah'. Not in the flesh, of course, because the bard had breath'd his last in 1616. No, this article was announcing that a school in Sharjah was about to stage excerpts from some of Shakespeare's famous plays, and in this way introduce schoolchildren of today not only to a great dramatist, but to English as it was spoken four centuries ago.

It brought to mind the story about a teacher of English who'd tried to do the exact same thing with a bunch of junior school pupils about a decade ago. The idea was to introduce the class to Shakes-peare at an early age, so that when they got to the higher school levels, they would be truly prepared to tangle with the bard and come out on top.

At that time, the two Shakes-pearean texts recommended for high school study were Romeo and Juliet (for the pre-college students) and Julius Caesar (for the grade 10, or pre-pre-college pupils, if you like).

The teacher in question spent many hours labouring over the script and, after a lot of hard work and practice with the youngsters, the two extracts from Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar were ready to be staged in the school hall.

The Romeo and Juliet segment went off without a hitch, and even drew much appreciative applause. For the Julius Caesar bit, the dramatic Act 3 Scene 1 had been chosen, where Caesar is assassinated by the conspirators, but not before he has made a stirring speech (mainly about himself).

A rather confident light-eyed, light-skinned young pupil had been chosen to play Julius, and he, at rehearsal, had always managed to put in a brilliant performance. On the day of the play, however, when Julius walked on, a slight tittering was heard, coming from the audience. From his position in the wings, the nervous school teacher took a quick, close look at Julius, and to his horror discovered that young Julius was revealing quite a shapely leg, right up to the thigh. The costume lady, who had had an unmatched skill for turning a white bed sheet into a toga, had somehow, on this important occasion, failed to pin Julius' garment properly. Julius, of course, had no idea that peril was at hand in more ways than one.

It was only when he dramatically raised a foot to the conspirator Metallus Cimber to say, "I spurn thee like a cur out of my way", that he realised how thin a line could divide tragedy and farce. But by then the matter, quite literally, was no longer in Caesar's hands. He delivered his rousing speech about being as constant as the Northern star etc., but by the time the conspirators had fallen upon him with their wooden daggers and pushed him around, tragedy was truly at hand.

Caesar fell bravely, muttering the famous words 'Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar.' But his toga, which had by then come undone, had already fluttered helplessly to the stage and lay in a heap. Caesar, in bare body and short pants, collapsed (quite willingly, one suspects) upon the unpinned toga.

Some years later, when the same junior group were in high school, a serious young pupil, who'd failed to see the humour those years earlier, stopped the same teacher.

"Mr Gordon," he said, with disappointment, "We've just reached Act 3. Sc1 in our study. You won't believe it but in our text book they've edited out the bits where Caesar's toga comes off as he's assassinated. Wish they'd left it in. The symbolism of such a great man losing everything, even his garments just before he dies is lost, somehow."