Vertigo’s Books of Faerie

by KV Taylor

The Books of Magic, a now-defunct DC-Vertigo comic series, sprouted from Neil Gaiman’s mystical miniseries of the same name, which I went on about at length in a previous post this month. The book on which I concentrated, Book III: The Land of Summer Twilight, details Timothy Hunter’s[1] journey with Dr. Occult through Faerie. It’s a particularly relevant book for the ongoing series (well, okay, they all are), and directly spawned the stories peopling The Books of Faerie: Auberon’s Tale and The Books of Faerie, still available in trade paperback collections[2].

In order to discuss these pretty little TPBs, I’m going to have to spoil Gaiman’s Books of Magic a touch. Not plot wise, but a single line from Titania that could be interpreted in several ways (imagine that!). It will by no means ruin your enjoyment of the GN if you pick it up, as it has zero bearing on the plot, but you’ve been warned.

While both collections consist of pure Books of Magic pre-history and side-plots, I’m sticking to the history stories — all of which were written by Bronwyn Carlton and drawn by Peter Gross (with Vince Locke in Auberon’s Tale). They amount to a kind of double fanfiction: stories based on Gaiman’s cryptic Titania from BoM, and stories based on a more directly Shakespearian concept of Oberon and Titania. The stories are bent to suit and explain the world of the ongoing BoM books, but stand alone as objects of interest to fae lovers.

I’ll start with Auberon’s Tale, to move chronologically — not in order of publication. It begins with Book I: The Regicide, in which King Magnus, a bit of a drunken idiot with a pureblood fairy superiority complex, insists that he compete in the tourney — against a lovable idiot of a troll. (Note that no one tries to stop him.) Obviously, this ends badly, and seeing as fairies don’t reproduce very often, the kingdom is left without an obvious heir. There is the king’s brother, Duke Huonnor, and there is the son of the king’s older sister, little Auberon. The king’s cousin Obrey and a courtier with a deeper connection to Magnus, Amadan, conspire to set Auberon on the throne as a puppet. You can see them talking in the shadows up there, as a matter of fact, in the doorway behind goofily grinning little Aubie, as his aunt and guardian Dymphna calls him.

 

Even before the sweet, liberal-minded boy can be installed, the machinations begin. Amadan tries to turn Obrey against Auberon, Auberon’s aunt Dymphna becomes engaged to Obrey, Huonnor goes to war with Obrey (who supposedly fights in Auberon’s name), and the whole thing becomes a sticky political mess worthy of the fae. As if it wasn’t enough, Amadan reveals that Magnus was trying to solve the fairy reproductive issue with what some consider less-than-savory experiments.

Anyone familiar with tales of the fae will guess that yes, humans are involved.

It’s a good read, and I think it highlights the slightly more human qualities of the fae here, as opposed to the frighteningly mercurial Gaiman Titania (though Auberon isn’t in BoM), and the sort of otherworldly yet simultaneously earthy fae Shakespeare envisioned. They certainly have the Shakespearean element of jealousy, though. Oh, and as a bonus, you get a really cute short about little Aubie meeting his friend, the magnificent little pink fotch he’s got on a leash on the cover up there.

 

Titania’s story, told in the collected The Books of Faerie TPB, begins with Book I: The Foundling’s Tale. There’s a sort of prologue, in which we see BoM frontman (frontboy?) Tim Hunter confronting a fully grown King Auberon and Queen Titania, claiming to be Titania’s son. Remember that thing I said about spoiling a single line of the Gaiman story? I said in my previous post on BoM that “…Titania’s parting words, for us alone, lead us to believe Tim will always be tied to Faerie in ways he can’t yet imagine.” Because what she said was, “And will you also hatch out worlds, my son?”

Take it how you like–and oh, Gaiman’s left it open–but Bronwyn Carlton’s backstory for Titania takes it literally. This goes one step beyond A Midsummer Night’s Dream‘s adopted Indian boy changeling, but it’s cool that the entire tale works as a nod to it, even as it fills in a gap in the BoM mythos. (The double fanfiction element strikes!)

The story really begins with a little girl called Maryrose being led into Faerie in spite of her gran’s warnings. The then-queen of Faerie, Dymphna, takes her under her wing and keeps her along with her little elf handmaidens, and treats her as a daughter. And then, King Obrey, whose machinations only seem to have gotten more ridiculous (oh yes, Lord Amadan is still there, if in a slightly, ah, altered form), comes home from war… and falls for little Maryrose, never knowing she was once mortal.

It’s a more character-driven story than Auberon’s, Maryrose’s journey from innocent to fae courtier, and what she’s willing to sacrifice to be a queen. Almost the moment she achieves this goal, Auberon finally defeats his cousin, Obrey the Usurper, and returns to Faerie to reclaim his crown… and offers Titania a deal, in the name of peace and prosperity for his people. She accepts, and yet, she’s never happy, caught between what she is and what she’s trying to be. Even Tamlin the Falconer can only make her happy for a short time, and that, well, as the above panel implies, spawns a mess.

Naturally it’s more complicated than all that, full of ins and outs and political madness, but that’s the gist. Titania’s tale has that same, slightly more human aspect, which . She’s at once strong and willing to sacrifice, but also swings to vulnerability and regret. Her main conflict stems from the continued emphasis on the importance of fairy blood, and her lack thereof. In that way, it’s this sort of typical fantasy story about queenship, womb control, and domestic complications. She’s not the Titania I expected, but she’s satisfying, if problematic, as a character, all the same.

The other stories in these collections, the side-plots from the ongoing series, are very cool too–and there’s another TPB collection called The Books of Faerie: Molly’s Story (which I’ve not been able to find, but are beyond the scope of this post, anyhow, as they feature the BoM ongoing character, Molly O’Reilly). I like the art; it’s expressive and easy on the eyes, though not perhaps as otherworldly as Charles Vess’s original Land of Summer Twilight work. The covers, reproduced as full-paged panels as with most TPB collections, are uniformly gorgeous.

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[1] Boy with the potential to become the World’s Greatest Magician, hero of both Gaiman’s BoM and the ongoing comic book series, for those not playing along at home.

[2] Side note: these TPB Books of Faerie are how I discovered The Books of Magic in the first place. They were in the bargain bin at my local comic shop and I’m going, “Auberon?! I’m in!”

 

KV Taylor has been a staff member and contributor for Monster Awareness Month, Vampire Awareness Month, and Ghost Appreciation Month, and is very pleased to be on the job again with the fae. Her freaky Appalachian fae novel, Scripped, is forthcoming from Belfire Press this summer.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Peter Hall, 1968)

There’s one thing I particularly like about watching old films, and that’s the credits. Complete, slow enough to read, and at the beginning so we know who’s who to start with. And with this cast, there’s a lot of who’s who to remember.

To name only the highlights, we’ve got Judi Dench (M) as Titania; Helen Mirren (Queen Elizabeth I and II) as Hermia; Diana Rigg (Emma Peel) as Helena; Ian Richardson (Francis Urquhart) as Oberon; David Warner (Lord Downey) as Lysander; and Ian Holm (Bilbo Baggins) as Puck.

Adaptations of this play are usually set in some fantastical fairyland studio set, a glittering or louring magical wood, some evocation of the Wild Wood, the Forest Primaeval. This one isn’t; it’s filmed in a forest. An ordinary, un-tarted-up English forest, with an ordinary English village & country house near it. For me, that only increases its power: it’s a real place, like hundreds I’ve walked through, and that makes it a much rawer and less mediated experience. The film has the same undramatic magic as the English woodlands do.

The fairies, too, display a similar sort of wonderful undramatic magic. They appear and disappear without a fuss—did they blink out of existence, or were they moving too fast to see? Just where did they appear from while we glanced away? When Bottom tries to leave the forest (Out of this wood do not desire to go!), he runs every which way, but Titania is always in front of him, and in Act II, Scene 1 (if you want to check the scenes against the text, there’s a good and very usable copy here) Titania’s court stream in through flickers and jump-cuts like a Wild Hunt, or like a bacchanal riot—or like dozens of children in the woods at night, because that’s what they are. It’s often traditional to cast children as the fairies, for whatever allegedly child-like qualities you want to invoke, but it’s rare to see them actually behaving like real children, rather than a director’s child-like fairy ideal. Clare Dench, as the first fairy we see, is utterly enchanting as she stamps in a pond (drenching Puck) and listens to the stories he spins to make her laugh, and when Titania gathers her court around her to sing her to sleep she behaves more like an indulgent and adoring mother than an imperious queen. In fact, this episode reminded me strongly of Neverland, with Titania playing Wendy and the brave but hopelessly incompetent Cobweb standing guard while she sleeps. When Oberon goes to dose Titania with his magical herb, a minion distracts Cobweb with a branch upside the head; it makes a very comedic ‘clunk!’ sound. In fact, Puck seems to induce sound effects and similar cartoon tropes everywhere he goes, dashing off with a ‘whoosh!’ and returning panting like a labrador, and when he leads the four lovers around in the night and fog they become hopelessly infected with cartoonishness. (There’s textual evidence for it, mind you: Those things best please me that befall preposterously.) Holm’s an amazing non-verbal actor, and his bounding, anarchic, good-hearted Puck is a delight to watch. Puck is the sort of character it’s hard not to play to extremes, because he just works so well that way, but Holm shows a lot of restraint both in his mischief—mazing and wearying Lysander and Demetrius, but without bouncing around or showing off any Weird Shit—and his kindness, in telling tales for a fairy child, and putting Helena and Hermia to sleep with a kiss on the cheek.

Ian Richardson makes a good Oberon, clearly very manly in his body language, but not showing any performative masculinity at all. Titania shows an honest, uncomplicated sensuality, but (despite spending the entire film dressed in a half-dozen leaves) comes over as protective and motherly rather than at all sexual. Her wonderful speech in II.1 (ll.450-486) is strongly felt, passionate but not fierce, and for every moment of it she has her eyes fixed either on Oberon or to camera. There’s a lot of fourth-wall-breaking in this film; practically every soliloquy is delivered straight to us. Oberon, in an interesting contrast, spends most of his lines gazing off into the middle distance while green leaves wave behind him. Unlike many versions of this couple, there’s clearly real and genuine affection between them. I’m not sure how that chimes with Oberon slipping her a roofie and getting her screwed by a mortal, and she cries real tears when he shows her that her dream did happen after all, but hey. I’ve seen weirder relationships, and their kink is not my kink. Their subsequent dance is really sweet, a montage of kisses and hands sliding over hands, and they show visible affection in the final scene. When they’re together, there’s nothing courtly going on; this is a family, and it shows.

So much for the fairies; now, the mortals, and lord! what fools these mortals be.

Mirren makes an adorable, lively, giggling, gambolling, bouncing Helena, teasing Lysander when he tries to repudiate his love for her, and only switching to fury when they make fun of her height. Rigg’s Helena is quite a contrast, and not just because this film reverses the usual short-brunette/tall-blonde colour-matching. They play off each other really well, and you can quite believe that they spent their childhoods together. Warner’s Lysander, on the other hand, is simultaneously threatening and sleazy, flirting enough with Helena that his later declaration of love doesn’t surprise her; Demetrius is threatening and gormless. Theseus, on the other hand, is sleek and dark, and incapable of saying anything without making it sound extremely sinister, to the point where I had to double-check that he wasn’t played by Anthony Ainley or Roger Delgado. (He even has the little beard. He wasn’t, of course, but Michael Jayston, who plays Demetrius, was the Valeyard. Just so you know.)

The mechanicals are classic British working class, ranging from nice but thick (Snout) to Quince’s twinkle-eyed grandfatherly wide-boy, who reminds me of several tradesmen I’ve known, and Bottom’s lovable rogue, forever acting out to impress his mates. I can’t find a great deal to say about the mechanicals; they do the job well, and it’s a pleasure to watch, but there are no surprises. I’m always a bit irked by the play’s portrayal of some of the working classes as thick, but that’s 1960s Britain for you. Progressive in patches.

The actors certainly got realistically dishevelled after their time in the woods, with messy hair and huge splotches of real mud; this is not Hollywood dirt! The costuming was fairly eclectic, based on unremarkable 1960s clothing, but with a few touches to make it look Elizabethan (swords, cloaks), Athenian (Theseus’s natty wrinkled-polycotton-sheet and doily ensemble, and Hermia’s sandals) and generically warlike (Hippolyta’s leather minidress and boots). Bottom’s ass’s head is a typical product of fine British television engineering, from the same era that produced Basil Brush. The only other item that’s worth much of a mention is Lysander’s flowered shirt, and that can safely be classed under “eldritch abomination”. Let us never speak of it again.

Overall, this is a wonderful film, and I’m delighted to have had this opportunity to review it for you all! The only thing I’d take issue with is the ending. Holm’s delivery of Puck’s final speech really surprised me; it’s very fast and enthusiastic, as though Hall wanted to end the play on an emotional upbeat. I think I can see his reasoning, but I’m not convinced that was the right way to do it. Any thoughts, O my friends and fellow appreciators?

Gaiman’s Books of Magic: Vertigo’s Magical Mystery Tour

by Fae Awareness staff member, KV Taylor

Part 1: The Books of Magic Review

In 1990, Neil Gaiman scripted a four-part series called The Books of Magic for DC/Vertigo, meant to feature their huge crop of magical-types. It eventually led to an ongoing series of the same name, but we’re just talking about the Gaiman miniseries, here–now available in graphic novel form, of course.

The overarching plot is simple and cool: the Phantom Stranger, Doctor Occult, Mister E, and John Constantine–jokingly referred to by the latter as The Trenchcoat Brigade–get together to help a twelve-year-old boy decide whether or not he wants to embrace magic. The boy, Timothy Hunter, has the potential to be the greatest magician in the world, and now he’s been discovered, everyone and their mystical brother are after him for their own nefarious purposes. (Perhaps) luckily, the Trenchcoats got there first–though there’s some dissention in the ranks about how wise the plan is.

Tim’s happily skateboarding around his housing estate when he’s nabbed by these guys. Thus begins his journey–or rather, a series of four journeys, one with each of them through a different aspect of the world of magic, supposedly meant to help him make an informed, safe decision.

It’s divided into four parts, each illustrated by a different artist. In his foreword, Roger Zelazny points out that it mirrors the path walked by Campbell’s Hero With A Thousand Faces–but there’s more to it than that.

Book I: The Invisible Labyrinth, Illustrated by John Bolton

“We are adrift in time, child,” the Stranger tells little Tim as he drags him into the past, making a proper Billy Pilgrim of him. (Okay, that’s unstuck, but it works, believe me.) This book serves to both to set up the complicated DC cosmology in a coherent way, and to allow for a brief history of human magic, once they get past that whole Birth of the Universe thing and into Earth itself.

In each human culture they encounter, every magical figure of import warns Tim not to say yes to magic, that it comes with a price he won’t want to pay. Many of them–or in some cases their works and/or progeny–return in later books.

Book II: The Shadow World, Illustrated by Scott Hampton

John Constantine gives Tim a tour through the magical underworld in the good old US of A–cue well-intentioned, obnoxious Americans badly approximating Cockney accents and lots of references to “that Monty Python guy.” Here we meet the vast majority of DC’s magical types,  culminating in a long visit to Zatanna–whose father Tim saw with the Stranger.

The ante is upped here. Now that Tim’s been found out, the assassins and kidnappers are on the lookout, and apparently someone’s started a war over him in Calcutta. Constantine zips off to help sort that out for a few hours, leaving Tim in Zatanna’s care. And Tim gets his tour of present day magic.

Book III: The Land of Summer Twilight, Illustrated by Charles Vess

After a narrow escape from a mean party in San Francisco, Tim’s entrusted to Dr. Occult for a walk through, you guessed it, Faerie. I’ll talk about how this is handled in depth later, as it’s my chief interest in this post, but the basic idea is that it ties together both your typical conception of Faerie and a very Gaiman/Vess specific conception. You guessed it, Tim gets to see The Dreaming as part of the package.

It’s effectively a tour of the liminal magics, the otherworlds, the AUs, I guess, as comics would term it. But we’ll come back to that.

Book IV: The Road to Nowhere, Illustrated by Paul Johnson

Mister E, who’s been campaigning to end Tim and spare the world the possibility of him going power-mad, takes him into the future to show him what happens (could happen) if he does. In true DC cosmos-happy fashion, we go not only to Tim’s future, but the ultimate future of mankind, and then forward, forward to the Death (yes, capital D–I wouldn’t forget to capitalize her name) of the universe itself.

Meanwhile, the Trenchcoat Brigade is freaking out, since they lost track of Tim and E long before they got that far. Maybe they shouldn’t have left the kid with E after all, huh?

I won’t spoil the end, but let’s just say that Tim’s choice is made.

The book features not just recurring DC characters, but recurring important archetypes–particularly as codified in the tarot–that generally make these Hero Tales tick. That seems to speak to Zelazny’s dissection along the lines of the Hero’s Journey, and I don’t think he’s wrong there, but to me it seems more a straight up Ghost of Magic Past, Present, and Future issue, with one addition.

That of Faerie, the ghost of Magic Beyond Reason.

Part 2: The Summerlands

Since this is a fae awareness post, a little more in-depth discussion of how Tim’s journey through the lands of the fae work seems necessary. While all four books culminate in Tim’s decision–which of course led to the ongoing Books of Magic series  that ran for years after–Book III: The Land of Summer Twilight gives us events that are both the most ambiguous, and possibly the most important to Tim personally in the long run.

Gaiman and Vess (oh, how those two names together make graphic novel lovers squee) show us a Faerie both familiar to students and lovers of the fae and altogether new. The rules Dr. Occult imparts to Tim before they cross the stream are typical: no iron, don’t accept favors or gifts, don’t ask questions, mind your manners, and stay on the path. They’re not sure where they’re going, but the path will take them where they need to be.

It takes them to the first of many familiar places: The Goblin Market. The noise of the eager goblin sellers is almost audible through the wonderful illustration, and of course, Tim narrowly avoids being taken for a fool (and a slave) by a little thief. Their encounter there ends with Tim, Occult (transformed into his feminine form, the anima to Occult’s animus, Rose), and Tim’s owl (once his yo-yo) each winning a prize from the goblin’s barrow as restitution. Prizes that, of course, come in useful–as these things must.

The path takes them through a river of blood next, prompting some interesting discussion of moon power from Rose, and a good deal of disgust from Tim. After a riddle game with the Maugys –which they win thanks to Rose’s goblin prize–they’re allowed to follow the path into the Hollow Hill, to the sleeping court of King Arthur.

We’ve already met Merlin in Book I, but here, Thomas of Erceldoun makes up (often bawdy, we’re led to believe, as he’s somewhat preoccupied) songs over his sleeping king, waiting for him to wake, because, “Things happen in threes. When a King sleeps, then a wizard must also sleep, and a minstrel, too.”

As they’re leaving the Hill, the path becomes too dark, and Tim is separated from the recently re-transformed Dr. Occult. He loses the path and staggers out the other end–only to immediately encounter Baba Yaga. He ends hanging upside down beside a very charming hare and hedgehog, and this time it’s Yo-Yo the Owl’s goblin prize that helps to free them all.

Baba Yaga herself is wonderful in this bit, riding around on her cauldron looking for herbs to make her prey taste better in a stew, fretting over her beautiful chicken-legged house.  The balance of darkness and light-heartedness that makes Gaiman and Vess such a fabulous pair is magic, just here. Their ultimate escape only comes when Occult catches up with them–again, transformed into Rose–and threatens the witch with her true name.

And then, in perhaps the most telling episode, Tim and Rose meet with Queen Titania on the road, who takes them to her palace.

(To which question Tim replies, “… No.”)

Here Tim makes his second mistake, taking the key she tosses toward him as a gift before thinking. The key allows them to explore some of the other “worlds beyond reason” that are part of, alternate to, or rub up against Titania’s Faerie in the DC/Vertigo mythos and otherwise: Skartaris, Gemworld, The Dreaming, and Hell, for example.

Naturally, they escape Titania’s plot to keep Tim for her own through a technicality of Faerie Law (which, as we know, is the only way to escape, particularly if you break one rule, let alone two like our little hero) and Tim’s own prize from the goblin barrow. Even so, Titania’s parting words, for us alone, lead us to believe Tim will always be tied to Faerie in ways he can’t yet imagine.

One could argue that anyone who sets foot in the Summerlands ends that way, of course. But we’ll talk more about that next time, when I come back at you with a review of some of the spinoffs that continue in this vein: The Books of Faerie, which deal with Titania’s rise to power, and Auberon’s Tale, the same for her king.

‘Tis almost fairy time!

by Fae Awareness staff member Sam Kelly

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (full text, Wikipedia) takes place almost entirely in the wild wood, which in Shakespeare’s day—before electric light industrialised logging, and the Ramblers’ Association—was still something to fear: a place of transformative change, a haunt of boar and brigand and quite possibly giant spider too. The tutelary genius of the forest is Puck, the provocative night-haunt, taunter of peasants, performer of everyday mischiefs. He’s utterly capricious rather than consistently malicious, though – his mischief, whether embarrassing or lethal, is born from the same source as the help he gives those who respect him. He may well be watching from behind any bush, perched in any tree, or talking to you in the likeness of a friend – and his master, Oberon, has motives both grand and utterly petty. His jealousy is understandable on a human scale (if repellent), but so is Titania’s maternal jealousy and her concern for the world. Because the fairies in Dream are very intimately linked to the land, their discord over Titania’s adopted changeling child causes the weather and the seasons to go completely screwy.

Titania: These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer’s spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which falling in the land
Have every pelting river made so proud 460
That they have overborne their continents:
The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard;
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguishable:
The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which:
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.

Mortals – and particularly, their rituals and traditions – are an important part of this process, too. The fairy king’s jealousy of a mortal (adopted rather than stolen as in the “traditional” changeling myth) began it; the lack of hymns and carols angers the moon; and in the end, they cannot be reunited without the chance intervention of a brash bumbling mortal artisan. Since 1970, the play is often performed doubled: the same actors who portray the fairy court portray the court of Athens, with Theseus as Oberon and Hippolyta as Titania, showing the ambiguous way in which the fairy realm mirrors and echoes the mortal one. (Puck is also often doubled with Philostrate, the chamberlain & master of ceremonies in Athens.)

Speaking of ambiguity: Dream is even easier than most of Shakespeare’s plays to queer. Puck, particularly, is a focus for this, since his character’s protean enough that almost any kind of actor can play him: cis, trans, androgynous, very masculine, and very feminine actors have all done it well. Productions where there is no implied sexual (and/or kink) relationship between Oberon and Puck are increasingly in the minority, and a lot of directors choose to bring out sexual tension between Helena and Hermia as well. (To be fair, you have to work quite hard not to.)

One other thing about fairies that modern productions of Dream makes really clear is that they are scary. Utterly, hypnotically, beautifully, terrifyingly scary. The kind of scary that could kiss you and make you never want to leave their bed, send a storm to destroy your crops in the field, lure your husband into a bog, and then abruptly leave you at the edge of the wood to make your own way home. And then, for good measure, balance a bucket of vitriol on the top of your bedroom door and send a really nice card at Christmas.

The scariness in recentish productions is not a new thing, but rather a return to older ideas of fairies; there’s been a big tendency to think of the Dream fairies as tiny, twinkly, sparkly things, like Tinkerbell without the jealous malice. This is partly down to Mendelssohn, whose saccharine, twinkling, swooping overture (composed in 1826 at the age of seventeen) set the artistic tone for almost every depiction of fairies in the English-speaking world for nearly a hundred years. Shakespeare’s original text was deeply unfashionable at that point—very crude and bawdy, and not nearly polished and artificial enough for the English stage. Nobody had performed Dream, except in rather bitty and sanitized adaptations, for decades; until Madame Vestris in 1840, nobody would. Mendelssohn’s Overture formed the core of his incidental music for the production, and has never fallen out of popularity since. (Vestris played Oberon, as it happens.)

After then, we had a succession of ever more complex sets and productions, culminating in Beerbohm Tree’s signature “stage full of crap” post-Victorian production of 1900, popular enough to be revived in 1905 and 1911 with live rabbits scampering about the stage. In 1914, Harley Granville Barker finally threw off the Victorian obsession with vast amounts of tat (preferably patterned and/or sparkly tat made in huge gloomy factories by small children) and presented an apron stage with futuristic columns and fairies painted gold.

Even without the gold paint, fairies present some staging problems – Shakespeare explicitly presents some of them as very small, enough so to dress in a snake’s shed skin or to make a coat from a bat’s wings, and of course you can’t do that with actors except by making the scenery much larger. Since Oberon & Titania are explicitly large enough to sleep with mortals, that’s not entirely a helpful approach on stage. Incidentally, the changeling boy (again, adopted, not stolen, as with the “standard” view of fae changelings) is sometimes played as a babe in arms, sometimes as a handsome young man – partly it depends on just how much the director wants to queer the performance. Children are often used to play the smaller fairies (including Puck, sometimes) but that doesn’t have to make them any less scary… we all know just how nasty and unpleasant children can be.

Like any good comedy, Dream ends with a wedding – in fact, three weddings and a reconciliation, alchemically restoring order to the discord-wrecked world. Weddings can’t just happen with a kiss, however, and after Will Kemp’s big dance number as Bottom the fairies return, blessing the house and its marriage-bed. Depending on your interpretation, Puck’s closing words are either innocently twee; a plea for the audience not to riot, they’ll get their money back; or utterly, utterly sinister. Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess’s interpretation, in Sandman: Dream Country, aims quite thoroughly for the last, but then as Peaseblossom says: “I am that merry wanderer of the night? I am that giggling dangerous totally bloody psychotic menace to life and limb, more like it.”