Great drama tends to pose more questions than it answers, which are not necessarily answered at the end of the play. Discuss.
One view of great drama would be that it follows a simple cycle of proposing questions toward the start of the play, and then having characters undergo a process of resolution throughout the play, ultimately reaching a denouement where these questions are answered. However, the Tempest is in actuality a complex piece, with a miasma of unresolved and often apparently conflicting questions, and arguably this complexity and lack of total narrative satisfaction for the audience is what makes it such a great play. Likewise, Dr. Faustus is a complex piece with many contradicting strands, and the audience is presented with no clear moral resolution here either, and in both of these plays some of their power and longevity resides in the unanswered questions they pose.
The use by Shakespeare of two of the three traditional Aristotelian unities in structuring The Tempest could be seen as suggesting the play will follow a simple structure with a single main story arc that is easily reconciled at the end of the play. The dramatis personae concludes by saying “the scene: an uninhabited island”, and thus Shakespeare makes it clear from the off that there is unity of space by iterating the sole setting at the very start of his play, whilst he is at pains to establish unity of time via Prospero’s lengthy explanations of the history of the principle characters. Indeed, the length of these didactic passages is such that Shakespeare has Prospero appeal to the listening Miranda, and thus also to the audience, to “hear a little further”, the use of a direct appeal serving to retain a potentially restive audience’s attention as he explains the convoluted story of how the characters came to converge upon the island in a way that is only necessary as Shakespeare is so eager to explain, rather than show this history in order to preserve the unity of time. Critics such as Paul Cantor argue that “action seems to evaporate into inaction” in the sub-plots of the play, with, for example, Trinculo and Stephano’s escapades amounting to little more than a platform for humour and clowning; the heavy use of sticymathia as in “I am standing water/why, I’ll teach you how to flow” points to this. However, there is no such unity of story and thus no real unity of questions being answered. The main story arc is resolved in the key final scenes where Prospero eventually “drown
his books” and “break
his staff”, the use of similar phrasing for both of these examples of acquiescence emphasising to the audience his resignation of power, and thus one could argue that the play effectively resolves the key issue at stake and thus provides traditional, Aristotelian narrative completion. However, other, secondary issues are not so clearly resolved, and an alternative reading of the play would be that its power is in the rich complexity of its narrative tapestry. Several story arcs and thematic disputes are instigated, some with only tangential links to the main story, and not all of these result in a simple answer.
The same interpretations are possible of Dr. Faustus. On the one hand, the main story arc is grimly and undeniably resolved, and one could argue that the structure does contain some echoes of an Aristotelian structure, with the “four and twenty years” equating to twenty-four hours in reflecting the brevity of Faustus’ earthly “pomp and majesty” (with hendiadys used to indicate how majestic Faustus believes himself to be) when compared to the eternity contemporary theology said he would spend in hell. This reading would suggest that a single, answered question is what provides the play with its narrative thrust. However, David Bevington describes Faustus as a “non-Aristotelian blend” with a “disregard for all the ‘unities’.” The globe-hopping narrative (from “Wittenburg” to “Rome”) spanning those “four and twenty years” makes it fairly clear that there is no traditional structure here. As in the Tempest, whilst the story is resolved, several questions are proposed without clear answers. In the Tempest, debates over nature versus nurture, colonialism and the nature of humanity occur, whereas in Faustus, the audience’s reaction to Faustus and thus the nature of morality provides a key area where no answers are clearly reached, and arguably it is in these thematic areas that the searching questions of great drama are found.
An essential critical reading of texts when looking at unresolved issues is the deconstructionalist reading suggested by Roland Barthes in 1970. Under Barthe’s analysis, the Tempest and Faustus can both be classified as “scriptible” plays without a “closed” meaning consisting of resolved questions, but rather as plays which invite a series of the oppositional interpretations so critical to deconstructionalist analysis. Austin Harris’ assessment of the play as offering “nearly unlimited interpretations” exemplifies the view of many critics that the Tempest is in its deepest nature ambiguous. This is clearly illustrated in the case of the famous debate proposed in the Tempest as to whether “nature” or “nurture” is more important in the formation of character, personality and self. The phrasing of this question is a cliché to 21st century readers used to this debate which has been rehashed for centuries, but it is worth noting that at the time describing Caliban as a creature “on whose nature nurture” can have no impact is an ingenious piece of juxtaposition, the evident similarity between the two words an ingenious way of highlighting the complexity of the debate and the difficulty of extricating hereditary from environmental influences. In this instance, Caliban’s nature is depicted as overriding his upbringing, but in other places Shakespeare suggests the opposite, as with Miranda’s statement that “good wombs have borne bad sons”, with the simple monosyllabic framing of this sentiment providing emphasis to its moral point. There is no clear resolution of this point; one the one hand, Shakespeare uses the repetition of “a devil, a born devil” to iterate and reiterate that Caliban has been monstrous since birth, but on the other hand it is only the upbringing and nurturing of Prospero, who taught him human speech, that enables him to produce arguably the most beautiful piece of poetry in the play in his description of the island as full of “sounds and sweet airs”, using sibilance to create a poetic description in tune with the gentle sounds he describes in a speech described as possessing “graceful iambic pentameters” which are a “small triumph of civility” by Palfrey. The production of such a beautiful speech by a bestial character indicates that education is possible, even for this “thing of darkness”, in contrast to the claims of Prospero to the contrary. There are no easy answers here; the audience is left to resolve the issue for themselves, and thus the power of the play can be seen to reside in the unanswered questions it plants in the minds of the audience.
Likewise, a deconstructionalist reading of Faustus reveals clear oppositionalities within the texts. For example, the audience is presented with conflicting views on Faustus and whether or not they should sympathise with him. One the one hand, church dogma of the day decreed that as a man who has denounced god he deserves endless punishment in a veridical hell, and yet in the final scene we arguably see a man who is distraught and repentant and thus sympathise with. This is mirrored in the trochaic substitutions disrupting the iambic pentameter of his final speech, with such changes of stress from the regular iambs as “ugly” at the start of his penultimate speech suggesting that his heart is skipping beats as his fear and desire for repentance grows. The audience is therefore left unsure as to whether we should be sympathising with or condemning Faustus, and this key issue is left unresolved up to the point where the stage directions dictate Faustus “exeunt” with the devils who have come to claim him. Throughout both Faustus and the Tempest, we are presented with ambiguous characters and themes, and the audience is left to decide their stance on these issues; these great pieces of drama therefore pose many questions which they do not answer, but this is by no means to their detriment, and indeed provokes a more involved response from the audience.
I therefore feel that on a narrative level, it is important that questions posed are resolved; the audience must see Ferdinand and Miranda’s love realised, for example, or learn of Faustus’ fate, to be truly satisfied once they leave the theatre. However, on a thematic level, ambiguity is crucial to the success of any text. The role of the playwright is not to tell through didactic speeches which leave no room for the audience to make a judgement of their own, but rather to present the complex issues of the human existence in a distilled form which the audience can then contemplate and come to their own decisions on. I therefore feel great drama, like the work of Marlowe or Shakespeare, relies on ambiguity and unanswered questions to challenge the audience and form a truly immersive piece of art.