The Tragedy of Macbeth, Part II: The Seed of Banquo



  THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH, PART II:

  The Seed of Banquo

  Noah Lukeman

  About the Author

  A 20 year veteran of the book publishing industry, Noah Lukeman is author of several books on the craft of writing, including The First Five Pages, The Plot Thickens and A Dash of Style: The Art and Mastery of Punctuation, published by W.W. Norton in the U.S. and by Oxford University Press in the U.K. His critically-acclaimed books have been selections of multiple book clubs, Book Sense 76 picks, Publishers Weekly Daily picks, and translated into Japanese, Portuguese, Korean, Turkish, Chinese and Indonesian. His screenplay, Brothers in Arms, was selected for Hollywood’s Black List top 100 screenplays of the year. Noah lives in New York. Please feel free to learn more at www.noahlukeman.com or to email him at [email protected]. To learn more about the play and watch a video, please visit: www.macbethtwo.com

  Copyright © 2008 by Noah Lukeman

  First Pegasus Books cloth edition 2008

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

  INTRODUCTION

  Some time ago, I set out to adapt Macbeth for the screen and spent months dissecting the text, grappling with every line and word. While contemplating both the opening (the witches’ prophecy) and the conclusion (Malcolm’s ascent as king), I was struck by a realization: Macbeth is unfinished. The prophecy which initiates the play’s action proclaims first that Macbeth will be king and then that Banquo’s children will be kings. Macbeth indeed becomes Scotland’s king—and yet Banquo’s prophecy remains unfulfilled. The play ends, oddly, with Banquo’s seed nowhere in sight and with a third party, Malcolm, ascending to the throne.

  One might argue that not all of the witches’ prophecies were meant to come to pass. Yet throughout Macbeth, the witches’ other prophecies, no matter how twisted, are all fulfilled on stage (even Birnam Wood manages to “move” as they predict). One might argue that Banquo’s prophecy is insignificant, a mere historical footnote in the play. Yet if this were the case, why would Shakespeare go to such lengths to dramatize a scene in which Banquo is murdered and his child, Fleance, escapes (thus leaving the door open for his future ascent)? The prophecy regarding Banquo’s child is, in fact, ubiquitous in the play, as Macbeth dwells obsessively on the ascent of “the seed of Banquo.” Indeed, the very reason Macbeth cannot find peace as king is because his mind is fixated on the moment when Banquo’s prophecy will come to pass, when Banquo’s seed will take his throne.

  One might, then, try to dismiss all of this as merely an oversight by Shakespeare, argue that he simply forgot to resolve this particular plot line in the play. But would the greatest of English dramatists, who was careful with every syllable, actually neglect to resolve an entire subplot, indeed, the very driving action of his play? If not, then did he have something else in mind? Could he have been preparing for a Macbeth, Part II?

  Struck by this possibility, I went back and reanalyzed the text of Macbeth, looking for any other clues that might point to Shakespeare’s preparing a sequel. I was shocked to discover two more compelling pieces of evidence. The first appears in Lady Macbeth’s famous monologue: “I have given suck and know/How tender ‘tis to love the babe that milks me.” In this line, she tells us that she has a child. But then where is the child Macbeth? Why is he/she omitted from the play? Is the only child of a king and queen, the sole heir to the throne, so insignificant as to not merit any other mention?

  The other hint came in the character of Prince Donalbain (Malcolm’s brother). After their father, Duncan, is murdered by Macbeth, the two princes, both legitimately in line for the throne, agree to flee for safety’s sake in two directions: Malcolm, to England; Donalbain, to Ireland. Yet when Malcolm returns to oust Macbeth, Donalbain, oddly, does not join him. And when Malcolm ascends to the throne at the play’s end, his prince brother is nowhere in sight. Why would Shakespeare keep Donalbain in Ireland? And why end Macbeth on this note?

  Was Shakespeare thrice careless? Or could the playwright known for multipart plays (Henry IV, Part Iand II, Henry VI, Part I, IIand III), have also had in mind a Macbeth, Part II?

  The concept haunted me. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that these plot elements were substantial enough to justify a play in their own right: an unfulfilled prophecy; a child Macbeth; a boy destined to be king; the princely Donalbain suspiciously in Ireland while his brother sits on the Scottish throne; the newly crowned Malcolm, the bereft Macduff, the devious Seyton. And, of course, the three witches. They are, in fact, among a very rare group of villains whom Shakespeare leaves to live another day.

  I pondered what medium could best suit such a sequel. I could not envision a sequel to Macbeth written in contemporary English or in the form of a novel. Too much would be lost in the conversion process; it would become something else. Any attempt at a sequel, I felt, should be as true to its Shakespearean model as possible. I concluded that it should appear in the same form as Macbeth: as a play, in the traditional Shakespearean five-act structure, in Elizabethan English, and in blank verse.

  It obviously took much more deliberation before I could summon the resolve to go forth. Despite my enthusiasm for the concept, I had an enormously hard time with the idea of approaching Shakespeare’s work. It felt like sacrilege. Then I thought long and hard of Shakespeare’s life, and realized that when he himself—a slightly-educated, minor actor—attempted to write a play, he was excoriated, brandished an “upstart crow,” criticized for even daring to attempt to write in blank verse (supposedly to be reserved only for those with a university education). As Ben Johnson said, he “had small Latin, and less Greek.”

  But this was precisely his virtue. Shakespeare was not a scholar, and he did not write for the academic elite. He was of the people. Undeterred by the rigid societal pressure of “what should be” and “what shouldn’t be,” he followed what was, for him, a more important route: pursuing his artistic vision with fervor, whatever the consequence. Qualified or not, he jumped in and attempted something brash. I think that Shakespeare (as both actor and writer) would, with a wink, be the first to encourage someone to attempt a Macbeth, Part II.

  The Tragedy of Macbeth, Part II is not a scholarly endeavor; it is an artistic one, meant both to pick up where Macbeth left off and to stand as a complete play in its own right. It is my hope that it will be enjoyed by actors, directors, and theater companies eager to grapple with a new text, to play new roles, and by theatergoers eager to watch them. So many people around the world love the cadences of blank verse. Yet there has been scarce new material for 400 years.

  I think it’s time we gave them something.

 

  For Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind;

  For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d . . .

  Only for them . . .

  To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!

  —Macbeth