Doctor Who first met William Shakespeare when the future playwright was contemplating marrying Anne Hathaway (no, not that one). The good doctor wondered what Willie was like as a struggling actor who wanted so much more from his life than being a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. He wanted to know if Willie wanted to find a way to leave a lasting impression on this world.
“Of course. Who doesn’t? But few do. Millions of names etched on stars and only a few explode in our hearts and minds from day to day. Maybe I am just another name,” Willie said.
Willie wasn’t sure what to make of this doctor. He didn’t seem to practice medicine. He seemed to be some kind of soothsayer from the future who could predict Willie’s breakfast the next day but refused to tell Willie if people would remember him in 400 years.
“If I told you that, you might push yourself in the wrong direction or make a choice based on what I tell you. You might actually not fulfill your destiny if I try to encourage you a certain way,” Doctor Who said.
Doctor Who felt like he had let Willie down. He could have done so much to that young man’s confidence if he let him know just what would happen to him and how much people still revere him to the present day. And you could be reading this a thousand years from when it was written and you’d still know who William Shakespeare was. That’s the confidence Doctor Who had in this young actor from Stratford.
“I’ll come back in 15 years to see how you’re doing. And if you are where I think you should be, I’ll guess your successes for you and you can confirm them. And if that’s all true, then I’ll tell you what happens to your good name in the future,” Doctor Who said. “Would that be fair?”
“Quite fair,” Willie said, although he had a sense that he might not be around in 15 years. He worried that he’d be a failure and dead by then. And that he’d leave behind several children and a grieving wife who would have expected more from him given what he professed his dreams to be. “Will I know you when you return?”
“Yes, but if not, I’ll know you. That’s the power I possess,” Doctor Who said, realizing he made himself seem like a wizard of some nature. He could tell that Willie didn’t like the idea of a man having so much power that he’d recognize someone after not seeing him for 15 years. What kind of sorcery could that be, Willie thought, to miss out on the growing of whiskers and wrinkles?
But Doctor Who would return in 15 years. And he found a man who was famous yet distraught. He expected more attention and more demand from people in far-flung places. He felt like he was treated like a barmaid who was good for a tumble but no one wanted to take home. Willie had spent too much time trying to build a legacy and not enough time establishing a foundation upon which he could continue to create plays that would astound and entertain.
“You’ve spent a fair amount of time waxing poetic about and undermining the prowess of many a king. But you’ve made it to 1597. Did you think you would?” Doctor Who said to Willie after watching a performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor at the Whitehall Palace.
“You’ve startled me, my good fellow. Do I know you?”
“I haven’t changed in 15 years, but you have. How do you not recognize me?” Doctor Who said, holding a book in his hand.
“Doctor Who? Why, yes, it is you. I had not forgotten you, but yes, as you predicted, I have been quite busy with play after play these last several years. I got tired of acting when I turned 25, so I started to write for other people. I had a sense about their words and their class and their movement. I learned so much about intonation and language and feelings. You can’t discount fluid feelings when you write and perform a play,” Willie said.
He did remember Doctor Who, but he had tried to forget him. He tried to tell Anne about this man who showed up in a blue phone booth—which sounded like foolishness once they realized they had no idea what a phone or a booth was. Anne almost called off her engagement with Willie, thinking he was daft and had lost his way in such a short period of time after their courtship had culminated in something tender and sweet, which was counter to the kinds of ruffian roles he played on stage. She worried that he was also acting around her and was never quite what he seemed. Being an orphan, she had raised her siblings and had a moment of weakness, during which she felt pregnant with Willie’s child and they had little choice but to marry—a merger of his poor feebleness and lackluster work ethic and her wealthy charm and stable inheritance.
“You’ve had some tragedy lately, haven’t you?” Doctor Who said, pointing at Willie’s breast pocket, where the playwright kept a hand-drawn caricature of his son Hamnet, who had died in 1596.
“Yes. But let us not speak about that. Let us have a look at what you have in your hands. What is that?”
“This is a book with three of your plays in it. You’ll recognize one of them: Romeo and Juliet. I’ll let you see that and only that for now,” Doctor Who said.
“I barely recognize those words. Did I write those?”
“Modernized for twentieth-century British students, Mr. Shakespeare. They’re still your words and in your order. And still stark with wit and frivolity.”
“That’s a small comfort but a comfort nevertheless. I guess we can’t expect everything to endure as we set it down on parchment with ink, can we? But what of these other two plays?”
“I can’t tell you their names. But think hard if there’s a king of old you might wish to write about. And maybe a tribute to your son? I think something about him would fit neatly into a future canon.”
“A cannon? To shoot people? I don’t understand.”
“Sorry. That’s a complicated term, isn’t it? Well, anyhow, I think writing two plays about those topics might help secure you a place in history. That’s really what a canon is. C-a-n-o-n. A sort of library for the academic set,” Doctor Who said. Look at me, he thought. Teaching the bard a word. I know Willie also said he knew that spelling but used it in other senses. But to think I might have left an impression on him astounds me greatly. I try to never do that, he reminded himself, because it’s not my intent or desire to lead anyone down a certain path. I’m just trying to keep this ship called Earth afloat in this troublesome universe.
“So, a king and my son. Any particular king?”
“Well, you seem to have had some fun with that young couple from Verona. Think about something Italian.”
“And for my boy?”
“Revenge is sweet, isn’t it? Perhaps something in a country you’ve not written much about. Perhaps somewhere with citizens that British people might have a false dichotomy about.”
“A false what?”
“Well, a false belief. You could open your eyes. Maybe it’s a place you’ve been as an actor or maybe it’s a place where a similar story of revenge and redemption and ruthlessness took place in the past. And you can model the protagonist after your son and include some wild metaphors about love and avenging death and all that jazz. And maybe build on my alliteration theme. I don’t know. I’m just throwing out some ideas.”
“My good sir, I barely understand most of those words you just said, but I do appreciate their sentiment because I can feel the influence in their rhythm. I just don’t want to write something rotten. I’ve had some plays that people just didn’t enjoy. Maybe I’m wearing myself too thin.”
“I’d say to keep focusing on that idea of something ‘rotten.’ I think you’ve got something there. You might ponder that when next you visit your son’s grave,” said Doctor Who, hoping Willie might run across a headstone with the name Yorick on it, which he thinks will spark even more ideas for how to memorialize his son in a play. “You might also think about building your own theater. You know, somewhere where you can control your plays a little more. And, of course, bring in a little more coin by presenting plays by other writers. Imagine what that might do for you in the here and now.”
During the next three years, Willie wrote Julius Caesar and Hamlet, cementing his enshrinement in the Writers Hall of Fame—a special place within everyone’s head. He also helped establish the Globe Theatre in 1599. Doctor Who wouldn’t come back to see Willie until early April 1616—just two weeks before the legendary playwright would die.
“It’s been such a joyous adventure, Doctor Who,” Willie said, remembering all the great ups and downs. “Did you hear about the fire at the theater? What a tragedy. Someone told me to write a play about that. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want anyone in the audience to think whatever structure we were in might go up in a blaze. Such a dangerous substance fire is. We all feel so connected by it. Do you think anything will ever bring people together as such a thing as fire?”
Doctor Who almost pulled out his iPhone but thought better of it.
“I dare say something might. But there’s a great comfort to a fire, isn’t there? It’s a beautiful yet scary metaphor for all that we struggle with and all we do to try to achieve something magnificent. I say, are you well, Willie?”
“I am not, Doctor. I’d ask you to attend to me, but I realize you’re not that kind of medicine man. Might I make a request of you before my time on this Earth ends?”
“Name it. I’d be more than happy to fulfill your wish. I’d have something marvelous to tell my grandchildren.”
“Take me 400 into the future from the day of my birth. Take me to somewhere where people gather to perhaps talk about something I wrote. Or where something related to me is happening. To prove to me that all this was truly worthwhile. That I didn’t neglect so much and yet gained so little.”
Doctor Who carried an incredibly sick William Shakespeare to the TARDIS and shuttled them off to Hollywood 1964. He showed Willie the billboards for Mary Poppins and A Hard Day’s Night and The Pink Panther and Sex and the Single Girl and Zorba the Greek—and told him that several of these starred British actors and musicians and that others in these films had likely performed in a Shakespearian play somewhere along the way during their training.
“This is life for me. This is what I could do. Let me stay here in Hollywood and work with these fine actors. Let’s get this Mickey Mouse cartoon fellow and this John Wayne macho man, as you call him, and let’s write a script for them. We’ll put their names up in lights … what did you call that flashing light?”
“A marquee.”
“Yes, a marquee. We’ll have car chases and hot romance and beautiful women eating fruit and men who cling to the truth and fight for justice and we’ll throw in a song or two for the children. What do you say, Doctor Who?” But Doctor Who’s mind was swirling with images that blurred and contrasted and he thought the whole romp might turn into a repeat version of 1963’s It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and he didn’t know if he should tell Willie about it or not or if maybe they really could collaborate on some farfetched cinematic delight.
“Did you have a title in mind for this farce?”
“Of course, Doctor Who. Of course. I find you can create such a beautiful play when you start with the title and go from there. That’s why we must call this one Willie, Mickey & The Duke.”