Guillermo del Toro ’ s The Shape of Water ( 2017 ) : Trump Era Update of Cold War Creature from the Black Lagoon ( 1954 ) and Civil War Reckoning

Guillermo Del Toro’s latest film uses an amphibian creature dragged from the Amazon to reflect on the current situation of immigrants in this country, especially those from south of the border. In the process, the director uses Trump’s nationalist and racist framing of the immigration debate as an opportunity to remake a film he has loved since childhood, “Creature From the Black Lagoon.” He places his film in 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, but he insists that he has made a film that, although it takes place in the past, talks about the present. He also reworks a number of the themes

T his essay is a somewhat developed version of a brief presentation made to an academic audience in April of 2018. At that time, I wished to communicate my early reactions to a film I had initially seen just months before in December of the previous year. Having survived the first year of the Trump presidency, I experienced del Toro's film as a much-needed injection of frontal attack through popular film. I was gratified to read that in three different cinemas where it had played in Arizona, largely conservative white audiences had been captivated. 1 I myself had seen people stand and applaud at the Capitol Theatre in Arlington, Mass. Now, a year later, and after one more Oscar to a Mexican director, the film deserves a different kind of reading.
Over the year, however, the critical literature on del Toro's film has grown very little; perhaps my early and very personal reaction will, with a few minor updates included here, serve to jump-start the discussion.
In my title, I promise to discuss Guillermo del Toro's Oscar-winning film The Shape of Water (2017) as a Trump era update of two earlier films. One, a Hollywood B-movie, was made and situated during the Cold War. The other, a much more recent, and international production directed in Spanish by del Toro himself, is situated in Franco's Spain in 1944, in the nasty aftermath of that country's tragic civil war. My choice of these two films in particular merits an explanation, especially since The Shape of Water uses homages and clips from numerous films and U.S. television shows as the very building blocks for its own construction. It is a film about the pleasures of watching the luminous screen. But it is also a film about intolerance and political violence.
Since the release of his Oscar-winning film, del Toro has insisted in his frequent interviews with the press that the current moment in U.S. politics is charged with violence, and that Trump's slogan to "Make America Great Again" holds up the early 60s as a mythic past when America was indeed great and to which we should strive to return. Del Toro uses his film to debunk this myth.
He shows the violence beneath the surface (i.e. in top secret government laboratories) and in plain view on Southern streets and television screens nationwide that in fact constituted the reality of the early 1960s, even prior to Kennedy's assassination in the fall of 1963. The theme of violence, embodied in the character Richard Strickland and the terrifying threat of General Hoyt to convert Strickland into a non-person should he fail to find the missing "asset," posits violence at a level consistent with its extreme fascistic embodiment in the character of Capitán Vidal (Sergi López) in del Toro's 2006 Laberinto del fauno. The takeaway here is that, since at least the early 60s, the U.S. has tolerated and even fostered brutal fascistic behaviors in its public servants that public myth in the U.S. might have acknowledged in Franco's early regime (before Eisenhower's visit) but never would have conceded as possible in the democratic United States. Thus, political violence, indeed sadism, thematically ties these two films by del Toro together, in addition to strong stylistic and narrative similarities that I will discuss later.
As for my choice of Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954), I must confess to strong personal reasons that somewhat coincide with del Toro's admitted childhood fascination with this film. Creature was released in Silver Spring, Md., near where I was living, when I was eight years old. Like the child del Toro, I went to the movies as often as I could get adults to take me, and I watched as much TV as I could get away with. I saw the previews (trailers) of Creature at the Apex Cinema and was aghast. Having seen a Sabú episode on Andy's Gang in which a character's young and attractive mother was killed, while swimming, by a giant squid who came for her with its/his tentacles from below, I related the underwater scene of the Creature tracking Julie Adams from below with the deadly encounter between giant squid and young woman from India. His Oscar-winning film, though largely shot in Toronto, takes place in Baltimore, Md., in the autumn of 1962. Del Toro has taken great pains in his reconstruction of the historical moment, although his film is not without anachronisms. Several of these led a handful of early commentators to place the film's action in 1963. For example, one of the more useful commentaries in this group, titled "Goofs from The Shape of Water," states, "The wall calendar Eliza [sic] uses is from the fall of 1962, yet the newsreels shown on television and the narrator's reference to 'the last days of a fair Prince's reign' make it clear it is early May 1963." The prince, of course, is the handsome young president from Camelot, John F. Kennedy, who will be assassinated on November 22, 1963; the newsreels are of police with fire hoses and dogs attacking young black Americans in Birmingham, Al., on May 3, 1963. Yet the proximity of Kennedy's assassination or the anachronistic use of newsreels depicting the extremes to • Garrels which Birmingham's white establishment was willing to go to preserve racial segregation do not warrant placing the film's action that far ahead. Eliza's wall calendar, which gives us the exact date of the Creature's return to nature and, indeed, of the climax and denouement of the entire film, is undeniably specific: October 10, 1962.
This movie is fantasy, with strong political implications, and its director, who also co-authored the screenplay, has allowed himself historical license for a number of reasons, among them, to highlight the background of racial tension and violence that whites Elisa Esposito (Sally Hawkins) and Giles (Richard Jenkins), living in Baltimore, a city nearly as densely black as Birmingham, seem bent on ignoring. The narrative and historical weight of October 10, 1962, however, is not only compelling because it marks the goal toward which Elisa and her recent co-conspirators Giles and Zelda (Octavia Spencer) are working. In the history outside the film, this date is a mere six days before the beginning of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The action of the film ends less than a week before the onset of the thirteen-day confrontation between the U.S., on one hand, and Russia and Cuba, on the other, that is widely considered to have brought the world to the brink of nuclear war. The film compresses these dates. For one, it has President Kennedy delivering his October 22 radio and TV "Report to the American People on the Soviet Arms Buildup in Cuba" more than a week before October 10. As Giles is trying to get past security at the top-secret military facility to rush the liberated Creature off to Elisa's apartment, the audience, with luck, may recognize fairly inaudible snippets of Kennedy's distinctive voice emanating from the radio in the guard booth. It is this October 22 speech that the nation's president is delivering, but the film's quasi-fictional chronology puts the broadcast sometime in late September. Well, the Soviets want it. We know that much. Those cockeyed bastards. You know, we let'em send a dog up into space, and we get a good laugh. And then the next thing you know, they send a human up, a Ruskie, orbiting the planet, doing God knows what. And who's laughing then? Kruschev. That's who. We let him put a dog in space, and he laughs, then he puts a commie up in space, and he laughs, and then he puts missiles into Cuba. Have we learned nothing?
About half way through this speech, Hoffstetler sees that Elisa is hiding in the room; he is immediately startled and nervous that she will be discovered.
At this point, the content of General Hoyt's speech becomes distorted and blurred for the audience as the sound track identifies with Hoffstetler's • Garrels momentary panic. However, by the time Hoyt gets to the end of speech, Hoffstetler has composed himself and turned his attention to the Creature who has now spent too much time out of water and is in grave danger. The sound distortion has consequently disappeared, and the viewer clearly hears General Hoyt conclude with the words, "and then he puts missiles into Cuba.
Have we learned nothing?" The top-secret military facility where the Creature is imprisoned and tortured between September 17, 1962, and his liberation sometime before October 3, is a U.S. Aerospace Research Center, whose mission is to assure that the U.S. outperforms its Russian competitors in outer space. In this sense, del Toro's film is a Cold War spy thriller, complete with Russian agents who plant a spy in the facility (Hoffstetler) and who speak Russian with each other, while most of us in the audience read sub-titles. Richard Strickland has been sent to South America to bring back an amphibious creature from the Amazon, whose dual respiratory mechanism might offer clues on how human astronauts could survive beyond earth's atmosphere. The Creature, called the "asset" by the lab's technicians, has been taken from a muddy river where the natives worship him as a god. This is all we know of his origin.
But the same night that Strickland arrives with the Creature at the Research Center in Baltimore, Elisa goes out onto the street to catch a bus to her job on the graveyard shift as a cleaning woman at the same Center. Once she is outside, we see fire engines hurry by and at the end of the street, a building hurling enormous flames up into the darkened sky. Elisa's neighbor Giles has already told her that the local chocolate factory is on fire and that the air smells of "toasted cocoa, tragedy and delight, hand in hand" (The Shape of Water 05:45mins.). I have seen no references to this factory fire in discussions of the film, but nothing in this film is accidental, so what could it mean? The fire and the smell of burnt chocolate mark the beginning of the story, the night the Creature arrives at the facility and the night Elisa first sets eyes on him. This night, something is amiss in the world, but there is also the promise of delight. Giles speaks of tragedy and delight together, and his paradoxical judgment of the immediate situation will also serve, if remembered at the end of the film, to describe the history and outcome of Elisa's romance with the Creature. His delight at the smell of burnt chocolate should come as no surprise; indeed, chocolate has been valued for centuries and almost universally considered a source of pleasure. Cacao, the plant from which chocolate is made, is, like the divine amphibian trapped in a tank, another New World original. In Mesoamerica, cacao was cultivated and used to make liquid chocolate centuries before the Spaniards arrived. The Mayans and the Aztecs considered cacao sacred, a gift from the gods, to whom, in turn, they gave ritual offerings of cacao during religious observations (Dillinger). The film provides an inaugural backdrop of destructive bursts of flame and the smell of burnt chocolate: are Mesoamerican gods showing their anger at Strickland's progress-driven desecration of a natural order that clearly accommodates more incarnations of the divine than he can even begin to imagine?
The Creature arrives on September 17 in a cramped tank and will be released, for observation, into a somewhat larger one at the facility. Like the film's director Guillermo del Toro, the Creature is an immigrant from south of the border. Unlike del Toro, however, he did not flee from violence in his own land. Shown to us in numerous scenes chained and bloodied from torture, he belongs to the New World's history of forced migration, the most notable example of which were the roughly ten million enslaved Africans transported across the Atlantic to work, against their will, in the homes and fields of their white owners. Over time, the forced migrants and their descendants have suffered, along with many of the United States' voluntary immigrants, from the dominant white culture's practices of othering, replete with strategies of dehumanization: they can't speak English, so basically, they can't speak; they look different, so they must be animals, etc. Del Toro accounts for all this in his film, and in the second half of 2016, when the film was shot, 4 he was well aware of candidate Trump's generalization that "The Mexican Government is forcing their most unwanted people into the United States. They are, in many cases, criminals, drug dealers, rapists, etc." (Walker).
In numerous interviews, del Toro has admitted that with Shape, he wished to make a film situated in the past that would also speak to the present. In September, 2017, after the film had screened at a few festivals, but before it was released in the United States, Vanity Fair asked del Toro, "Why did you set this during the Cold War?" To which the director answered: …when America talks about "Make America Great Again," it's talking about 1962, the end of Camelot, the peak of the promise of the future, jet-fin cars, super-fast kitchens, television, everything that if you're white, Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual, you're good. But if you're anything else, you're not so good. Then when Kennedy is shot and Vietnam escalates, and the disillusionment of that dream occurs, I don't think that has healed. We're living in a time where the one percent has created a narrative in which they are not to blame. Who is to blame is them, quote unquote, the others, Mexicans, the minorities. What the creation of that other does, it exonerates from responsibility. It directs hatred in a super streamlined way. (Keegan) On February 10, 2018, when del Toro was in Spain for the very belated opening of the film in that country, he said the following to a reporter of El País: La intolerancia, la rabia, el miedo, la xenofobia actual nace de ese presidente que pregona el 'Hagamos América grande' al estilo de la Guerra Fría, época en la que se desarrolla la película como reflejo del presente. Es muy bonito encapsular la otredad en una criatura y poder jugar con que sea un dios… o un bicho repugnante que procede de Sudamérica, como cree el antagonista… La ideología tiende a separarnos y en realidad somos uno. Matando a la otredad no acabas con el problema, por mucho que así lo diga Trump. In Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Julie Adams character, though primarily a female sex object competed for by male amphibian creature and male humans, is also an employed scientist, who, according to one of her male colleagues, has done "valuable research" (Creature 46:43 mins.). (Regardless of how good a scientist she is, though, she is never referred to in the film as "Doctor," and perhaps she doesn't hold that advanced degree; her male colleagues, on the other hand, repeatedly call each other by that title.) In the U.S., in 1962, it would appear that a mute orphan, although white and brought up in a Catholic orphanage to have very middle-class manners and taste in clothing, can only, because of her disability, get the kind of work that the local blacks get, that is, in Strickland's words, as "shit cleaners," and "piss wipers" (Shape 1:15:32 mins.). Clearly, if she were not mute, she would probably have to settle for, at best, something like Strickland's secretary. Despite Julie Adams's fictional persona from 1954, in 1962, becoming a scientist would have been a stretch for any woman. But we should not doubt Elisa's possible talent for such work. She is intelligent and observant; the Russian spy and scientist Dr. Hoffstetler expresses admiration for her savvy in planning the Creature's escape. Denied many of the opportunities and tools of learning, she continues to observe and learn even in her relatively limited universe. Knowing that the director was Mexican and seeing Elisa masturbate in the bathtub to the discipline of an egg timer, I could not help but think of Sor Juana's famous words about what she learned while watching eggs as they cook, "Pues ¿qué os pudiera contar, Señora, de los secretos que he descubierto estando guisando?… ¿qué podemos saber las mujeres sino filosofías de cocina" ("Respuesta" 838). 6 Furthermore, Elisa may be mute, but she is not speechless. She signs American Sign Language, and she teaches Giles, Zelda, and eventually the Creature to communicate in her language. 7 These "losers," in Strickland's (and Trump's) opinion, are infinitely better students and learners than either of these men.
Elisa is a teacher, and she also comes to see that she can defy and outwit oppressive authority in the name of friendship and decency. This is perhaps the greatest leap forward in her education as a competent and principled adult.
The character of Elisa as "the princess without voice" (Shape 02:30 mins.) of del Toro's fairy tale plot is complicated by the film's multi-generic identifications. The director has made it clear in numerous interviews that The Shape of Water is the remake of Jack Arnold's 1954 monster movie that he had been yearning to film ever since he first saw it, on T.V., at the age of six or • Garrels seven. Apparently, the young boy had identified with the aquatic creature, and his reaction to the film was both romantic and erotic: When I saw the creature swimming under Julie Adams, I thought three things: I thought, "Hubba-hubba." I thought, "This is the most poetic thing I'll ever see." I was overwhelmed by the beauty. And the third thing I thought is, "I hope they end up together." (Rottenberg) 8 Indeed, in The Shape, the Creature does get the girl; in fact, it could be argued that he also gets his own way. If he is divine and can miraculously cure not only his own wounds but those of humans, why doesn't he bring Elisa back to life as a human? It is clear that the Creature does not want to live in Elisa's world; it isn't healthy for him, and he isn't free. His misery sitting at Elisa's kitchen table peeling his eggs is not unlike Strickland's zombie-like state at home in front of the television; arguably, both men are feeling suffocated by domesticity.
Instead of bringing Elisa back to life in the human world, where she would have to stand trial, along with Giles and Zelda, for their roles in the theft of the pentagon's "asset," and where she and the Creature would be separated, star-crossed lovers, the Creature chooses to revive her as an amphibian. This way the two of them can resolve their respective loneliness and love each other far from the reach of an oppressive human state. However, once the Creature makes this decision on his own, the relationship of these two soul mates tilts definitely in his favor. The Creature is a god, and Elisa is a mere human being. 9 The god is the one who is able to make the ultimate life and death decision for both of them. Not Elisa, for she is dead when the Creature makes the decision concerning her species form and her future.
Up until the end of the film when both of them get shot "to death" by Strickland, Elisa is the active one in the relationship. The Creature is passive and childlike. Elisa teaches him (sign) language, how to sit at the kitchen table to eat his eggs, and even how to peel them properly with his amphibian claws.
It is she who initiates their love making. In her world, she, as a competent human being, is in control. One can question whether their relationship up to this point has been one of equals, or one more like that of teacher and pupil. When she rescues him from certain death at the research center, she is certainly the "hero," the "knight," the Paper Bag Princess of Robert Munsch's 1980 feminist fairy tale. Once the two lovers are in the river's waters at the film's conclusion, however, they are in his world, and he is in control. There has been a clear reversal of roles. We should ask, will theirs be a relationship of equals? Will Elisa have to learn how to be an amphibian, or will it come naturally? Will she ever achieve the status of a divinity, or will she remain in some more lowly amphibian state? All this is conjecture. As the film ends, each, in turn, has successfully saved the other from extinction. Perhaps this makes them equal. A fact that we do observe is that in the water, after the Creature has laid his healing hand on Elisa's neck and while he is kissing her, Elisa loses one of her red shoes, one of her mythical (à la Dorothy of "Oz") red slippers or dancing shoes. Presumably, Elisa will never dance again, and this is a loss. But losing, or kicking off, a shoe is also a classical Hollywood cliché with clear sexual connotations. Under the Hays Code, an erotic scene about to become more sexual often closed with one or both of the lovers dropping a shoe, which was to be understood as the beginning of the strip that the audience was not allowed to see. The woman lost her shoe as she surrendered to love. Could this be code in del Toro's film for a final marriage vow of "I do"?
As soon as the kiss is completed and the shoe is gone, Elisa springs her new set of gills and begins to breath under water. She smiles and embraces her mate.
Adult love and sensuality are two themes that del Toro points to when journalists challenge him to distinguish between Shape and his earlier films The idea of otherness being seen as the enemy. What I feel as an immigrant.
What I feel is an ugly undercurrent not in the past-not in the origins of fascism-but now. It is a movie that talks about the present for me. Even if it's set in 1962, it talks about me now. (Rottenberg) In his interview with Beatriz Martínez for El País, del Toro stresses the theme of love as that which makes this film "más maduro" than the other two: "Quería adentrarme en las necesidades de los adultos, en sus pulsiones internas, pero desde un punto de vista muy vitalista. Por eso la película está cargada de amor: de amor a la vida, de amor al cine, de amor al amor." Of the two Spanish-language films to which Shape has been compared, the more obvious precursor is the 2006 Laberinto, and this is, in good part, due to their respective heroines. 11 In many ways, Elisa is the filmic successor to Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), the female child heroine of Laberinto who is murdered by the fascist villain Capitán Vidal when she is only ten years old, and thus, is never allowed to reach adulthood. At the time of her death, Ofelia is an orphan, for she has lost both her mother and father, and remains in the power of her murderous stepfather, Capitán Vidal. Elisa, on the other hand, never knew her parents, as an infant she was physically abused and rendered mute, and she grew up in an orphanage. She now lives alone, and holds down a job. She has successfully reached adulthood, and has adult feelings and sexual needs. However, in spite of her age and adult sexuality, there is much in her appearance and manners that is childlike. Physically, Elisa looks and dresses like an adult Ofelia. Both are brunette and have the same hairdo (Elisa's is a little longer), both wear round collar blouses, and both have a love for red shoes.
The adult Elisa not only looks girlish, but frequently acts the ingénue, as when she brings home the very campy and childish greeting card for her friend Ten-year old Ofelia with round collar blouse (Laberinto, 1:25:48).
in the bath tub because it shows a fish in a fishbowl and, on a literal but unintended level, promotes friendship between different species. Both Ofelia and Elisa share a similar tragic trajectory. Both heroically defy a dehumanizing system and the incarnation of that system in a sadistic male authority figure.  5 Sources consulted on oil exploitation in the Amazon include Sample, Butler, Miller, Brooke, and Finer. In 2008, Finer, et al. wrote, "Oil and gas projects affect the forest of all western Amazonian nations, but to varying degrees. For example, in both Ecuador and Peru blocks now cover more than two-thirds of the Amazon, while in Colombia that fraction is less than one-tenth. In Bolivia and western Brazil, historical impacts are minimal, but the area open to oil and gas exploration is increasing rapidly".
(2) For the record, it should be noted that an oil refinery has been operating in Manaus, the capital of the Brazilian state of Amazonas, since 1956-57.
6 The context for Sor Juana's observation about eggs, found in her "Respuesta a Sor Filotea," is the time spent in her convent's kitchen when she was prohibited by her confessor from reading her books. Without her books and her scientific instruments, the intellectual and ever-curious Mexican nun had to study her more mundane surroundings. The comparison of Elisa to Sor Juana is instructive. We do not know if Elisa is a reader, although it is clear that her neighbor and close friend Giles is. In any case, she has learned how to be an excellent reader of her surroundings. Director del Toro already revealed his familiarity with Sor Juana's writing in an earlier film, El espinazo del diablo (2001). In that film, Dr. Casares recites one of Sor Juana's many romances to Carmen, the director of the orphanage where the action takes place. The romance of the film figures in the Porrúa edition of Obras completas de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz in the section "Romances filosóficos y amorosos (sin fechas conjeturables)." It is the second of the "Tres 'Letras para cantar'," and its first verse is "Afuera, afuera, ansias mías." 7 Within the disability debate surrounding this film, Sally Hawkins, who plays Elisa, has been criticized for "her poor skills in American Sign Language (ASL)." See Wilde, Crawshaw, and Sheldon, 1531. 8 In Spanish, the director described his early inspiration for the film in these words: "Empezó cuando tenía 6 años. Yo era un chiquillo y los domingos pasaban películas de terror en la televisión. Y vi La mujer y el monstruo a los seis años… y me enamoré de Julie Adams, pero me enamoré del amor que sentía la criatura por ella. Es decir, había una fascinación, que me conmovió muchísimo; de niño pensé ojalá y acaben juntos, pero no acabaron juntos, entonces me ha llevado cuarenta años corregir ese error cinematográfico" (Hernández Luján). For more on the director's early obsession with Creature from the Black Lagoon, see Borys Kit.
9 Two commentaries consulted suggest that Elisa's true nature never was human but amphibian, and thus at the end of the film the Creature restores her to her true being (Wilde et al., 1530;Siegel, 4, 6).
10 Most representative of the proposition that the three films form a trilogy is the article by Beatriz Martínez. There she writes, "Muchos consideran que La forma del agua supone el broche final a la trilogía que inició con El espinazo del diablo (2001) y que continuó con El laberinto del fauno (2006). Todas ellas estaban protagonizadas por personajes indefensos, puros de corazón que se encontraban inmersos en un panorama de inestabilidad política, cerrazón ideológica y degradación moral. Eran películas que se insertaban en el terreno de la fábula, pero en realidad se convertían como por arte de magia en potentes metáforas en torno al mal incrustado en nuestra sociedad. Había fantasmas y criaturas ancestrales, pero lo que daba más miedo eran las personas reales que ejercían su voluntad a la fuerza, a golpe de una dictatorial intransigencia." 11 The clearly non-human creatures of both Laberinto and Shape are of a different order from the ghost of the boy Santi in El espinazo del diablo. Santi is a dead human being, but the creatures of the other films are distinctly not human, even if they may have or acquire some human qualities and skills. Also, in the two more recent films, del Toro creates elaborate settings to depict places which, regardless of whether or not they simply exist in the protagonists' dream (Shape) or fantasy world (Laberinto), do exist on the screen in a visually compelling way for the viewer. There is nothing similar to these make-believe sets in Espinazo.
12 Whether or not the two resurrections are literal or imagined is immaterial here. Narratively, the deaths of both female protagonists are followed by the depiction of a resurrection, with which each film comes to an end.
13 Del Toro himself was, and is, upper-class, blond, and male. He has claimed it was his accent in English that gave him away and invited discriminatory treatment at the border.


Rediscovering Monasticism through Art

: Looking at modern monasticism and its role in society one can see how traditional monastic concepts or values ﬁnd their new forms. On the other hand, art and artists willingly, though not always consciously, use or refer to some monastic themes. In this paper, on the base of texts of some authors open to the dialogue between monasticism and art, a reading of monasticism in the key of art is proposed, exclusively in reference to the Christian monasticism. Given its present cultural and social context, the thesis of this paper is that through the rediscovering of monasticism through art, one can and should refresh and save it in a more and more secularized society, what may be also a perspective of a new role of monasticism in the modern world.

Such integrity requires a right balance, a possibility of reconciliation between different usual oppositions characterizing human existence, such as reason and emotions, body and spirit, freedom and determination, individual growth and the good of community. In such cases the idea of the symbol fits very well. It may lead directly to the vision of a modern affinity of monasticism and art. The symbol appears as a potential connection between different possible levels of human existence. The configuration of such connections is a form of wisdom. Technically, however, the symbol is helped by metaphor.
The connection between symbol and wisdom, which is an essential feature of monasticism, is seen very clearly by William A. Dyrness. According to him, "a symbol better represents what we might call understanding rather than knowledge-reflecting a kind of wisdom about life and the world" (Dyrness 2010, pos. 718). In this way, the symbol may become one of the instruments in seeing, understanding, or even transforming the world. Dyrness sees it as one of the principal functions of art and the artists: "Surely one of the principal functions of art and the artist-at least as we have come to understand this in the modern period-is rendering another world in terms of this one-that is, seeing this world metaphorically" (Dyrness 2010, pos. 3529). This vision opens our eyes and minds to the theological meaning of the world. Therefore, it may be considered not only as a mission, but also as an existential duty, while, as Dyrness continues, "symbolism [ . . . ] involves discovering meaning in what is given in creation, which is the theological condition for this process, ascribing significance to objects and actions, and being moved to pursue these as in themselves" (Dyrness 2010, pos. 703). Artists, like monks, stay in between the world and its meaning, between reality and the ideas which make the reality livable. It is an approach of involvement, sometimes drastic and radical, but always challenging in a unique way. The history of monasticism knows radical examples of such forms of monastic life. The first monks described in the Apophthegmata, the behavior of Syrian Stylites are examples of such an active and humble mediation between the world and its sense, between people and the world. A monk is placed in between, sometimes in radically difficult circumstances, but is always determined to live their existential vocation honestly and deeply; so they become a sign, a symbol, and a metaphor. His or her life, health, or social position are to transmit the message about salvation of the world. Being visible, narrated, or described, they carry out and even become a message.
As we remember, etymologically "monos" means "alone". It is a valid observation, which concerns the personal and existential involvement resulting explicitly from the fact of being a monk. This involvement is an existential sign, a symbol, or a metaphor of monasticism. It is a personal choice which sometimes may arrive to a sacrifice. Here we arrive at the very important concept of "performance". We will develop it later. For the moment we can only say that the monk, like the real artist, performs the spectacle of their life radically, to the very end, sometimes at the highest cost. This readiness for an eventual sacrifice distinguishes them, but also sets an ethical barrier from others. As Diana Taylor, a professor of Performance Studies writes: "The ethical considerations of performance are essential. An artist/activist may cut, mutilate, or flagellate herself, but she cannot do it to another person without his consent. She can perform a work that risks her own employment or arrest, but she cannot put others at risk without their permission" (Taylor 2016(Taylor , pos. 1734. This possibility of sacrifice may bring an artist closer to a radical religious experience and from this perspective it is not difficult to identify the monk with the artist. According to Joan Chittister, the famous Benedictine writer: In truth, [ . . . ] the monk and the artist are one. Monasticism, in fact, cultivates the artistic spirit. Basic to monasticism are the very qualities art demands of the artist: silence, contemplation, discernment of spirits, community, and humility. Basic to art are the very qualities demanded of the monastic: single-mindedness, beauty, immersion, praise, and creativity. It is contemplation that leads an artist to preserve for us forever, the essence of a thing that takes us far beyond its accidents (quoted after Valters Paintner 2011, p. 161).
Quite often, also the artists emphasize their affinity with monks. Julia Cameron in her bestselling book The Artist's Way wrote directly about it and her words are also her personal confession: Artists throughout the centuries have spoken of "inspiration", confiding that God spoke to them or angels did. In our age, such notions of art as a spiritual experience are seldom mentioned. And yet, the central experience of creativity is mystical. Opening our souls to what must be made, we meet our Maker. Artists toil in cells all over Manhattan. We have a monk's devotion to our work-and, like monks, some of us will be visited by visions and others will toil out our days knowing glory only at a distance, kneeling in the chapel but never receiving the visitation of a Tony, an Oscar, a National Book Award. And yet the still, small voice may speak as loud in us as in any. So we pray. Fame will come to some. Honor will visit all who work. As artists, we experience the fact that 'God is in the details'. Making our art, we make artful lives. Making our art, we meet firsthand the hand of our Creator. (Cameron 2002, p. 231).
Following this direction, one can speak about "anonymous monasticism" characterized by a typical, and radical existential approach of artists living as monks, even not being aware of this (Sawicki 2005, pp. 537-51). As an example may serve different "radical" artists, like G. Gould, the world-renowned Canadian pianist, who at the age of 27 withdrew from the stage to focus on recording in studio (Sawicki 2013), Lubomyr Melnyk, an original Ukrainian pianist and composer, known from his intensively expressive improvisations and called the Prophet of Piano (Quartier 2017, pp. 91-95), or Konstantin Wecker, a German songwriter, who dedicated his songs to social and political problems (Quartier 2018).
This affinity between monasticism and art is the main inspiration of our proposal of rediscovering monasticism through the art, expressed in the title of this paper. It may help us to look again at the main monastic values in a new light, expressing them in a new language. Actually, it also is a matter of a special style of life characterized by a radical and involved relationship to the world. We will present this shortly on the basis of texts written by the authors more or less consciously referring art to monasticism.
The affinity between monasticism and art occurs on two basic levels:
In both cases, the approach and practices are strikingly similar, indicating not only the importance of a personally authentic and deep spiritual life but also the simple necessity of the existence of God. In this context, God seems to be as essential for the monk as for the artist. Moreover, the internal, intimate experience inevitably leads to external action, which has its clear objective and is addressed to other people. Being a monk, as much as being an artist, is a deep internal experience and a service, both to other people and to the whole world. These two dimensions interweave and supplement one another. In each of them one can distinguish some separate themes which explicitly have a spiritual character. For internal life there are: Mission may be presented in four fields: (a) Captivation of imagination; (b) Communication (also to create a community); (c) Formulation of message, namely: expression of God, call for contemplation, sacredness, glorification; (d) Style of humility and discretion.
In all these cases the internal attitude is transformed into activities focused on the transmission of internal, spiritual experience. Here, the analogy between artist and monk is very evident-both try to communicate the message resulting from their internal experience. Therefore, they necessarily turn to other people, not only for sharing with them their experience, but also to help them. So, at least in their own opinion, such mission is a service rendered to humankind and even to the world.

Internal Life
As classical history teaches, Christian monasticism was born in the desert, first in Egypt, then in Syria, Palestine, and in other countries where persons looking for a radical life according to the Gospel started to populate inhabited, sometimes wild places. It was to be the right environment for personal spiritual growth, protection from distraction, and unnecessary involvement. The motive of importance of the desert was introduced into literature in the fourth century by Saint Athanasius in his famous biography of Saint Anthony-the Vita Antonii. The desert offered to the monk the best conditions for his own spiritual work. No wonder then that a radically authentic understanding of an artist's mission must also refer to the desert. So says Geoff Hall, photographer, film maker, mentor, and writer, in his book, Translating the invisible world, which connects the experience of wilderness with the sense of sacredness of life and a need of transformation. He writes: The Wilderness addresses the fundamental things which need healing in our lives-our fears. As we roam this dry and weary land, our false-consciousness is rectified and our vision re-oriented. We see that all of life is sacred, that our life with God is the one essential thing that will help us see the world correctly-to see ourselves correctly-as we navigate the cultural terrain as artists (Hall 2012b, pos. 943).
As the desert was a master and teacher for monks, so it can (and should) be for artists. Only in this way can we learn and experience what is most essential in our life: "who we are and what we are here for-our calling. The art we make-whether, word, image or performance art-will communicate incoherence if these things are not well-developed in our hearts" (Hall 2011b, pos. 130).
The objective of the experience of the desert is intimacy with God. Hall describes the life of the artist also in these categories. He writes: "The life of the artist is an intimate walk with God" (Hall 2011a, pos. 210). A similar opinion is expressed by Christine Valters Paintner, a Benedictine oblate, theologian, writer, and blogger. She makes the affinity between monks and artists the main inspiration of her writing and activity. She does not speak explicitly about God but about Mystery. Nevertheless, the perspectives, especially for human beings, are similar. For example, she writes that poetry slows us down, moves us into a different way of knowing, changes our breath and demands a more attentive presence, helps us to integrate sorrow and joy, horror and humor, with compassionate awareness. That is why perceiving poetry as a way of being with Mystery is the reason why Valters Paintner sees it as a potent form for spiritual direction (Cf. Valters Painter and Beckman 2010, p. 110).
Here, poetry, like each true spiritual experience, integrates the subject exercising it, authorizing him or her to help others. This is exactly what was mentioned above about the necessity of missions resulting from deep spiritual experience. Such a mission is possible because of the transforming power of poetry. The artist cannot just keep it only for him/herself: "Poiesis, the creative act, occurs as the death and re-birth of the soul" (Valters Painter and Beckman 2010, p. 157).
Speaking generally about the arts, Valters Paintner talks explicitly about God: "the arts help expand our ways of knowing God beyond the cognitive level" (Valters Painter and Beckman 2010, p. 143). She sees that creative acts of art have a deep existential and implicitly spiritual meaning: "When we create art, ceremony, or ritual, it is not for the practical purpose of accomplishing a task, but to reflect our deepest meaning and our core values" (Valters Painter and Beckman 2010, p. 180). The evident theological character of such involvement is clear in the book of James Watkins, significantly titled Creativity as Sacrifice. To some extent, he confirms the intuition of other Valters Paintner's words: "When we engage in the arts, we dip into our soul to discover deep pools of wonder, breath-taking gifts of beauty, and quiet revelation. As we create, we are invited into playfulness, poignancy, and surprise-energies that renew us and revitalize our sense of purpose" (Valters Painter and Beckman 2010, p. 3). The thesis present in the title of his book shows the theological and even Christological perspectives of creative act.
An artist's deep internal experience has not only an existential character. It is often described in mystical categories. Matthew Fox, writer and the founder of the University of Creation Spirituality in California, when he writes about creativity and its intimate character, mentions mysticism very plainly. According to him, "the intimacy of creativity corresponds to the mystical experience itself. Mysticism bespeaks union, and there is an ongoing union of us and the Divine precisely during the process of giving birth in any form whatsoever" (Fox 2004, p. 9). The relationship between mysticism and art is well known. There were mystics who expressed their mystical experiences in poetic texts (Saint Ephrem of Syria, Saint John of the Cross), in music (Hildegard of Bingen), or in painting (Fra Angelico). Mystical experience as such was also very attractive and inspiring for many artists; it is enough to recall Lorenzo Bernini and his famous Ecstasy of Saint Theresa of Avila. The intensity of intimate personal contact with God, being a normal condition of mystical experience, finds its usual medium in meditation and contemplation. Valters Paintner sees a clear analogy between the art-making process and the practice of meditation. For her, the art-making process may become a container for our internal awareness, much as in meditation practice. So monks and artists "are teachers of slowness, of savoring, of seeing the world below surfaces" (Valters Paintner 2011, p. 10). As we can see here, this experience is tightly connected with the perception of the world. In this realm the artist admires, meditates, and contemplates the creature. Beverly Lanzetta (quoted by Valters Paintner) says: "True contemplation always overflows into creation-it becomes a creative act" (Valters Paintner 2011, p. 25).
The personal commitment to a relationship with God does not have merely a spiritual character. It transforms the person involved. Watkins, elaborating his theological model of creativity as Sacrifice, sees it as "a respectful transformation" (Watkins 2015, p. 11). In monastic vocabulary such process is called "conversion", and Valters Paintner finds it "central to creativity because it calls us to begin again and try new things" (Valters Paintner 2011, p. 73). The artist's continuous research and pursuit of ideals has the same dynamism as the spiritual search of monks. As Dyrness explains, "it is the motivation to pursue-the affective attraction-that constitutes the aesthetic element" (Dyrness 2010, pos. 704).

The Mission
The seriousness and intensity of the internal spiritual life must inevitably lead towards activity. It is a sign of responsibility which naturally grows from a deep, personal relationship with God. This responsibility, activated by the singularity of spiritual experience, leads towards mission. A monk and an artist cannot resist an imperative of sharing their experience with other people, transmitting to them a message of joy and hope. So they must confront their public (listeners, readers, or visitors in museums or galleries), capturing their attention and communicating a previously formulated message. Surely, the power of authenticity of testimony is unquestionable, but the mechanisms and dynamisms of transmission are everywhere the same and must be, more or less consciously, respected. All this happens in a certain style, marked by a spiritual quality. Even if the message is to be powerful, it is a style of humility and discretion.
The beautiful, as Watkins notes, "is not the product of our own fantasy, nor of our subjective perception, but has an objective existence, being itself the expression of a Divine perfection" (Watkins 2015, p. 51). Thus, the artistic activity is a service. It is a duty. So, it needs effort. Particularly today, in times of so many different proposals and market competition, the artist must make an effort to capture the attention of their public. It is something more than just transmitting a message. First of all, it is a matter of creating bonds and constituting a space for community. Hall describes it very clearly: The work of the storyteller, the artist, is not to convict people of error, nor convince people of truth, but to capture the imagination with the possibility of something new being born into the world; a change in the world-order, justice for the afflicted and the disenfranchised, a change in the materialistic concepts of life and the materialistic conceptions of art. Conviction isn't their job, it is something achieved in the heart, by the Spirit (Hall 2012b, pos. 451).
The theological background for this is obvious-monks and artists are messengers of God, they announce His presence and His Grace. Watkins inserts this activity in an important place of the Christian community: "The task of the theologian is to show how a theological model for human creativity in the arts can inform the life of the Christian community" (Watkins 2015, p. 43). A monk acts within the community of the Church. An artist, at least, acts in the community of their public. There may be also a community artist. Hall proposes here the spiritual community of artists-a place of support, solidarity, and mutual inspiration. It is especially important in a fragile social context of artistic activity: "The spiritual community of the artist is a place where the sharing of common brokenness occurs in the hospitality of equality" (Hall 2012a, pos. 434). The base of this community is care. It is a community of inclusion, against all social, economic, or cultural marginalization. Such a community expresses the coherence between internal life and mission, guaranteeing the successful transmission of the message. Hall calls it a prophetic lifestyle, appealing for its restitution: We have lost the connection between prophetic communication and prophetic lifestyle. Such art cannot be conducted from the soft-centre of the institution along with its power-base. Prophetic art is always expressed from the margins where the pain, injustice and the angst of life are experienced, where the powerless live. It is subversive, not political or ideological. It is not armchair Prophetic! (Hall 2011a, pos. 373).
With the adjective "prophetic", which often appears in this quotation and has explicitly Biblical origins, one can associate the monastic tradition which has always linked monastic life with prophecy. It is the matter of charismatic life in the Church, complementary to its hierarchical structures.
In such a way we arrive at the figure of the Biblical prophet, who may be regarded as a model for both monks and artist. Usually their task was to communicate something and doing this in an efficient way. This leads us for the second time to the very important, above-mentioned concept of modern art-performance, a theme also studied and explored by Thomas Quartier (Quartier 2013). A prophet was a performer, as well as a monk. His or her whole life, in all its gestures and actions, was a sign, a symbol, or a metaphor. In modern art, performance plays a key role. Diana Taylor, quoted above, sees it as a means of communication, as "a doing with and to", as an act of imagination (cf. Taylor 2016, p. 207  Community is first of all a space of encounter. In times of excessive individualism, performance and its symbolic and metaphorical character is actually (or can be, and should be) one of the most efficient tools to achieve it. It offers both interaction and involvement. It permits integration between the corporal and the spiritual, human and divine. As Dyrness observes, "aesthetic and symbolic projects are also spiritual sites where the affections, the goods of the world, and religious longings meet and interact" (Dyrness 2010, pos. 116).
As we mentioned, good communication is only a means to transmit a message. The affinity between monks and artists can be also traced on this level. Following the authors we quote, one can distinguish three main themes of this message: (a) bringing to contemplation; (b) showing the sacredness of everything; (c) calling to glorification. Geoff Hall, exploring the affinity between art and mysticism, observes that they both help in achieving the contemplative vision of the world: "Art like mysticism, breaks through the screen of objectivity and draws on our pre-conceptual capacities of contemplative vision" (Hall 2012b, pos. 765). As we mentioned above, it is a very important aspect and task of perception. The most ancient, classical monastic tradition connects it clearly with internal spiritual experience seen as a perception of Divine Light, which permits us to see everything in truth. These optics naturally lead towards discovering the sacredness in everything. Valters Painter defines it as essential for monasticism: "This is the heart of the monastic path, of being present to the sacredness of everything-including ourselves" (Valters Paintner 2011, p. 100). This approach is very close to the sensitivity for beauty in everyday life which is becoming more and more popular. Elisabetta Di Stefano, apart from giving an overview of various texts dedicated to this theme (Di Stefano 2017, pp. 11-35), presents it in a wide anthropological and ecological context (Di Stefano 2017, pp. 89-119). In this sense, the monastic approach to the world, born from a deep spiritual and mystical relationship to God and proved by the long history and culture of monasteries of the Benedictine tradition, can find its contemporary continuation, perhaps in new forms, but on the base of the same anthropological principles. It is an approach not of contemplative passivity, but of a wise collaboration in continuation of the divine act of creation. Fox describes it very clearly in the words which smartly combine theology and anthropology: God has gifted creation with everything that is necessary. Humankind, full of all creative possibilities, is God's work. Humankind is called to co-create. God gave to humankind the talent to create with all the world. Just as the person shall never end, until into dust they are transformed and resurrected, just so, their works are always visible. The good deeds shall glorify, the bad deeds shall shame (Fox 2004, p. 228).
In this appeal one can find easily an echo of Saint Benedict's amazing conclusion to the chapter dedicated to artists living in the monastery-discussing the possible price for their products, he recommends, quoting the words from the first Letter of Saint Peter Apostle, that in everything God may be glorified (1 Peter 4;11; The Rule of Saint Benedict 57: 7).
The final observation which should be added to this short look at the affinity between monks and artists, in view of the further growth of their presence and meaning in the world, concerns the style of being of a monk as an artist and, vice versa, of an artist as a monk. It is a matter of humility, which, more precisely and adequately in the modern context, we would prefer to call "discretion". In this context we refer to the amazingly monastic reflection published recently by Pierre Zaoui, a French philosopher, under the very meaningful title The Art of Disappearing (L'arte di scomparire). In spite of appearances it is not a nihilistic book. On the contrary, it appears to be a very subtle proposal for a good and honest life in our times. It is a proposal for a style of presence and interaction, for a fresh and updated look at some monastic values. The author describes the main idea of his proposal in the following words: Your discreet, unobserved, transparent position opens you up to a new experience: the abandonment of the ghosts of omnipotence, of being indispensable, of being responsible for each and every one. Becoming suddenly discreet means giving up for a moment any will of power. Not that the will to power is negative in itself, but we know too well its dark and tyrannical face, and even the luminous face is sometimes a heavy burden, for its need to overcome itself relentlessly, to always push its forces to their extreme limit. Hence the so soothing joy of being able to download it for a moment on others or on things, to let them appear, not to give them more shade, to take off from their sun (Zaoui 2015, pos. 49).
In this declaration one can see a new melody played with the notes of artist identity, life, and action. The classical, many-centuries-old stereotype of the glorious power of art is here transformed into a new vision, which Zaoui discreetly links to theology and religion: The art of discretion seems to depend on an authentically metaphysical gesture, if not actually theological origin, which aims to constitute its concept by differentiating it from proximate but distinct experiences: the ancient and worldly ones of touch, modesty, demeanor, of courtesy, and religious ones of humility, detachment or withdrawal from the world (Zaoui 2015, pos. 272).
The explanation of this approach is also very meaningful, sensitive, and corresponds to the modern trends in art which really need more humility and discretion. Beauty and truth, particularly seen as gifts from God, are sufficiently powerful to exist and do their work. We should not disturb them. On the contrary, new, quiet, creative spaces are needed to give them opportunity to grow: Because a life without secrets, without mystery, without shadows, without interstitial spaces between oneself and others, as well as between oneself, is a life destined to absolute terror and without limits, which in the end destroys every residue in us of humanity (Zaoui 2015, pos. 1047).

Conclusions
Concluding this reflection, we hope that the affinity between monasticism and art it outlines may be a helpful way of looking differently at, and perhaps with a larger perspective on, both contemporary artists and monks. The mutual symbiosis, organically and naturally resulting from this affinity, also turns out to be stimulated by our times. If art has always been present, even sometimes struggling for its identity, then monasticism seems to be losing its terrain. The necessity of deep spiritual experience, so important for art, may in fact be a good occasion for rediscovering monastic traditions and practice in collaboration with artists. It seems that this work has already begun. What it needs now is mutual sensitivity, courage, patience, and perseverance. In this way the monastic values which set the course of this reflection (existential necessity of wilderness, prayerful intimacy with God, deep and serious internal spiritual work, openness for mystical experience, practice of meditation, grace of contemplation, and path of conversion) will find their new expression, and so they will be able to be transmitted to people who for different reasons do not know them. At the same time, it could also be a powerful message of evangelization, since, in essence, Christian monks have always been radical practitioners and witnesses of the Gospel. In times when sensibility for spirituality and religion is weakened and only an interest and attraction for beauty remains, it would be good to recall that, in origin, these two spheres went together.
Funding: This research received no external funding.

Conflicts of Interest:
The author declares no conflicts of interest.


Hamlet and Pluralism: A Postmodernist Metaphor

The present study means to investigate Hamlet in the light of a postmodernistdeconstructive theoretical framework. The play seems to reinforce the overarching dominant patriarchal meta-narrative, with supposed unitary voice and unified identities. The current reading means to show that the play is a metaphor of postmodernism with pluralistic subjectivities, and multiple alternative micro-narrative voices. It manifests the postmodernist notion of subjective, personal and local truth, against the idea of universal truth and reality. Its major features are self-difference, undecidability, and uncertainty. The regimes of truth in the form of dominant ideology are challenged, deconstructed and undermined, creating a zone of the postmodern condition of reality and truth as the effect of power and rhetoric. The postmodern condition does not push for the replacement of one totality with another. It creates a third space of pluralism, where all the voices are disjoined in a zone of the difference without hierarchy.

Introduction
In spite of countless critiques of Hamlet through the centuries, its potential and need for further readings are ever inexhaustible. The study is divided into two parts. Part one focuses upon those aspects which constitute the dominant narrative and reinforce the dominant ideology. Part two dismantles the façade of metanarrative through the identification of alternative micro-narrative voices which challenge and dismantle the dominant ideology. The study means to show that the play Hamlet is a strong metaphor of the postmodern condition of pluralism and multiplicity. The study is expected to make its contribution towards unveiling some of the still invisible aspects of the play.

Literature Review
A brief literature review is presented below to create the context and justification of the present study.
Wilson Knight (1977) is right about the agony and the misery experienced by Hamlet at the death of his father and the remarriage of his mother. He highlights the sense of betrayal experienced by Hamlet at the conduct of her mother. His particular reading contends that the parting words of the ghost are most indelibly printed in Hamlet's mind. The learned critic is impacted by the rhetoric of Hamlet. Hamlet does make a promise to ghost but it never gets translated into deeds. He does not keep his oath, as is claimed by the learned critic, except in words. The learned critic does not notice the discrepancy between the words and the deeds. The gap between words and deeds is never bridged, as this the study intends to explore. Further, the learned critic is given to binary thinking, therefore, the talk is of healing, the creation of harmony and cleansing through revenge. The learned critic narrows down the multidimensional notion of Shakespearean love to a particular, limited scenario. Knight reads Hamlet's ethics of avoidance for the sickness of his soul and his wit being diseased. The current study means to show that this state is actually the manifestation of the postmodern condition. Eliot (1975) is absolutely right to assert that the foremost task of a critic is to treat Hamlet as a work of art. He straight away dismisses the criticism of Goethe and Coleridge as the most misleading. However, he is full of praise for the critical contribution of Stoll and Robertson, especially of Robertson, on the issue of delay. His own conclusion is that Hamlet is an artistic failure. Eliot finds the play "puzzling" and "disquieting". He is critical of the play for its "unstable" thought and workmanship. His final judgment on the play, being the Mona Lisa of literature, was meant to be a demerit. He is critical of the play for "being unknowable", "a puzzle" and for attempting to express "the inexpressible horrible". Eliot wanted Hamlet to be an "intelligible" and "self-complete", a play "in the sunlight". He finds Hamlet "deficient". Incidentally, the present Global Social Sciences Review (GSSR) study attaches the utmost importance to these aspects of the play as its merit. These very aspects anticipate the postmodern condition.
Leonardo Tennenhouse (1986) has examined Hamlet from the angle of power. He assumes that the inability of Hamlet to exercise power shifts all action onto a mental plane, where any show of force gets translated into selfinflicted aggression. This results in suicide talk and self-condemnation. He thinks tragedy resides in the impossibility of Hamlet ever rising to power. He very comprehensively discusses the power dynamics in the context of the play.
It is a good study on Hamlet for the creation of a proper context for this study.
David Leverenz (1980) has investigated Hamlet from a feminist perspective. He ascribes Hamlet's resistance to the commandment of the ghost to the partial female identity of Hamlet himself. It is a very good study, reflective of mature insight and the gift of analysis, but some of the observations are off the mark. His suggestion of the traces of homosexuality in the bond that exists among the men in the play is not convincing. Some of these remarks border on absurdity. Leverenz observes that Hamlet acts upon the role prescribed to him, the present study means to show it as misreading.
Marilyn French (1982) has critiqued Hamlet in the context of ambiguity surrounding the person of ghost. She does refer to the element of doubt and incertitude, but she confines it only to the being of the ghost. Her remark regarding the absolutist values of Hamlet is interesting but debatable. The focus of her critique is the principle of chaste constancy. She rather regards the suggestion of multiplicity as the demerit of the pay. She also seems t o agree with Eliot on the issue of there not being an objective correlative in the play.
The critique of Hamlet by Rebecca Smith (1980) investigates the representations/misrepresentations of Gertrude from different angles. It is a well-focused study. The textual analysis is quite convincing. The thrust of her study is the debate regarding Gertrude's guilt or innocence in the murder of king Hamlet. She establishes the innocence of Gertrude in the murder of king Hamlet and rejects the possibility of her pre-marriage relationship with Claudius. The reading redeems the image of Gertrude from many creative or critical misrepresentations. Showalter (1985) has critiqued the play from a feminist perspective, with a special focus upon the representations of Ophelia and its interpretations, both in art and literature, through history. She has examined the issues relating to the sexuality of Ophelia from different angles, in the light of different theoretical frameworks, especially the Freudian concept of Oedipal-complex.
The critique of Hamlet by Calderwood (1983) anticipates the postmodernist approach, even though the oppositional binary thinking is also not missing in the critique. He comments on the process of generation of meaning, the formation and the collapse of identities. He has suggested the concept of the lingering traces of the absence. The current study means to expand upon these observations. Belsey (1985) has critiqued the play from the perspective of revenge. Belsey is right to highlight the ambiguous and questionable nature of the ghost. She also refers indirectly, in a passing way, to the element of uncertainty, which the current study intends to investigate.
John Hunt (1988) undertakes a critique of Hamlet from a unique angle. He combines the traditional and modern method to focus on and analyse the imagery of body used in the play, both in the limited, immediate sense and the larger sense of body politic of the country.
The brief literature review, given above, has adequately established the context and justification of the present study.

Theoretical Framework and Methodology
The postmodernist-deconstructive theoretical framework questions absolutist, and foundationalist assumptions, which are projected as objective, and universal truths. It questions the notion of metanarratives in the form of dominant ideologies and identifies alternative micro-narrative voices which challenge the regimes of truth (Waugh, 2001). The postmodern literary theory emphasizes difference without hierarchy and means to show that reality is a subjective, personal, local, discursive formation, brought into being by language. Language is supposed to create reality instead of describing some pre-existing reality. The present study proposes to analyse the play and its major characters in the light of postmodern literary theory to show that the play is the site of pluralism, multiplicity, uncertainty, and undecidability. The major proposition of the study is that the play and its major characters manifest the above mentioned conditions and do not reinforce and strengthen the dominant ideology through metanarrative.
The following research questions are devised to keep the study focused on: 1 Do the play and its characters suggest that language creates reality instead of describing it? 2 Does the play reinforce or undermine essentialist and foundationalist assumptions? 3 Does the play project the dominant ideology as the regime of truth through the dominant narrative voices? 4 Do the alternative micro-narrative voices challenge and dismantle the established regimes of truth in the play?
5 Do the major characters show the postmodern condition of pluralism, schizophrenia, undecidability, multiplicity and a subjectivity marked by self-difference? 6 Does the play Hamlet reinforce or undermine the concept of truth as the effect of power and rhetoric?

Reinforcement of the Regimes of Truth through Dominant Narrative Voice
Hamlet appears to be a patriarchal play, supporting and reinforcing the dominant patriarchal ideology. However, on closer inspection, pluralism and multiplicity are unconcealed. The characters in the play can be divided into two groups, the one which reinforces the dominant narrative and ideology and the other which only seems to support the dominant ideology. Ghost King Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes and Fortinbras belong to the first group. Prince Hamlet, Claudius, Gertrude and Ophelia belong to the second category.
The return of ghost King Hamlet from the next world for the punishment of the offenders of the dominant ideology shows its power and authority. The ghost King is the arch symbol of the ruling ideologies. The ghost king overshadows the play and as a consequence, the play seems to reinforce and reproduce the dominant overarc hing patriarchal meta-narrative. Patriarchy and other social-cultural constructs, like honor, masculinity and femalefidelity seem to be the regime of truth supported and reinforced by the play and its major characters. This seems to be the only dominant narrative voice. The dominant patriarchal ideology has the status of commonsense and the received truth. People are expected to perform their roles in light of the dominant ideology. Any deviation from it can be a cause of shame and humiliation. Role performance is regulated by the ideological institutions and their attendant social-cultural constructs. This is why Prince Hamlet is immersed in deepest melancholy at the conduct and betrayal of his mother, because she has failed to perform her proper role as a patriarchal woman.
Ghost king Hamlet stands for the absolute patriarchal ideology. He returns from the next world to settle his accounts with his brother for disrupting the established patrilineal order and demands of his son for revenge. He is like the dead father of Portia, who imposes his will upon his living daughter . As a patriarch, ghost King Hamlet expects his son to perform his proper role as a good son. Patriarchy has the status of a norm and commonsense here. He believes it is only natural that his son should fight his war. Nature is defined in light of the dominant ideology. Patriarchy defines the world from the perspective of fathers.
The ghost King Hamlet also expects his wife Gertrude not to re-marry even after his death. He expects her to be like the Penelope, the pious wife of Odysseus, (Homer, 2006) a totally patriarchal woman, who has internalized the ideology and lives by it. The abusive language used by ghost against queen reflects the rage of ghost King Hamlet at the violation of patriarchal code. It is a graphic representation of the conditions mentioned by Althusser (1971). Hamlet has been interpellated by the ideology, therefore makes a promise for the fulfillment of the command of the ghost.
Polonius is a conformist to dominant ideology and patriarchal social-cultural constructs. He cannot see the relationship between Ophelia and Hamlet from her perspective. He means to control her sexuality as a weapon of patriarchy. Ophelia obeys her father. Ophelia is different from Hermia (Shakespeare, 1997), who openly revolts against patriarchy. The resistance of Ophelia to patriarchy is of a different kind. The patriarchal Polonius is a man of double standards. He is prepared to turn a blind eye to immoral engagements of his son Laertes, but controls the sexuality of his daughter. Polonius identifies himself totally with the dominant ideology.
Laertes is thoroughly interpellated by patriarchy. He has unitary and unified subjectivity, and therefore he is never assailed by doubt or undecidability. He views things with a patriarchal gaze. His exhortation to Ophelia is reflective of the desire of patriarchy to prescribe the place for women and to control their sexuality. Women are not allowed agency, which converts them into commodities. His reaction to the accidental murder of his father establishes his absolute allegiance to patriarchal ideology. Nothing is more important, including his life, than the self-imposed task of revenge. Like Faustus (Marlow, 1976), he can risk anything, including the eternal damnation of his soul to perform his duty. Pyrrhus and Fortinbras are also interpellated by the dominant ideology and its attendant constructs. They are prepared to sacrifice their lives for their respective causes.

Dismantling of Established Regimes of Truth by Alternative Narrative Voices
The fact that the play opens with a question regarding the identity of some characters, has great symbolic importance. It alerts us to the world of questions and doubts about identities, nature of narratives and unfolding of the nature of realities and truths. The play becomes a site of contest and conflict among several perspectives and narratives. On the surface, Prince Hamlet does have a unitary, unified identity, and his allegiance to the dominant ideology of patriarchy seems absolute. However, the deconstructive lens reveals that Prince Hamlet inhabits the zone of multiplicity, undecidability, pluralism, and schizophrenia. He thinks of committing suicide but cannot do this, for he does not have the singularity of thought and being. He is fed up with this world and curses it in Global Social Sciences Review (GSSR) strongest possible terms, but still cannot free himself from it and its compulsions. He does not want to think about his mother but cannot help himself from thinking about her. He condemns this marriage as incest but almost fails to undo it. It is obvious that his subjectivity is marked by self-difference.
Hamlet is capable of creating his own personal, local, subjective reality in his imagination and can see the things with the eye of his mind. He equates the subjective reality with the objective reality. In his person, the boundaries between reality, hyperreality, counterfeit, original and copies are conflated. He raises questions and doubts about identities, the nature, and place of man in the scheme of things and the social-cultural constructs. He underlines like Cordelia in King Lear (Shakespeare, 1978) the inadequacy of language to express the reality in the mind, anticipating the postmodernist notion of the gap between understanding/conception and imagination/expression. Verbal and non-verbal language cannot express his grief. In his subjective, personal world, he creates his own reality of Denmark being a prison. He can consider himself a king, though bound in a nutshell.
Hamlet finds himself standing at the crossroads of pluralism and multiplicity. In his encounter with Ophelia, he thinks he exists in-between heaven and earth, a true postmodernist condition. His subjectivity is marked by selfdifference and multiplicity. Though he does not practice what Rotary calls a "suitably cavalier, laid-back attitude" which is expected of a postmodernist character and play the role of an "ironist" (1989), he rather vents his rage by abusing his mother, showing the lukewarm subscription to the dominant ideology.
His initial declaration of absolute allegiance to ghost and his commandment reflects his interpellation by patriarchy. After his meeting with the ghost, he proposes to give up one binary position for anot her, the world, for the commandment of the ghost. He means to live only for one cause, the revenge. At this moment he seems to be free from doubt and uncertainty. He seems ready and prepared to render any sacrifice for the task in his hand. He means to attain the absolute single-mindedness of "the lover" of the sonnet, 116, (Shakespeare, 1997). He slides back into his multiple selves, resulting in pause and paralysis on his part. Hamlet's discrepancy between words and deeds is very similar to that of Othello before he murders Desdemona. (Shakespeare, 1994). The fact that in spite of his conscious declaration of an oath of allegiance to the commandment of the ghost of his father, he fails to take revenge for the murder of his father, shows the existence of his multiple selves. His schizophrenia is responsible for his ambiguity, uncertainty, and undecidability. Repeatedly, he tries to rationalise this discrepancy between his original conscious allegiance to the word of ghost and his subsequent failure, due to his pluralistic subjectivity. Many of his soliloquies/discourses can be read as the representations of the postmodern condition of multiplicity and pluralism. He is paralyzed by this orchestra of multiple strands in his subjectivity, his call for, "more relative grounds", is only an attempt at rationalisation. Eliot misunderstands this as a demerit of the play (1975).
He questions the concept of objective universal reality and comes up with a postmodernist private and subjective concept of the creation of reality. He anticipates the idea of reality created by language and mind. Hamlet also anticipates Russell (2004) by his suggestion of the inherent insignificance of man as, "quintessence of dust". One is reminded of Andrei when he falls wounded in the battlefield (Tolstoy, 1957). In his conversation with Polonius, he unwittingly parodies the written philosophies for being nothing more than gossip and slander, not more than empty and idle words, merely the language games: a true postmodernist position.
His celebrated soliloquy "to be or not to be" is the essence of the postmodern condition. This proves that his subjectivity is marked by self-difference and schizophrenia. All his rationalizations have failed to bridge the gap between his words and deeds. Thought of suicide is another possible way out of his dilemma. His state of mind is reflective of a condition, Russell calls as Pyrrhonism, the old name for absolute skepticism (2004). He is in a state of mind where one can never choose from the available choices and options. He is faced with undecidability, in the face of multiple alternative options. His multiple subjectivities have been fully unconcealed.
His failure to kill Claudius, when he is praying, proves the main thesis of the study that Hamlet exhibits the postmodern condition of pluralism and undecidability, with a subjectivity marked by self-difference, resulting in the ethics of avoidance. His subjectivity plays off alternative worlds in a state of pluralistic anarchy. He sits back with a decentered, fragmented, postmodernist subjectivity. Even the issue of his madness remains undecidable.
Claudius is also a symbol of "free-floating, self-referential autonomy". Of course he is not absolutely decentered and fragmented subject, but he is not fully controlled or affected by the dominant ideology. He is practically divorced from ideological referents. He is supposed to be the defender and protector of his brother, like Macbeth  but he subverts and undermines all the social-cultural constructs which have been there as the regime of truth. Unwittingly he wages war on the totality. He is a man with multiple subjectivities and shows the self-difference of a pluralistic being. His revolt against and the murder of his brother is an assault on the dominant ideology. He disregards pre-established rules and rejects the notion of external reality and creates his own reality through rhetoric. He murders his own brother, marries the wife of his dead brother. He lives by the reality created by his personal rhetoric. This great pretender, thief and killer create himself as a nationalist, a democrat and a law-respecting ruler through his rhetoric. He can distort and dissimulate his naked self-interest and pass it off to his people for national ideology. Throughout, he remains playfully ironic and cavalier in his attitude. He creates his personal, local, subjective reality and truth and becomes a metaphor of postmodern condition. His oscillation and paralysis result from his multiple and pluralistic subjectivity. He wants to seek the forgiveness of God, but he does not want to surrender the benefits of his crime, so he is bound to multiple businesses and his personality is revealed as schizophrenic. The analysis confirms him as a decentered, fragmented postmodernist subject.
The murder of King Hamlet by Claudius is a form of resistance and challenge to the status quo. Claudius is not one coherent, unified subject, subscribing to one absolutist ideology. He does not believe in the existence of objective universal truth. He can manufacture truth through power and rhetoric, highlighting the postmodernist notion of truth as an effect of the discursive, linguistic and textual phenomenon. Like queen Sersi in Game of Thrones (Martin, 1996), Claudius believes that history is manufactured by kings. He creates the reality of his deepest sense of grief for the sad death of his brother. He can create himself as a true patriot. The rhetoric of nationalism is the disguised working of will to power. He uses rhetoric to transport the action from the sphere of personal to national. He creates the reality of his love and affection for Hamlet. He would have been quite successful with his truth making, but for the supernatural intervention in the form of the ghost.
Gertrude is already a "seeming-virtuous queen". She is expected to play her proper role as a patriarchal woman, faithful even to the memory of her dead husband. She resists her placement and role performance through her marriage with Claudius. Her remarriage has brought her into a zone of postmodernist ambivalence. She is never in an open rebellion against the dominant social-cultural constructs, but in practice, she wrecks and dismantles all the major social-cultural constructs. The marriage itself is a violation of the ideologies of the society and church. Her ambivalence and schizophrenia surface again when she confronts her son regarding his conduct towards Claudius. She confirms and reinforces the postmodernist postulate about the nature of reality by saying that it is merely the coinage of one's brain.
Ophelia is denied an opportunity to become an author of her life. She is required to respect her placement as alterity and perform her prescribed role as a patriarchal woman. The dominant patriarchal narrative tries to silence and oppress her. She subverts the grand narrative of patriarchy from inside. Her personality is schizophrenic. She resists both her brother and her father from inside and tries to subvert patriarchy from the available space. She wages her small war on totality in her own small way through an alternative micro-narrative voice from the outer margin. Her polite protests amount to the alternative narrative voice, which challenges the established regimes of truth. Though on the surface she obeys them both, yet she stands for the third space, incorporating both the perspectives, the patriarchal and the not-patriarchal disjoined in her. This is what Derrida says about the coexistence of to be and not-to-be in his reading of Hamlet in Specters of Marx (1994) This shows that she does not have a single form of subjectivity. Her self-difference and schizophrenia lead to her madness which is a form of resistance (Waterman, 1999 ). Her resistance of meta narrative through disruption by her micro-narrative and the multiple strands of consciousness and pluralism in her being and subjectivity make her a postmodernist subject.

Conclusion
The conclusion of the study is that the play Hamlet is the site of the postmodern condition of pluralism, multiplicity and schizophrenia. The study has shown that the notion of unitary, unified identity is a myth. Characters don't perform their proper roles as defined by the dominant ideology. There are no watertight compartments and boundaries, ensuring proper role performances. Everything is in a postmodernist mess of overlapping ambivalence and chaos. The play has shattered the myth of objective, universal reality and replaced it with the idea of the reality as personal, provisional and subjective, made possible by language. The study has shown that there are different multiple micro alternative narrative voices without hierarchy in the play. The play has dismantled the metanarrative of patriarchy. Essentialist, foundationalist assumptions are brought to the level of mere fictionality and they give way to micro politics, contingencies and ironies, a proliferation of depthless surfaces, what Jameson calls "copies without originals" (1991). Finally, the play manifests postmodernism as envisioned by Dorris Lessing (1988) andWaugh (2001) with their soft versions of hybrid postmodernism.