Macbeth by Jo Nesbo: A review

Shakespeare's Macbeth is his shortest tragedy and one of his shortest plays. Jo Nesbø's Macbeth, which is the latest in the Hobarth Shakespeare project in which modern writers are invited to reimagine one of the bard's works, goes on and on and on for nearing 500 pages of dense prose. It took me a full week of reading whenever I had the opportunity to finish it. Admittedly, I was occupied with other things as well, but still.

But the description of the book as 500 pages of dense prose is not meant to imply that it is in any way boring or not worth the trouble. In fact, it is a bit of a page turner in the Nesbø tradition of tightly plotted thrillers, but it is not an easy read.

Nesbø sets his reimagining of the classic in 1970s Scotland in a city that is never actually named but a couple of the reviews that I've read have inferred that it is Glasgow based on the description and the evidence presented. Apparently, Glasgow in that period was a pretty grim place fighting loss of jobs and rise in drug abuse with all the attendant problems that those two facts would suggest.

This Macbeth is told as a crime noir tale. This is a city that has been led by corrupt men out for their own empowerment and enrichment. It is mired in a mud made of that corruption that has encouraged gangs and drugs and the debasement and cheapening of human life and dignity.

In his play, Shakespeare didn't spend much time on the backstories of his characters. Nesbø, in contrast, is very interested in the psychology of the characters and he gives us a pretty complete picture of how these people came to be who they are. We learn, for example, that Macbeth and Duff (Macduff), who are now policemen, were orphans who grew up together in an orphanage. They were friends who looked out for each other, even to the point of one of them committing a murder to protect the other.

Lady, Macbeth's wife, was raped and became pregnant at age 13. She was unable to care for the baby, whom she named Lily, and dashed the child's brains out rather than see her suffer. This is the blood of the original sin that stains her hands and that she continually tries to wash away. She, almost inevitably it seems, became a prostitute and, from that position, the owner of a swanky casino, which was where she met Macbeth.

At the beginning, Nesbø's Macbeth is a good policeman in a corrupt system, doing his best to uphold the law and rid his city of crime. But soon enough his hunger for the power and success that promotion in the department will bring leads to his corruption. He becomes addicted to power as to a drug, but he's addicted to actual drugs as well.

The drug which here is called "brew" entraps Macbeth as it has so many of his fellow citizens. The entrepreneur who produces it, Hecate, becomes all powerful, in effect ruling the city. Hecate is opposed by a motorcycle gang that does its own drug dealing called the Norse Riders. These forces vie for control of the city.

So, as we expect, Duncan is killed, Banquo is killed but continues to haunt Macbeth, and the blood flows freely. Almost everyone in this story is ethically compromised in one way or another and yet the ending that Nesbø gives us offers a sliver of hope that if the brave stand together they can defeat the dark forces that seek to overwhelm them. It is a story that is relevant for our times. Perhaps our times are not so different from those of Shakespeare after all.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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