The Gods of Heavenly Punishment by Jennifer Cody Epstein

 

 

 

I was honored to receive a copy of THE GODS OF HEAVENLY PUNISHMENT for review. It is rare that I am able to take the time to read and review historical fiction set during the 20th century, and I am so glad I read this one.

THE GODS OF HEAVENLY PUNISHMENT is a novel whose beautifully interwoven plot reflects the horrors of war. A tapestry of love and loss that spans three decades and two generations, bringing Imperial Japan to vivid life before World War II and the devastation of Tokyo after. A brilliant portrayal of good men and women who build their lives in and around the storms of history, THE GODS OF HEAVENLY PUNISHMENT shows that in war, no one is spared. A truly beautiful novel.

 

And now Jennifer Cody Epstein joins us to give us some insight into her work and her research. Thank you so much for joining us, Jennifer.

 

On Shakespeare, in (Puppy) Love

 

About two years ago, I suffered one of those not-infrequent guilt flashes we New York parents can get: namely, that despite living in one of the world’s great culture capitals, my daughters were getting most of their culture from Sixteen Handles and Red Mango.  It was on the heels of this revelation that (while engaged in my daily pre-writing procrastination practice) I honed in on an email advertising an upcoming performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 

A-ha, I thought.  

 

The email was from the Classic Stage Company, an off-Broadway venue I love. It’s one of the most intimate theaters in the city, with tiers of seats that start right on the small center stage and acoustics that make you feel a part of each performance. But that wasn’t the only reason the advertisement appealed. Most people don’t know this, but Midsummer marked the apex of my brief acting career, which began in fourth grade as a court lady in The Mikado and came to an inglorious end with a high school try for Juliet (which I failed —probably because for some reason utterly inexplicable, even to myself, I recited my lines with an atrocious English accent). 

 

My childhood stint in the limelight was marked by one resounding success, however: our sixth grade production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’d auditioned for Titania, the Queen of the Fairies. I didn’t get it, but I came close: I was given Oberon, King of the Fairies–a title my brothers had as much of a blast with as did they with the Hitlerean mustache that came with the role.

 

Cross-dressing aside, though, playing Titania’s magic-meddling hubby proved to be a high point in an otherwise bleak middle-school experience. A excellent drama coach, a well-edited script and hours of brow-furrowed puzzling over lines like  Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord? all combined for me to create an unforgettable introduction to the Bard. Already an aspiring writer at that point, it was then that I learned that Shakespeare wasn’t dry or boring or even that hard to understand. He was, rather, one of the funniest and smartest and most inspirationally irreverent writers ever to set quill to paper.

 

It was bearing all that in mind that I bought tickets to CSC’s performance, which starred Bebe Neuwirth and Christina Ricci.  The girls were tweenishly skeptical at first: “Shakespeare?” asked Hannah,  my then-eight-year-old. “Isn’t that for grownups? Isn’t it going to be boring?”

 

I tried to allay her concerns by telling her how funny the play was  (“He likes to talk about asses,” I confided). And about that fascinating transformation that takes place linguistically during a Shakespeare production; how for the first ten minutes or so you might be utterly lost, but then—amazingly, almost alchemically—your ear acclimates to the verbal flourishes and flippant quips and somehow you find yourself understanding.

Still, as we filed into the tiny theater and took our places (front row, Stage Right) I could tell my daughters were still feeling a little tepid about the whole thing, And about ten minutes in—perhaps predictably—Hannah leaned over in consternation.   “Mom,” she whispered reproachfully. “I don’t understand ANYTHING!”

 

“Just wait,” I advised her.

 

She didn’t have to wait long: within ten minutes the little stage was shaking and glittering as the actors shouted, hurled, danced and tumbled across it. It was a particularly gratifyingly bawdy performance—there were farts and belches, face-slappings and behind-pinches. At one point Helena and Hermia rode their respective lovers’ shoulders, simultaneously chicken-fighting and stripping one another down to their underthings (by the end their boyfriends were also almost near-nude). The audience roared through it all—my charges among them. “Mom, this is awesome!” Hannah crowed at intermission. The one dampening moment was when someone’s phone went off with the sound of smashing plate windows, and we realized with horror that it belonged to my older daughter—who sat rooted to her seat, blushing furiously as Bebe Neuwirth (who played the ass-kissing Queen Titania) stopped mid-line and drawled: “Seriously?” A moment later, though (and quite graciously, to my mind) she winked at Katie and mouthed “It’s O.K.” to her over her shoulder.  The Queen’s forgiveness secured, we left the Village giddy and giggly and spent the subway ride back talking about Shakespeare’s life, times and other plays. 

 

There I could have left it, and called the outing a success. In the days that followed, though, and much to my surprise,  I discovered that our Shakespearian adventures weren’t over. Almost immediately after getting home, Hannah asked me to print out Midsummer for her in its entirety. Over the weeks that followed she spent hours in her room, puzzling over the lines as I had, trying to read them with the same staccato near-hysteria with which Christina Ricci (Hannah’s new idol) had. She found a picture of Will on the Internet and stuck it on the cover of her writing notebook, and confided to her 2^nd grade teacher that she secretly loved the man (but to please not tell her classmates). She asked me if I’d help her produce the play with her friends over the last few weeks of the Spring term—and perhaps insanely, I said that I would try.  In the end, we didn’t end up performing anything—but I did do something I would never have foreseen in a million years: for five weeks, for twice a week, I engaged a group of eight children (ages 4-12) in Shakespearean language, themes and movies–and they actually liked it.

 

In the months since, my daughter’s affair with the Bard has burned on. We’ve been to two more theater events—one this summer’s Shakespeare in the Park performance of A Comedy of Errors, and another a “director’s chat” about Romeo and Juliet. The latter was drier fare than the slapstick comedies that came before, but Hannah still claimed to enjoy it. For me, though, the real highlight came after she left her school backpack at the café there. After a breathless retracing of our steps I found the bag and gave it back to her—whereupon she gravely pronounced: “Well, mom, all’s well that ends well.”  Her most recent Bardian dabblings include a Shakespearean workshop here in Brooklyn this past summer that explored various aspects of Twelfth Night.

 

Am I surprised that my youngest daughter has fallen for a man 440 years older than she is? A little; particularly given that her prior literary love was Mary Pope Osborne. But when I think about it, perhaps I shouldn’t be. After all, what draws her to Shakespeare is what drew me as a child: his humor, his empathy, his astonishing literary inventiveness (it was Hannah who pointed out that over 135 phrases we use today–including all of a sudden, a sea change and dead as a doornail–have their origins to his work).  Not to mention his obsession with butts and donkeys.

 

Most of all, though, I think what draws her is how rewarding Shakespeare can be—how, once you untangle the honorifics and arcane witticisms and fancily-veiled double-entendres you have stories that remain fresh and relevant to this day. As she once told me, “it’s like reaching back in time and touching really old people and realizing they’re the same as we are.”

 

I have no idea how long her puppy crush will last, but I’m riding it as long as I can. In two weeks she begins another Shakespearean workshop, this one on Much Ado About Nothing. Our next off-Broadway stop will be the full production of Romeo and Juliet, also at our beloved Classic Stage Company, starring Elizabeth Olsen (sister of Mary-Kate and Ashley) as Juliet. I have no idea if she plans to fake a British accent or not–either way I’m sure it will be great.

 

 

 

 

Jennifer Cody Epstein is the author of The Gods of Heavenly Punishment and the international bestseller The Painter from Shanghai. She has written for The Wall Street Journal, The Asian Wall Street Journal, Self, Mademoiselle and NBC, and has worked in Hong Kong, Japan and Bangkok, Thailand. She lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband, two daughters and especially needy Springer Spaniel.