Germaine Greer caused quite a stir in England last week by bashing the late Princess Diana while promoting her new book on Shakespeare’s wife, Anne Hathaway. Aside from questioning the late princess’ intellectual capabilities, Greer also cast her in a villainous light for carrying on with married men. These shocking statements (which, wouldn’t you know it, make for great publicity) also dovetail with some equally surprising comments about our beloved Bard. According to Greer, Shakespeare died of syphilis after battling it for many years. Furthermore, it was his “angel” (Greer’s word) Hathaway, who is responsible for Shakespeare’s lasting reputation because she paid for the First Folio.

Since the princess’ passing was only ten years ago (as of the end of this month), Greer’s barbs at her are likely to raise more ire than what she has to say about a playwright who’s been gone for nearly four centuries. Still, in both cases, I’m struck by the polarizing terminology she used. For a feminist writer, it seems surprising that her categorization of people should reek of the virgin-whore dichotomy. For Greer, Princess Diana was revered as a kind of virgin, yet in real life was a duplicitous whore. Anne Hathaway was a virgin/”angel” bestowing her magnanimous blessings on Shakespeare who, as it turns out, was a syphillis-ridden whore. Maybe Shakespeare didn’t write his plays; maybe he wasn’t a nice guy; maybe he was a philanderer and a lousy husband. Maybe. In a different light, maybe Greer’s comments (aside from being opportunistic and tacky) indicate a larger dichotomy: the need to build up and tear down pillars of all aspects of society. While the truth may lie somewhere in the middle, perhaps there will be always be two schools of thought on Shakespeare. One will revere him as a god of literature, while the other will despise him as a talentless hack. And a slut.

If, like me, you’re feeling sequel fatigue following the onslaught of SpiderShrek of the Caribbean 3, get ready to roll your eyes again. Author James Edwards has written Romeo and Juliet: A Modern Day Sequel, a novel charting the ongoing adventures of everyone’s favorite dead lovers. It seems R&J have been reincarnated, albeit in different parts of the world, and they meet (naturally) online. In case you’re worried the sequel wouldn’t handle the legend with class and dignity, I should mention there is a graphic cybersex scene, as well as a character named “Fat Sam.” I promise I am not making this up. And what separates the young lovers this time, you ask? Race? Class? Geography? No, our lovers lose touch because the also-reincarnated Tybalt cancels their internet accounts. Why resurrect Tybalt when the cable company could do the same thing?

If you’re going to write a sequel to one of Shakespeare’s plays (why you would want to do that, I’m not clear), this particular tragedy seems the unlikeliest of all. The entire play is a will-they-or-won’t-they romance. What suspense or intrigue is there in watching them do that all over again, regardless of all the Zen Buddhism and kinky sex thrown in? Maybe this book is a page-turner, but everything about it reeks of creative bankruptcy. Furthermore, it opens the door for countless other sequels to Shakespeare’s classics. What about HVL: Hamlet vs. Lear where the characters come back as pro wrestlers? I can see the tagline now: “A Prince. A King. A ring. Only one comes out alive.” Can you smell what Denmark is cooking?

Everyone knows that Macbeth (or “The Scottish Play,” as it’s known to superstitious theatre folk) doesn’t end well. Indeed, the title character’s Sleepy Hollow-esque demise is among Shakespeare’s grisliest. What is less known outside of literary and theatre history circles is that more than two dozen people died in 1849 because of that very same play. Well, sort of….

The Boston Globe recently touted the publication of Nigel Cliff’s The Shakespeare Riots: Revenge, Drama, and Death in Nineteenth-Century America. In the mid-nineteenth century, two of the most famous actors were England’s William Charles Macready and America’s Edwin Forrest. By the late 1840s, they had become bitter rivals and in May of 1949 both were headlining Macbeth in New York. Macready appeared at the upper-class Astor Place Opera House while Forrest’s production was staged at the working-class Bowery Theatre. On May 10, 1849, a mob of thousands gathered outside the Opera House in protest. A riot soon broke out and the National Guard was called in. Soon, the Guard began firing directly into the crowd and more than tweny people were killed. Scholars like Cliff still struggle with the meaning behind these riots. Nationalism, class, and race were certainly major factors, but the fact that the clash between these forces erupted at a theatre is also significant. More than any other time in history, the nineteenth century was a period when theatre was arguably the number-one popular entertainment, and Shakespeare was a major part of the theatrical repertoire. Just as the 1992 L.A. riots had everything and nothing to do with Rodney King, the Astor Place riots of 1849 were similarly connected to and disconnected from Shakespeare.

Two years ago, I waited with baited breath for the arrival of Sin City, the highly stylized film adaptation of Frank Miller’s highly stylized comic books…er, excuse me, graphic novels. Now, I’m not a certifiable comic book geek a la Kevin Smith, but I was a fairly serious junkie of the holy trinity of comic books (Batman, Superman, and Spiderman) in the late ’80s/early ’90s. I have a huge respect for comics as an art form, so you can imagine how disappointed I was to find out that Sin City, while cool to look at, had a sensationalized, misogynistic, and ultimately boring story that was poorly acted, directed, and written.

For me, the best comics are a perfect fusion of cutting edge art and a great story. In that vein, some of Shakespeare’s plays have now been adapted into manga comics. Manga, a comic form originating in Japan, has a huge fanbase among graphic novel junkies—both consumers and artists (including Mr. Miller). A few titles have been published this year, including a Romeo and Juliet set in Japan. Due for release in September is a dark take on Richard III (could there be a light one?) set in the medieval period. The visuals are edgy and evocative, and the source material is classic. For both comic and Shakespeare fanboys, the outlook seems promising that these graphic novels will avoid the traps of Sin City.

While most of us think of him as Captain Picard or the mysterious Dr. Xavier from the X-Men films, Patrick Stewart reminds The Telegraph that Shakespeare is how he made his name. In the interview, he recounts his many stage triumphs and name-drops a few Sirs and Dames he’s worked with along the way. The real surprise of the interview is to find out that he is currently treading the boards as Malvolio in Twelfth Night. Having the uber-intense Stewart take on one of Will’s fluffiest comedies is a surprise, and the fact that he does so in a supporting role shows real humility. Either that, or he’s played every other part.

The Boston Globe highlights the work of Jean Trounstine, a prolific Massachusetts professor whose work includes the book Shakespeare Behind Bars: The Power of Drama in a Women’s Prison. The book, released in 2001, is based on her own experiences staging works like Measure for Measure in a women’s correctional facility. The book reflects a growing trend for using theatre, specifically Shakespeare, as a kind of artistic therapy for inmates. For an interesting, gender-based comparison, a documentary film ironically also titled Shakespeare Behind Bars follows a similar program in a men’s prison.

If British audiences ever tire of Stewart, perhaps he might consider some of these less-than-conventional venues.