Stoppard’s tone hardly lets up its teasing play throughout his work. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead has no narrator, but Stoppard injects his breezy wittiness through the stretches of rapid-fire dialogue or the restless, sometimes nonsensical, prose.
The “retentive king” is a “royal retainer,” Guildenstern quips at one point in his conversation with Rosencrantz. They play the “game of questions” while they debrief their meeting with King Claudius. Meanwhile, the Player riddles the work with innuendoes—“we’re inclusively players, sir”—and twisty bon mots. “Every exit” is an “entrance to somewhere else,” the Player tells Rosencrantz when they first meet, and reassures Guildenstern that “uncertainty is the normal state.” Through references to an external “logic” or “wheels” set in motion, the play itself seems to self-consciously accepts its own narrative fate. Stoppard himself—knowing and wry—seems to speak to the reader through the pages.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead supplements this self-knowledge with slapstick humor. The work supplies metaphysical meditations but, even more immediately, plenty of comic relief. Stage directions point to a fanciful theatricality by outlining exaggerated gestures and movements. The play’s clownishness announces itself from the pair’s opening coin flips in the first act:
Guil takes a third coin, spins it, catches it in his right hand, turns it over onto his left wrist, lobs it in the air, catches it with his left hand, raises his left leg, throws the coin up under it, catches it and turns it on the top of his head, where it sits.
Fixed to a storyline that is weighted with death, the work brings a lightheartedness that contrasts against its actual subject matter. Stoppard pairs the comedy of excess with sly consciousness, approaching the seriousness of mortal existence through humor.