When talking about classical books, movies, or TV shows, one often hears that they “aged badly”: for instance, the glorification of plantation life and romanization of abusive relationships in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind would definitely be a cause for concern, if not more, in our day and age, and the naïve jokes about Hurley’s weight in ABC’s Lost would now most likely be viewed as an exemplary case of fatphobia. The historical framing of older works of art and media products often saves them from the harsh critique that more modern productions have to withstand, and the cancel culture that has been gaining momentum for the past decade seems to bypass many of the creative works that are shrouded in the guise of time. Although I am not contesting the outstanding artistic qualities of such works or the powerful impact they’ve had on the development of various forms of art, I still find it a curious exercise to try and see them from a more modern perspective. And what better material for such an examination can one find than the timeless works of William Shakespeare?

Now, when answering such a broad question as that in the title of this inquiry, one almost inevitably tends to give a simplistic answer: yes, it is. However, the real answer is almost never that straightforward, and there are always multiple layers of reason and meaning that one needs to consider before arriving at any preliminary conclusion.

At first glance, Othello does seem like an incredibly sexist play, and there are multiple reasons for such an off-putting impression. On the very first page, where one encounters the list of characters, the gender gap is blatantly evident: there are 12 characters in the play, excluding Venetian senators, servants, attendants, officers, and such, and only three of those are female. As the reading progresses, one might notice that all three—Desdemona, Emilia, and Bianca—have virtually no agency throughout the entire play. The women serve mainly as plot devices, providing the circumstances or setting up events for men in the play to act upon. A good example of this mechanism is the handkerchief episode, one of the few events in the text in which all three women happen to be involved.

The incident itself is undoubtedly one of the key points that ensure the progression of the narrative. Desdemona loses her handkerchief gifted to her by Othello, her servant Emilia finds it and, following her husband Iago’s request, gives it to him; Iago plants it among Cassio’s belongings, and Cassio, in turn, gives it to his lover Bianca, which ultimately leads to Othello spotting it in their hands, interpreting Cassio’s possession of the handkerchief as proof of Desdemona’s infidelity, and eventually murdering his own wife. However, the role of all three women in this crucial sequence of events is quite odd – all of them play their part in this as if unconsciously, not really exhibiting any signs of independent descision-making or free will. Desdemona loses the handkerchief by accident, Emilia gives it to Iago following his demand, and Bianca comes into possession of it simply because it was sent to her by Cassio.

In truth, even apart from this episode, almost all actions of the women in Othello are either directly prescribed to them by male characters or motivated by them in a slightly less explicit way (e.g., Desdemona’s actions being prompted by her love for Othello); other motivations are essentially absent. What little rebellion and independence there is always ends tragically and almost seems to be sending a warning to women who might want to follow this path—and, again, always revolves around a man: Desdemona’s scandalous marriage, Bianca’s jealous fit, Emilia’s shocking exposure of her husband’s plan—all these were centered around the male character that was the key figure in that woman’s life.

But even taking all of that into account, one cannot simply discard the historical realities in which the play was created: in order to do Othello justice, one has to consider the tempora moresque of its authentic context. Written around 1603 and based on an Italian short story, “Un Capitano Moro” (A Moorish Captain) by Gli Hecatommithi, it follows events that take place during the Ottoman-Venetian War between 1570 and 1573. Although a work of fiction, it succeeds at rather truthfully portraying the morals and practices of the Venetian high society of the time; and one might assume that in the 30 years that allegedly passed between the events of Othello and the time when it was written, not much has changed in relation to women’s rights and their place in society. It is now a widely accepted notion that women as a social category have been mistreated for the most part of human history, and if Othello is sexist, it is so only inasmuch as the world itself was at the time of its creation.

In a way, this misogyny which one can so easily accuse the play of should be celebrated as a sign of the times, a window not simply into the customs and practices of the early XVIIth century, but into the obscure modes of thinking and perception of those who came before us. And on top of that, Othello, in my personal opinion, does much more than many of its contemporaries and successors do: its female characters, albeit guided and motivated entirely by men, at least have a character beyond sighing, pining, being beautiful, and occasionally fainting. That, if nothing else, should suffice to vindicate the XVIIth-century play in the eyes of XIXth-century critics.