London, Day 2
Jan. 11th, 2009 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleInternet's been a bit spotty, so here's yesterday's all-important update.
London, Day 2
I think I have a new prayer: G-d grant that I may one day again have a theatrical experience as good as the one I had tonight.
It was everything I hoped and prayed it would be. Everything. When I imagined David Tennant playing Hamlet, what I saw tonight was my best hope realised. Patrick Stewart brought out things in the King I never saw before. Malice: confident, ambitious, pure, slowly-revealed malice. Gertrude’s cage is slowly closing in on her as the play progresses, from the time her son shreds her self-deception, slinging her bodily around her bedroom and violently revealing how disordered his brain has become with the thoughtless, offhand murder of Polonius. Polonius himself: so genial and well-meaning, but slightly addled and discounted by the court and his own children with his advanced years. Horatio—how did I never understand how important Horatio is? The only one who knows Hamlet’s true design? Laertes—poor, proud, open-hearted Laertes, deceived, manipulated, and murdered as sure as Hamlet. And the collateral damage of Ophelia, who everyone sees as a pawn, and no one bothers to watch out for after her part is played.
I have never seen an actor as physical as David Tennant. He threw himself around the stage, burning with energy even when he stood still. It was impossible not to watch him, not to know where he was every moment he was onstage. He sails through Shakespeare as easily as breathing, stripping away any accumulated layers of confusion 400 years may have accrued simply by his easy, direct delivery and physical language. This is not period language: this is simply another regional dialect.
And something else I hadn’t really thought about before: every performance of Hamlet is the closest we’ll ever come to time travel. Every night, we see reborn an avalanche of words and phrases we take utterly for granted: “The quick and the dead,” “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” “There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so,” “The play’s the thing!” “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” “To the manner born,” “A custom more honoured in the breach than the observance.” And, oh, of course, “To be or not to be.” Every performance, we see 400 years back, when they were all fresh and new and unheard. It’s almost difficult not to laugh at what seem clichés, to catch yourself and remember that just here, they’re newly-born.
The immediacy of London theatre was something I’d forgotten: it’s a language we just don’t speak as fluently in the States. There are literally dozens and dozens of theatres in this city, full every night—each one a small jewelbox of culture, colour, sparkle, fun. It’s so rare back home: here it’s part of every day culture. The ladies’ room is in the stalls. They sell ice cream in the aisle at the interval. There’s a bar at the back of the stalls—I bought tiny salmon on bagel sandwiches—one made with butter. I think Gregory Doran was standing five feet from me, come to see the closing night of his show. I’d also forgotten about the numbered slots for your drinks at the interval—and no one touches anyone else’s drink. We don’t do that in the States. We couldn’t.
I walked out of the theatre after three and a half hours dazed and dazzled. Amy and Corey were waiting for me, and Amy, who says she absolutely knew I’d come out looking like I’d been poleaxed, took a photo of me as I wandered down the stairs. I do indeed look, well, poleaxed. She asked me if it’d been worth it, and for a brief moment, I burst into tears. And then I laughed: yes, oh, yes, worth every agonising, indecisive, can-I-afford-this-and-how? minute. I will carry that performance in my head and my heart for the rest of my life. Someday I’ll tell my hypothetical children, “I saw David Tennant play Hamlet, with Patrick Stewart as the Ghost and the King. Edward Bennett played Laertes—that was his breakthrough.”
I swore I wouldn’t do the stage door thing, and for the most part, I meant it. But we sort of…well…wandered up that way, and, well…we paused, and all of a sudden, there was Edward Bennett, and I asked him politely if he’d sign my program, which he did. The girl next to me was from North Carolina. I laughed and identified myself from Philly. I told him how much I’d enjoyed the show and his performance: how I saw things I’d never seen before in the text. I think he was appreciative. Then again, one woman said she’d seen the production something like 26 times, so perhaps we were impressive in a more acceptable, admirable way.
I would have taken my own photos, had I not left my camera in the Berwick Street Cloth Shop earlier in the evening. It was lovely to see Kate, and I showed her what happens to the cloth after I work corsetry magic on it—she was quite thrilled. She showed me some fabrics I nearly cried over: £110 a metre. I may just have to bite the bullet and do it—it’s a William Morris design in brilliant red and gold embroidery on red silk. It’s gorgeous. At any rate. After leaving the shop, we wandered back and forth across Soho, finally finding the Novello, where I paused a moment in unbridled nervous energy. We checked getting a reprint of Amy’s ticket for Thursday, then went in search of her bookstore, Treadwell’s. It was a lovely pagan bookshop, run by an equally lovely woman. We were there until it was time for me to go to the theatre. So nervous, so buoyed up! I think I was in quiet hyperdrive for the next four hours. Perhaps I still am.
After the play, and after waiting fruitlessly for what seemed frozen hours by the stage door with other hapless fans—much like the night we waited for Duran Duran outside their studio—we gave up and wandered to Sophie’s, which had a big sign out front advertising half-price late-night menu items after midnight. We flirted like mad with the waiter, and sampled three kinds of mustard on our burgers. And oh, the banana-chocolate-chip cheesecake was to die for.
I think what may have made me happiest—pure, unadulterated joy—was wandering back up The Strand on long-buried auto-pilot to Trafalgar, then not only to the right corner, but so help me to the RIGHT BUS. It’s been TWENTY YEARS, and I remembered it was the N97, and where to catch it! I remembered the stop, I remembered the bus, I remembered the route, I remembered where to get off. TWENTY YEARS. I could cry, honestly. So very, very proud of myself.
But we’re all tucked up now in our room, it’s finally warm, and it’s 6am. It’s time for sleep, until we get up and start again.
London, Day 2
I think I have a new prayer: G-d grant that I may one day again have a theatrical experience as good as the one I had tonight.
It was everything I hoped and prayed it would be. Everything. When I imagined David Tennant playing Hamlet, what I saw tonight was my best hope realised. Patrick Stewart brought out things in the King I never saw before. Malice: confident, ambitious, pure, slowly-revealed malice. Gertrude’s cage is slowly closing in on her as the play progresses, from the time her son shreds her self-deception, slinging her bodily around her bedroom and violently revealing how disordered his brain has become with the thoughtless, offhand murder of Polonius. Polonius himself: so genial and well-meaning, but slightly addled and discounted by the court and his own children with his advanced years. Horatio—how did I never understand how important Horatio is? The only one who knows Hamlet’s true design? Laertes—poor, proud, open-hearted Laertes, deceived, manipulated, and murdered as sure as Hamlet. And the collateral damage of Ophelia, who everyone sees as a pawn, and no one bothers to watch out for after her part is played.
I have never seen an actor as physical as David Tennant. He threw himself around the stage, burning with energy even when he stood still. It was impossible not to watch him, not to know where he was every moment he was onstage. He sails through Shakespeare as easily as breathing, stripping away any accumulated layers of confusion 400 years may have accrued simply by his easy, direct delivery and physical language. This is not period language: this is simply another regional dialect.
And something else I hadn’t really thought about before: every performance of Hamlet is the closest we’ll ever come to time travel. Every night, we see reborn an avalanche of words and phrases we take utterly for granted: “The quick and the dead,” “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” “There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so,” “The play’s the thing!” “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” “To the manner born,” “A custom more honoured in the breach than the observance.” And, oh, of course, “To be or not to be.” Every performance, we see 400 years back, when they were all fresh and new and unheard. It’s almost difficult not to laugh at what seem clichés, to catch yourself and remember that just here, they’re newly-born.
The immediacy of London theatre was something I’d forgotten: it’s a language we just don’t speak as fluently in the States. There are literally dozens and dozens of theatres in this city, full every night—each one a small jewelbox of culture, colour, sparkle, fun. It’s so rare back home: here it’s part of every day culture. The ladies’ room is in the stalls. They sell ice cream in the aisle at the interval. There’s a bar at the back of the stalls—I bought tiny salmon on bagel sandwiches—one made with butter. I think Gregory Doran was standing five feet from me, come to see the closing night of his show. I’d also forgotten about the numbered slots for your drinks at the interval—and no one touches anyone else’s drink. We don’t do that in the States. We couldn’t.
I walked out of the theatre after three and a half hours dazed and dazzled. Amy and Corey were waiting for me, and Amy, who says she absolutely knew I’d come out looking like I’d been poleaxed, took a photo of me as I wandered down the stairs. I do indeed look, well, poleaxed. She asked me if it’d been worth it, and for a brief moment, I burst into tears. And then I laughed: yes, oh, yes, worth every agonising, indecisive, can-I-afford-this-and-how? minute. I will carry that performance in my head and my heart for the rest of my life. Someday I’ll tell my hypothetical children, “I saw David Tennant play Hamlet, with Patrick Stewart as the Ghost and the King. Edward Bennett played Laertes—that was his breakthrough.”
I swore I wouldn’t do the stage door thing, and for the most part, I meant it. But we sort of…well…wandered up that way, and, well…we paused, and all of a sudden, there was Edward Bennett, and I asked him politely if he’d sign my program, which he did. The girl next to me was from North Carolina. I laughed and identified myself from Philly. I told him how much I’d enjoyed the show and his performance: how I saw things I’d never seen before in the text. I think he was appreciative. Then again, one woman said she’d seen the production something like 26 times, so perhaps we were impressive in a more acceptable, admirable way.
I would have taken my own photos, had I not left my camera in the Berwick Street Cloth Shop earlier in the evening. It was lovely to see Kate, and I showed her what happens to the cloth after I work corsetry magic on it—she was quite thrilled. She showed me some fabrics I nearly cried over: £110 a metre. I may just have to bite the bullet and do it—it’s a William Morris design in brilliant red and gold embroidery on red silk. It’s gorgeous. At any rate. After leaving the shop, we wandered back and forth across Soho, finally finding the Novello, where I paused a moment in unbridled nervous energy. We checked getting a reprint of Amy’s ticket for Thursday, then went in search of her bookstore, Treadwell’s. It was a lovely pagan bookshop, run by an equally lovely woman. We were there until it was time for me to go to the theatre. So nervous, so buoyed up! I think I was in quiet hyperdrive for the next four hours. Perhaps I still am.
After the play, and after waiting fruitlessly for what seemed frozen hours by the stage door with other hapless fans—much like the night we waited for Duran Duran outside their studio—we gave up and wandered to Sophie’s, which had a big sign out front advertising half-price late-night menu items after midnight. We flirted like mad with the waiter, and sampled three kinds of mustard on our burgers. And oh, the banana-chocolate-chip cheesecake was to die for.
I think what may have made me happiest—pure, unadulterated joy—was wandering back up The Strand on long-buried auto-pilot to Trafalgar, then not only to the right corner, but so help me to the RIGHT BUS. It’s been TWENTY YEARS, and I remembered it was the N97, and where to catch it! I remembered the stop, I remembered the bus, I remembered the route, I remembered where to get off. TWENTY YEARS. I could cry, honestly. So very, very proud of myself.
But we’re all tucked up now in our room, it’s finally warm, and it’s 6am. It’s time for sleep, until we get up and start again.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 12:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 10:23 pm (UTC)*HUGS*
and if you should see Cadbury chocolate spread.......perhaps consider a splurge for me? heehee
no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 10:26 pm (UTC)Wait til you see the photo of it, though. Oh, sweet mother....
And yes, I shall look for your chocolate!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 10:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 11:15 pm (UTC)But that doesn't stop me waaaaaanting....
no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 10:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 11:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 11:14 pm (UTC)Hey-- Xenia still has a balance, btw, so we won't send hers yet. Can you write mary Beth, though, and tell her when hers is going out? I just sent her an email to say it was done, and you had it, cos she inquired.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 04:40 am (UTC)I sent one email, but answer the others as you may. You should be able to see what I sent to Mary Beth Homa.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 11:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 10:56 pm (UTC)Your review of Hamlet was fantastic. Thanks for sharing it with us.
Oh, the fabric. I would be in the same space as you are, knowing it would make something absolutely fabulous and completely unique, but ...geez. $200?
Somewhere near the Baker Street tube exit is a super silk shop that caters mostly to Asian and Indian clientel. They had some absolutely gorgeous sari silks when I was there in 2000. It might be worth a wander. I can't remember for sure if it's actually on Marylebone High street or if it's around the corner; I just know that next time in London I'll be searching it out again. With cash. Lots and lots of cash.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 12:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 12:33 am (UTC)Mmmmmmm....black sari fabric.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 07:44 am (UTC)I've been perusing Google maps and trying to remember more about that trip and think the shop might actually be Soho Silks.
22 D'Arblay St, London, W1F 8EP, United Kingdom - 020 74343305
It's closer to Great Marlborough St, and also closer to Soho Square, where I wound up when I took a wrong turn one afternoon.
I wish I could remember more, but since I can't I guess I'm just going to have to go back.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-12 01:26 am (UTC)Also, you should come to the Shakespeare Tavern next time you're in Atlanta. They definitely have the "physical language" and "just another dialect" thing down pat.
No Tennant, but in this town, I'll take what I can get.