Who will see the players well bestowed? I know so few who have been taken care of as they ought.
I’ve seen the best minds of my theatrical generation defeated and demoralized, sent forth into corporations or schools, lost, unmoored from the art, just hustling to make a buck, the ones I know who’ve been well bestowed were either bestowed in another country or bestowed in an earlier generation or a particular brand of pretty, with a particular set of connections, who will see us well bestowed?
This makes me wonder whether the Player ever gets to do this for Hamlet. Is there an intermediary rehearsal or meeting between this and the performance?
Then that made me wonder what happens to the Players after the performance is given over. They’re probably some of the few characters who survive this play but when do they leave? Tom Stoppard has them depart with Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, which might well make sense. Clearly the court is in an uproar, Hamlet is being sent to England, the show has not been a success, leaving on the next boat to England is a very logical choice.
They could also have packed up as soon as the play is scuttled and booked it out of there ASAP, like that night, while Hamlet’s busy killing Polonius. Or perhaps they hang around until the end, watching all the developments in the story, perhaps noting them for future performances.
Why would they stay? I don’t know – maybe waiting for Hamlet or someone else to pay them.
There’s something about this that makes me feel like the players are looking to Hamlet for their orders. They’ve been interrupted by Polonius and the question may be whether or not Polonius has the authority to tell them what to do.
Hamlet asked them to start, Polonius has asked them to stop. It could just be a simple question of one person interpreting another request or it could be that Hamlet, as the Prince has greater status, or that it’s a Princely duty to liaison with players.
Or perhaps Hamlet was no authority and just takes it by piling on to Polonius’ request for a stop.
No more struggling. No more disrespect. No more condescension. No more sexism. No more racism. No more self doubt. No more poverty. No more self-flagellation. No more shitty theatre. No more injustice. Oh dear, once you start thinking of all the things you really want no more, of the list just goes on and on.
Maybe the ideal is to have no more of no more.
It’s funny how whether or not an actor can cry becomes the marker of his quality. Actual tears are impressive to an audience and the Holy Grail for some actors.
But it seems to me that actual genuine laughter is harder to do and almost no one remarks about that when discussing an actor’s performance. It’s like, it’s so delicate, no one even wants to remark on it. Especially not the laughers.
Mincing limbs?! No wonder Pyrrhus is covered in blood. It’s not enough to chop off someone’s head; You’ve got to slice his arms and legs up into tiny pieces as well? I guess Pyrrhus is the kind of guy who really takes pleasure in his work and he’s just lucky his work happens to be chopping people up professionally. What a lucky little warrior!
But clearly this is excessive. That’s the gist of this whole passage. But what’s odd is that imagining this scene doesn’t make me milch my burning eyes. It just makes me feel kind of sick and disgusted. Hecuba’s grief before we get to the limb dicing is the really moving thing as far as I’m concerned. But maybe you really have to push forward into deep gore to make the gods cry.
This sentence feels the most like A Line of Verse. It’s metrically so regular and all the inversions make it feel very VERSE-y. It’s also interestingly removed from the emotion that’s otherwise coursing through this speech. It almost feels like a pause in the destruction of Troy, like the verse takes a second to step away from bloody warrior, beheaded King and crying Queen.
And that’s mirrored in the content, too, I guess. Asking who could see this and not want to shout at Fortune is also a step away from the action.
Will someone paint this for me?
I’m not sure I understand exactly how this blanket is draped around this mobled queen. My initial picture was a blanket over her shoulders, like a cloak or a fire blanket or a sweater –
but then the blanket seems to be caught up in her “o’er-teeméd” loins. Is it then more like a diaper? Or a skirt? Is it acting as bandaging for wounds? Is it somehow worse for her dignity than just wearing a dirty old blanket instead of her royal weeds?
She’s barefoot, crying, a bruise or wound on her head and still it will get worse.
If this were a comic book, we’d see Hecuba in panel one, regal and pristine, the jewel at the front of her crown sparkling, her expression full of mystery. She’s surrounded by tapestries and beauty.
In the next panel, she is in exactly the same position, with the same look of mystery but behind her, blood and fire pour down the walls, her cloak replaced with a torn blanket stained with burn marks. The major distinction is the wound on her forehead, as purple as the amethyst, as red as the rubies.
If only flames could be intimidated by tears. We could include professional cry-ers on the volunteer fire department squad. Someone’s loss could prevent another’s tragedy. A breast-beating break-up could benefit a 4 alarm blaze, about to destroy the ballet studio. A death in the family might prevent another death in another family. Actors who could cry on cue could pick up some side-line work, crying for the public good. I’d sign up for that.
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