Posted on 6/6/09; originally appeared in the Core Journal published on 4/30/2009. Posted with permission from Prof. David Green.

We know the play. The king is murdered by his brother. The queen posts with dextrous speed to her brother-in-law’s bed. And the young prince languishes, brooding on revenge. We wait with anticipation to see how the scenes we remember are played. How doddering will Polonius be? How sweet Ophelia? We ask the timeless questions: Did Hamlet really believe Claudius was behind the arras? Do Rosencrantz and Guildenstern deserve to die?

We hold the mirror of memory up to new productions to measure them by the standards of the old. And by doing so, we become unwitting agents of what Peter Brook once called “The Deadly Theatre.”

That’s not to say I’m a fan of innovation for the sake of innovation, and I tend to think of gimmicks in the theater as the impositions of bankrupt imaginations. One line freshly delivered does more for me than all the Genghis Khan Hamlets or subway Endgames ever inflicted upon the stage.

So my taste is narrowly bounded on both sides: how do we perform classic theater without succumbing to deadly repetition or meretricious novelty?

When the directors of the Core production of Hamlet, Jessi McCarthy and Alexa Corriea, decided to cast a woman as Horatio, I had my doubts. It is a misreading of the play, I said. You must take into account Hamlet’s suspicions toward women. They are meant to contrast with the confidence he places in Horatio. But as many of you know, Jessi and Alexa can be persuasive. And I’m not quite as calcified as my hair might suggest.

I felt more comfortable with the casting once I saw Sarah in the role. My first response was instinctive: she can act. But in the rehearsals, I still didn’t know what would happen on the night. We had a good actress playing the role of a man as a woman. Would the audience accept this, or would Horatio create a tipping point into bathos and bring the rest of the play down in stifled giggles? I remained quietly concerned about how this might affect the role of Ophelia and alter the isolation felt by Hamlet over his abandonment by women. No matter how well done, the role was still incongruous.

My questions were answered on opening night. From the outset, the play was succeeding. The audience was rapt. Everything was falling into place. Precise inflections were struck like the chords of a concerto. In the title role, Nick was flawless. Jessi and Alexa had prepared him well and he had made his character his own.

In the fifth act, the sword fight came off without a hitch. Gertrude, Claudius, and Laertes were duly dispatched. Osric ran off to secure the court from further treachery. The world of courtiers and clowns was suddenly gone and our focus narrowed on the dying Hamlet and grieving Horatio who stood alone on the stage. All the work, the months of preparation and memorization came down to this moment. And in this moment, in a modest lecture hall, the stage was transformed. The ancient power of drama was revived. As Horatio struggled to keep the dying Hamlet in her arms, as he struggled to breathe his last breaths in her embrace, we shared in the intimate revelation that Horatio was more than just a trusted friend, that she had in fact loved Hamlet. And the tragedy now, as she stood lost over the fallen body, was not simply that Hamlet had died, but that this woman had been bereft of her love at the very moment when it had blossomed into the world, no longer a secret of her heart.

Strictly speaking, this moment was not Shakespeare’s. But it did succeed where other productions have often failed—by creating the kind of drama that he had intended. It was honest and gave those fortunate enough to be in attendance the opportunity to witness the terrible beauty of a soul laid bare. And that’s the essence of great drama.

— Prof. David Green, April 2009

Would you like to see more? You can view photos at the Core Facebook page or view film clips from a dress rehearsal.