Macbeth at Midnight

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come.

I know, I know. I've kind of fallen off the blogging bandwagon as of late, for a variety of reasons. The year is coming to an end, and I've been spending more time enjoying Oxford than writing about it. Probably more significantly, I've been dealing with personal issues that don't have a place on a study abroad blog, and thus my personal journal has been getting a lot more love lately. If you've never written in a Moleskine notebook or journal, I suggest you go out and buy one immediately. I am currently using three: one for notes, directions, lists, library book tallies, and generally anything I need to write down and remember; one as my weekly planner, which is amazing because it actually gives you enough space to write everything down; and the aforementioned journal. But I covet yet another Moleskine. If anyone just has the total and complete desire to spoil me, just because, I am putting in a shameless plug for this. Moleskine + cooking = amazing). (Edit: Thank you, Dad!) Or maybe Moleskine will read this and so appreciate my marketing for them that they'll send me a bunch of free samples.

 Present fears

Are less than horrible imaginings:

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,

Shakes so my single state of man that function

Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is

But what is not.

A week ago, Bri and I went into London to see Macbeth at Shakespeare's Globe on the Thames. We bought our (5 pound!) tickets in February, and it was kind of surreal to actually be going after so long. Here's one of the best parts: the production began at 11:59 p.m. Yes, p.m. A midnight Macbeth, we thought, was a once-in-a-lifetime. Especially at the Globe!

We weren't disappointed. (Though for reasons you'll soon understand, Bri may never forgive me for making her stand up front, at the front of the stage).

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,

Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,

Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day;

And with thy bloody and invisible hand

Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond

Which keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood:

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;

While night's black agents to their preys do rouse.

Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still;

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

Our tickets were standing tickets, so we were let into the theater first, with all the other groundlings. The set-up in the yard for this production was unusual: stretched from the very front of the stage to the back of the yard, where the covered seating began, was an enormous black cloth. There were head-sized holes cut in the fabric, and you had to stoop quite low, go underneath the material, and find a hole to poke your head through. Of course, I was bent on being absolutely as close as possible...not only because it'd be awesome to see the actors up close, but because I didn't want to be stuck behind some tall guy who blocked my view. We were RIGHT against the stage, a few feet to the right of downstage center. I couldn't believe my luck.

Maybe this is a good time to tell you about the photo we laughed at in the lobby of the Globe.

We thought it was funny then.

See, one important part of the black-cloth set-up was that you had relatively no view of what was going on underneath you, in between people's legs and bags and such....which allowed the witches to make their entrance, creepily, eerily, sneakily, running in and around underneath the cloth. I particularly enjoyed when they got onstage, cackling, still amidst the gasps and nervous laughter of the surprised groundlings. One of the witches reached behind her back, laughing especially proudly, and brandished a leather wallet, indicating she'd taken it from someone, and then walked downstage to point at the poor person who was "missing" his wallet. (For some reason, this exchange, which had everyone laughing, made me think particularly of one theater friend who would have appreciated it...Hi Kenna!)

But I have none: the king-becoming graces,

As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,

I have no relish of them, but abound

In the division of each several crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,

Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

At some point, a man, screaming, jumped out of the trapdoor in the stage, approximately three feet from our faces. His head and torso, writhing, emerged from the trap. He was covered in blood. And I don't mean a few sponges of red here and there--this was no student production with limits on the expensive consumption of stage blood. He was dripping. Drenched. And behind us, from platforms underneath the black cloth, amidst the terrified groundlings, two more bloody men groaned and screamed, twisting and bleeding.

"When shall we three meet again?" The play began.

Throughout it, we were nearly drooled on by the Porter. Really, he let an ENORMOUS mouthful of drool land about six inches away, on the black cloth. We were nearly bled on, on so many occasions that I won't list them all. We nearly had a bucket of "urine" tossed on us by the Porter. We saw the tears glistening in Lady Macbeth's eyes ("I would, while it was smiling in my face, had pluck'd my nipple from its boneless gums and dashed the brains out, had I so sworn as you have done to this..."), the disappointing lack thereof in Macduff's "All my pretty chickens and their dam in one fell swoop...", and how unbelievable attractive Malcolm and Donalbain were.  Oh, and Lennox.

It was awe-inspiring. And exhausting. I don't know if was the cement floor, or the fact that the show ended at 3 a.m., but I was so tired. It brought me back to all three productions of Macbeth I've been a part of: Short Shakes, Bathhouse, and SAAS. 

She should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.