Is
it, I wonder, possible to become so inured to a play you've seen repeatedly
throughout your life that when a presumably revelatory new production comes
along, you're impossible to impress? This is the question with which I struggled
mightily throughout the UK import Donmar Warehouse iteration of Hamlet.
Despite
the clarity of star Jude Law's interpretation, a Brit-style “bad boy” approach
that leaves little room for the possibility that the Danish Prince is insane
rather than operating in a state of controlled rage, there doesn't seem
anything much going on to merit the kind of acclaim that has greeted the
“package” surrounding it, at least there wasn’t for me: Design wise, it's a
fancied up black box: big sliding metal doors for gates and a platform or two,
indicia of a big, gray medieval castle, but you could remove all of that and it
would affect the staging barely a whit. Costume wise, it's one of those
semi-modern dress deals; a contemporary "feel" with only bland
anachronism and minimal period frippery, mostly also in shades of gray and
black. Most importantly, acting-wise, it’s perfectly respectable, under the
likewise respectable direction of Michael Grandage. I thought Gugu Mbatha-Raw’s Ophelia and Ron Cook’s turns as first Polonius and the Grave Digger (a
very interesting doubling) stood out from the pack quite a bit, but those perks
were overshadowed by an otherwise…how shall I put this…”nostalgia”-filled
evening.
I
mean, look: If you’ve never really seen
Hamlet done to a sharply
polished, professional turn, you could do a lot worse for your first. But if
you’ve been round the block, or should that be the Old Globe, I can’t help but
suspect you’ll find this Hamlet
to be bard-ness as usual.
Strangely,
I had a very similar response to Carrie Fisher's one woman confessional Wishful Drinking. There's no question that as a middle-aged
Hollywood survivor with grim and scandalous stories to tell about her family,
substance abuse and being bi-polar—and a little naughtiness about Star
Wars—she delivers the goods
with as much wry, witty self-aware humor as one could wish for. But I couldn't
escape the feeling that I've been here before too. Isn't this kind of candid comic admission a longtime
staple of standup comedy? Isn't putting it in a theatre rather than a nightclub
just a transmutation of venue? Why should Ms. Fisher's crack at it be accorded
any more special attention than, I don’t know, that of Louis CK?
If
your answer is, "Because it's hers," a perfectly fine and utterly reasonable
answer, then let me not dissuade you; she and her material will make you
anywhere from very to deliriously happy. She absolutely fulfills the dishy
promise of the evening.
But
if you're at that point in life where too many things labeled “new” are in fact
only new to those too young for other memories, or where your exposure to other
such vehicles is sufficient to make you relive the experience before you have
it, then I’d say save your investment for fresher fare. Even when you attend at
bargain rates, it’s the time you
never get back…
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