For example, take the Abbey: Ireland's national theatre, founded in 1904. In 1904, Ireland was still under British rule. Despite grand measures of [armed] resistance, including the notorious Easter Rising of 1916 (in which many buildings in Dublin suffered significant and irreparable damage) Ireland did not become a republic until 1950. So, to have a national theatre at at time when there was no nation? Pretty badass. There's just no other way of putting it. The Abbey, located on Dublin's north side, currently has the following mission statement:
Inspired by the revolutionary ideals of our founders and our rich canon of Irish dramatic writing, our mission is to imaginatively engage with all of Irish society through the production of ambitious, courageous and new theatre in all its forms. We commit to lead in the telling of the whole Irish story, in English and in Irish, and we affirm that the Abbey is a theatre for the entire island of Ireland and for all its people. In every endeavour, we promote inclusiveness, diversity and equality.The words stir a certain patriotism in one's heart, Irish or not. Personally, I love the Abbey. One of my professors works there and has shared numerous stories about its colorful history with our class. After a devastating fire, the Abbey was rebuilt in the 1960s. The seemingly utilitarian edifice that replaced the bygone Victorian beauty on Abbey Street is the same Abbey Theatre we now have today. On first glance I thought it was an eyesore, and architecturally cheap...a true reflection of its time. My professor, on the other hand, sees it differently: it's a magic box in which magic happens for those who dare to enter. Most importantly, however, it's not about what's on the outside. It's what's on the inside.
Not too far away, at the tip of O'Connell Street and the crossroads of Parnell, is the Gate Theatre. It's a giant building with a cute, shingled roof. Known for attracting tourists and natives alike for its world-class performances, the Gate is very...Georgian. There's a grand staircase in the middle entryway (carpeted, of course). The walls of the main corridor, painted a robin's egg blue, are flanked by marble fireplaces. Crystal chandeliers dangle like icicles from the ceiling and tuxedoed attendants cater to your every need. Opulence. Everywhere.
Like the Abbey, the Gate Theatre also welcomed a new wave of revolution this year with the instalment of Selina Cartmell as Artistic Director. Cartmell replaced vitriolic and scandalous Michael Colgan, who was ousted (per the Gate's website) for "inappropriate behaviour and abuse of power."
When I saw the Gate was staging my favorite play, Hamlet, as part of the Dublin Theatre Festival, I knew I had to buy a ticket. From the very start, it was an exercise in indulgence. I bought the cheapest ticket I could afford (a hefty 40€ ). In comparison, mainstage productions at the Abbey, such as Richard III, start around 25€. Tickets to Festival shows at other venues are even cheaper, seldom more than 15€.
I was fortunate to get my ticket three weeks in advance; the performance I would see fell, coincidentally, on my 26th birthday. Here for just under a three-week run, Hamlet sold out quickly. The mysterious and inviting promotional poster, featuring a sexy Ruth Negga as the title character wearing a deep v-neck blazer and pouted lip, was plastered all over busses and buildings. Her face was everywhere. I felt like a cultural savant. I held a golden ticket to a show that would literally be the talk of the town. My anticipation grew each day.
On the evening of October 3rd, I arrived at the Gate wearing heels and a little black dress. I tipped the taxi driver and slipped through the doors like a waif. A swelling crowd of immaculately-dressed patrons spilled onto the street. It was quite stuffy in there, with little room to breathe. Thankfully I found my seat quickly. I bought a program for 5€ and gazed at my stilettos with a sense of triumph and admiration. There I was, a single woman, treating herself on her birthday, alone and mysterious...possibly even beautiful? I felt beautiful. Independence can do that to you. I as a stranger in a sea of faces. This was it!
...and?
I hated it. It was safe, couched in seemingly daring directorial choices. Lots of unnecessary smoke machines and thunderous music during transitions. The text was butchered more than any other performance of Hamlet I've seen. Glancing at the people around me in the dark, I knew in my heart this was ostensibly a "good" show, which is to say it is a deeply flawed and fractured show, hiding behind stylization and hyperbole. Actors screamed their lines at one another; Hamlet's soft-spoken soliloquies were empty. I felt no sense of communication. No connection. The play was faking an orgasm an the audience was totally buying it.
It's worth noting that, as a Shakespeare buff, never in my life have I seen a performance of Hamlet that I completely abhorred. It's impossible for me to simply "like" or "dislike" reworkings of Shakespeare. There is always something to take away and learn from. The Gate led me to dangerous waters. My stomach churned; my eyes brimmed with tears. I felt oddly resentful. When the lights came up at the interval, I rose from my seat and grabbed my purse. I walked quickly past the conga line for the restroom, inevitably picking up snippets of conversation:
"What a revelation!"
"Beth, isn't this just amazing? Ah-ma-zing!"
"I love the flashing lights! And the smoke!"
"Brilliant. Just brilliant."
Before I knew it I found myself at the front entrance. Time went by slowly. I descended the staircase and an usher passed by, locking the front doors-- a sign the interval was near its end. Even though the lock meant people could no longer reenter the theatre, the action had a reverse effect: I felt as though he was locking me in. I inched closer to the door as the lights blinked. It was like the Titanic was going down, but no one knew it yet. People were warned, but they kept on partying. (Okay, maybe this isn't so much a historical allusion than it is an allusion to James Cameron, but you get the point).
I approached two young women, both nursing apple cider whiskey. I asked how they liked the show. It was their first-ever exposure to Hamlet, as well as Shakespeare in general. For a second I was in shock. Totally incredulous...not shocked by the fact that these women had no familiarity with the play, but rather, that this nonsense would forever be their metric of comparison.
The lights blinked again. The women started for the stairs, expecting me to follow. For some reason, I couldn't move.
"I'm, uh, waiting for a friend," I said. Suddenly the confidence and the beauty were gone.
So many thoughts rushed through my brain. It was my birthday. My feet hurt. I needed to get back to my seat. I chided myself for negative thoughts about the show and the two young women I'd just encountered. I should be pleased that they are accessing Shakespeare and Hamlet at all. That's what this should be about, right?
...then why did I feel so angry, and so deeply victimized? Was it my personal connection to the text? Feeling emboldened, galvanized even more by the notion that I am now a free agent living in a foreign land, I burst through the doors and took a big deep breath of the cold night air. The doors locked and shut behind me.
I did the unthinkable. I was free. That's when the confidence came back.
I've never left a show at intermission. Never would it even cross my mind to do this with Hamlet. Yet, I did. I took the reins. I defied my own expectations and I never felt so completely liberated. It was a pivotal moment for me. As I stumbled along O'Connell Street, my heels had a rough time on the cobblestones. I could go anywhere and do anything. I am beholden to no one. I am beholden to nothing. No thing. It was also the first time in my life that I truly acknowledged the value of time. The value of my time.
I walked and walked, scuffing my new heels in the process. I thought about stagings of Hamlet I did enjoy, and those I'm impartial to. I thought about my favorite lines and moments. Hamlet distinguishing a hawk from a handsaw.
I'm not crazy for leaving, right? Am I acting crazy? No. Of course not.
I know a hawk from a handsaw.
It's one of my favorite lines because it's so terse, yet so filled with meaning. Hamlet identifies two very distinguishable birds. One is predatory and the other is harmless. Both fly in the direction of the wind.
The full line is as follows:
“I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw."
Even a seasoned hunter will have difficulty distinguishing the birds if he faces north towards the sun. When the wind is blowing towards the south, the bird flies away from the sun, thus making it easier for the hunter to see.
It is one of the rare but privileged moments in which we catch a glimpse into Hamlet's own perception of his [seeming] madness. In a single line, Hamlet contains his madness and gives us insight into what one can infer is a strategy. No matter what the conditions, he is in control of his "madness."
When I left the theatre, I felt like Hamlet. Cunning. One step ahead of everyone else who paid for a seat at the Gate.
I know a hawk from a handsaw.
The next morning, I woke up late for class. My classmates were eager to hear my take on Hamlet and for a fleeting second my heart stopped in my chest: what would I tell them? Do I merit an opinion? Who am I to just walk out? Who am I to begrudge 250 theatregoers that night for enjoying a performance? What authority do I have? Like Hamlet, I have too much hubris.
It does not take a seasoned scholar to understand that Hamlet's tragic flaw is, simply, inaction.
Running towards Trinity College, I smiled to myself, both likening myself to and distancing myself from Hamlet all at the same time.
I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Then, another totally unbelievable thing happened.
A hawk stopped me in my tracks. Again, time stood still.
We looked at each other. Well, sort of. One of his eyes had been gouged out. The hawk looked at me with the one good eye. A hawk. On the street. In Dublin. It made no aggressive movement towards me, but it didn't appear wounded either. It seemed as if the hawk had just arrived there out of thin air. This couldn't possibly be real. Too ironic. Too weird. Too...impossible? Is it even the bird I think it is? I was about to turn to someone and ask, but I smiled and answered my own question:
I know a hawk from a handsaw.