Conquering The Scene: The Globe Theatre

On May 14th, 2011, I attended a showing of Hamlet at the world-famous “Shakespeare’s Globe” in London, England. For the uninitiated, or those of you gallantly engaged in brute battle with the pall of philistinism, the Globe is to theater what Yankee stadium is to American sports. What the Louvre is to Art. In short, a Mecca.

…Shakespeare would never enjoy the uber-ubiquity that only time and taste allow.

The year was 1599 when Shakespeare and a handful of associates, known as “Lord Chamberlain’s Men,” built the original Globe and unleashed on the masses the biggest, baddest pulsating cock of creativity the world had ever seen. The following decade would spring forth original runs of King Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello. Matched only by Wu-Tang Clan’s 36 Chambers and the four lochial solo albums that followed, this is arguably the greatest winning streak in human history.

Though unquestionably famous in his heyday, Shakespeare would never enjoy the uber-ubiquity that only time and taste allow. Nary a grain of sand in the beach of immortality he would become 200 years posthumous. What was the young Bard to do. . .

Leaning comfortably on a backstage snack stand just off stage left, settling down for an afternoon fellating courtesy of the ripest teenage male stage hand available, the Bard would brood; the fate of his next masterpiece rising and falling by degree of tumescence. With left hand firmly clamped on fellator’s head, his right would ever so slightly open the curtain. Peering out to a sea of plague ridden, pie-faced Brits, pellucid pigmentation every bit the horror show it is today, he would inevitably call in to question all that is sacred and storm off to his trailer, repeatedly muttering threats of “quitting the Biz.” All the while, the seedlings of his forthcoming opus firmly embedded in brain; nascency of costumes, casting, soliloquies, et al. a formulating freight train in frontal lobe. The apotheosis of humankind!

And so it goes…until the wooden structure burned to the ground during a production of Henry VIII in 1613. An errant cannon shot was to blame, according to legend. Apocryphal, no doubt, (it was probably the work of a fired actor/scorned lover turned arsonist), nonetheless it still makes for a pitch-perfect addendum to the career of our most celebrated author; that play sucks balls.

The Globe was rebuilt the following year and ultimately shut down for good in the year 1642. The grounds stood silent until 1997 when the structure was rebuilt and renamed; “Shakespeare’s Globe.” And here I stand.

There are four ticketed sections inside the Globe. With a price range of 15-37 pounds (approximately $27-60 US Dollars); the lower, middle, and upper galleries are priced highest. Strictly for the upper crust. The lowest level is standing room only. Situated below the stage, or in “the pit,” this area is far and away the cheapest seat in the house. The patrons found within are referred to as “Groundlings” or “Stinkards.” Class warfare.

Boozing, brawling, and pickpockets were all commonplace.

Historically, groundlings were synonymous with the poorest/roughest sectors of British society, i.e. commoners, peasants, peepers, prowlers, sodomites, etc. Boozing, brawling, and pickpockets were all commonplace. Great! With this in mind, I bought my five pound ticket, ready to rollick and roll with my riffraff brethren. . .

The “pit” isn’t what it used to be. Having made a bee line to the beer vendor upon my admittance, I entered the theater armed with a 22 oz. Ale in my right and a glass of Cab Sauv in my left. What greeted me was an evenly split gathering of geriatrics and children. Field trips on the one hand, nursing home excursions on the other.

Looking up at the disapproving eyes of a thousand aristocrats, I anxiously made my way through the crowd, Eyes Wide Shut style. Fucking jig’s up. Settling on a spot directly behind a four-foot tall, 90-something year-old Scottish pile of jaundice, I had yet to see another patron with an alcoholic beverage, pit or gallery. An American and a drunk? Bad juju.

Looking up at the disapproving eyes of a thousand aristocrats…

At this point, the play began. Out came the latest iteration of Hamlet, a pint-sized fellow with curly hair and a falsetto voice, running around the stage like a goddamned mouse. Not good. In a panic, I quickly rifled down the Ale and the vino. Nerves slightly settled, I began to see Hamlet not as a prepubescent pest but as an elongated Tyrion (Peter Dinklage). Ophelia, played by a most gorgeous black actress, continuously reminded me of Daenerys, the albino Dothraki Queen. Yes, I am obsessed with Game of Thrones. Moving on. . .

The show was many things, inspiring and beautiful prominently among them. I found myself getting rather worked up at various points in the play, far more so than any production of Hamlet I’d seen previous. Upon the death of Polonius, I nearly collapsed into the 85 year-old skeleton standing beside me. This sweetest of skeletons sensed my distress, and patted my forearm more than once, assuring me that “it’s not real, love.” Yes, yes, thank you.

As the show neared its end, I began taking it all in…

As the show neared its end, I began taking it all in; the stage, the gallery, the pit, the history, the players…Hamlet at the Globe! I can only hope the aforementioned jaundiced Scotsman didn’t mind or didn’t notice the turgid torpedo riding up the nape of his neck as my excitement nearly crescendoed all over his 90 year-old noggin…

Anyway, for all you readers living stateside that bow to the Bard, go to London. Go to London and book a show to Shakespeare’s Globe. Having spent my entire life between Boston and NYC, two cities renowned for their Shakespeare productions, I can attest to the incomparably transcendental experience of seeing Shakespeare on his home turf, never mind his home stadium. It’s been over a week since the show and I’ve yet to put my pants back on…