The Bard

I always feel terrible for Ben Johnson and Christopher Marlowe -- both fantastic poets and dramatists in their own right -- who had the unfortunate luck of being alive in the same century as Shakespeare.

I've already had two occasions to visit the Globe, the recreation of Shakespeare's second, but most popular, outdoor theater. The first occasion was, on a warm, dry evening, to see A Midsummer's Night Dream, and the second occasion was to see Timon of Athens, on a blustery, damp afternoon. The first was to see one of the most popular, most oft preformed Shakespearean comedy, and the second a chance to see what many scholars consider to be a first draft (it was never performed in Shakespeare's lifetime, presumably abandoned prior to completion). Both experiences were phenomenal in their own right.

To simulate the original experience, one can either purchase a balcony ticket (months in advance for an outrageous price) or purchase a standing, ground level ticket for five pounds. Needless to say, I chose the role of a peasant -- although after three hours on my feet I can see the benefits afforded to the noble or wealthy merchant. For many of my peers, most of which are actors taking a Shakespeare intensive at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, the experience was life altering. My experience was nearly life altering as well -- Timon ran so long I still have the sniffles.

Joking aside, in a city increasingly dominated by musical theatre, it's nice to see a successful company performing challenging work even if the surroundings remind one of a theme park.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.