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yenslilac · 5 years ago

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Daenerys Targaryen and Ophelia: An Essay

I wrote this a while back, just after Season 8 ended. After a few edits, I decided to share it with you! Disclaimer: I wrote this fueled with rage at 11 at night for two weeks straight. Don’t judge.

Part 1: The Heroine Goes Absolutely Bats**t Crazy

Ophelia. Known throughout time as That Crazy Chick Who Drowned Herself. What a legacy. And Daenerys: She Who Toasted A City Like Marshmallows And Then Was Offed By Her Nephew/Lover. The sad thing is, these are my heroes. What a life. But the ‘Insane Heroine’ trope is prevalent in many forms of media – Dark Phoenix is another example. At first glance, Daenerys and Ophelia have very little in common; Daenerys is a powerful and assertive leader, and Ophelia is a background love interest. The one thing that unites them – they go crazy because of rejected love. While their descent into madness is slightly different; Ophelia is pitiful, Daenerys aggressive, both end up dying indirectly or directly as a result of their lover. Lovely. Let’s talk first about Ophelia – She is rebuffed Hamlet, the original pathetic sad boy, and at the death of her father, goes insane. After several performances of her insanity, she makes her way to a river where she falls (or throws?) herself into the water and drowns. This is witnessed by Gertrude, who then goes on to tell her brother Laertes of her death. It’s a pretty monologue, describing the flowers and plants growing along the riverbank, and how pretty and peaceful she looked as she sank under water and DIED. Remember this. Then my girl Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men etc. etc. Oh boy. Ohhhhhh boy. What can I say except **************** ***** ** **********. Thank you for your time. But she like Ophelia, was scorned by her Boyfriend Who Felt It Was Just A Little Weird That She Was His Aunt. But like, your paternal grandparents and the rest of your great-whatever grandparents were siblings, and your maternal grandparents were cousins so… But I digress. Wait no, this is what it’s all about. I’m back! I un-digress! So, she goes ‘insane’ cause she can’t get laid (don’t we all?) and roasts a whole lot of people and becomes… Hitler for some reason… So, Boyfriend Who Felt It Was Just A Little Weird That She Was His Aunt And Really Wishes He Can Just Catch A Break For Once Is It Really Too Much Too Ask is egged on by Murder Sister™ and Smarty Pants McGee to kill her. Just like my friends! He makes out with her and stabs her (best of both worlds!) and she dies. Very prettily. Remember this. You know. YOU KNOW I’m going to rant about this.

Part 2: Heroic Man Kills The Crazy Lady Like The Feral Dog She Is (But Feels Sad About It)

Trope as old as time… why is this still fine… surely there’s a better plot deviiiiiice. “Duty is the death of love…” Shut up. Shut up. No, it isn’t. There is a thing called multitasking. You should try it. But let’s recap. Woman goes crazy because of lover/hero of the story rebuffing her because he’s got issues of his own that he doesn’t care to share with her, and close friend/family member is killed. This is when the paths of the Hero diverge. Hamlet does not actually kill Ophelia himself, but his careless actions towards her eventually drive her to suicide. Jon, on the other hand, does kill Daenerys, (no, I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed) by a knife to the heart while snogging her. (I’d like to take the opportunity to say that this was ridiculous and yes, I will die mad about it.) What else is similar? Hamlet holds Ophelia’s (or in some adaptations tries to) dead body in his arms as she is about to be buried and Jon holds Daenerys as she dies. They cry and wish it didn’t have to be this way, but really guys, this is Your Fault.

The problem with this trope in particular (and I’m talking about a lot of other examples here, like Dark Phoenix and Wolverine) is that it renders the killer sympathetic. They didn’t want to do this, but it was for the good of humanity, it was a mercy, blah blah blah. Really? Did someone make you kill her? No, a sense of moral justice does not count. Hamlet abuses and humiliates Ophelia then claims he loved her so much that ‘forty thousand brothers could not…” Creepy. I have to say, creepy. And Jon Snow. “Was it right? It doesn’t feel right…” I’m glad you came to that conclusion. I really am. But I knew this from the moment you stuffed that butter knife into her spleen, so honestly you don’t have any business feeling sorry for yourself. If there’s one lesson that Game of Thrones and Shakespeare has taught me, it is:

(not an artist, don’t judge)

Part 3: Someone Died And The Director Said, “Cool But Like… Make It Fashion.”

Do you remember what I told you to remember? Did you? Cause I’m about to RANT.

Throughout time (like 500 years) men have been painting Ophelia’s drowning – the probable suicide of a tormented young woman – and made sure she looked hot while doing it. True, the description of her death is pretty and all, but depictions of her floating just below the surface, a dramatic and lovely pose and flowers strewn around her glamorise her death – something many other people have taken note on – and give her death something of a peaceful, serene departing note, rather than the death of a woman so deranged she did not appear to understand the gravity of her situation as she sank under water. Daenerys suffers a similar case of SDPS (Sexy Dead Person Syndrome). Let’s go through it step by step, shall we? While in an embrace with someone she loves and trusts, she is stabbed in the heart area (I guess?), and she dies. The End. My respect for white men flew off with Drogon. But I haven’t complained properly yet! Compared to other characters, like Myrcella, Joffrey and Catelyn Stark to name a few, her death was very clean. In these other examples, blood runs down their faces or spurts out of their neck in suitably graphic fashion but Daenerys’ case, two thin lines of blood trickle from her nose and mouth. Pretty, pretty. We get a brief shot of a pool of blood on the snow as Drogon picks her up, but blink and you’ll miss it. She looks shocked and confused as she dies, yet the next shot of her face shows her eyes are closed and an almost peaceful expression on her face. Not only this but we don’t actually get any proper Last Words, when she knows she is about to die. She makes no sound at all. She dies prettily and quietly. We also don’t see the knife at all until she is dead, removing any very graphic nature from the scene. A lot of the camera shots are of Jon’s face. This scene is not about Daenerys Targaryen’s death; This is about Jon Snow’s inner turmoil as he selflessly sacrifices the woman he loves to save the rest of the world. Hold up one second I gotta……

I mean, come on. Daenerys is barely mentioned after her death. She, a woman who freed hundreds, no, thousands of slaves and worked hard to reach her goals (albeit a little dragonfire-y) yet she dies without a whisper and is forgotten almost immediately. She becomes less of a central character and more of a catalyst for other men’s rise to power (see Bran the Broken). Wait, what about Sansa, you cry? Well, at this point, she was so out of character I’m striking her from the narrative. Bye bitch 😊 The same goes for most of the other women in the last season. They become plot devices with a little agency and that’s about it. Missandei? Unnecessarily killed to create the “Mad Queen”. Cersei? A compelling villain reduced to a ‘crying girl who wants to be comforted’. Arya? Kills the Night King and then, I dunno. Sansa? Suspicious of Daenerys because of reasons, betrays her brother/cousin because she doesn’t want Daenerys on the throne, then just ‘forgets’ about this whole thing to become Queen in the North. Brienne? Honourable knight left sobbing after her one (k)night stand left her. Another thing that many of these women have in common (the ones who survived to the final episode anyway) is that none of them have romantic endgames despite this being set up. Arya and Gendry have been close friends in Season 2 and 3, then <3 and everyone (i.e. me) thought that you know, they get together and stuff, because that’s what the writers seemed to be setting up. But nope. Arya’s all like ‘I wanna kill the queen’ (which she never does) and throws all that out the window. (But Gendry was totally on that ship at the end). Brienne and Jaime seemed to finally stop eye fricking and then got straight to the actual fricking but nooooo. “I lOvE CeRseI! WE’re bOTh tERrIble PeOple!” And of course, the crowning glory:

And the woman who actually does come out on top is Sansa, a largely unemotional, suspicious woman whose brother is now the king and made her a queen because she’s his sister. Riiiight. That’s totally not nepotism or anything.

The End: But Boy, Am I Just Beginning

To conclude, the ending of Daenerys Targaryen was largely misogynistic as it painted a brutal and dishonourable murder as an act of mercy and gave the killer (sorry man, I feel like I’m throwing you under the bus here, but it must be said) a sympathetic angle as a heartbroken martyr sacrificing for the greater good. I had high expectations, I really did, but you just took it anD THREW IT IN THE DIRT. Good god. But it’s fine, I have fanfiction anyway.

Thank you for reading this, if you stuck around this far!

#daenerys targaryen #daenerys defense squad #daenerys death tw #ophelia #shakespeare #anti d and d #anti got

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writing-in-mermish · 4 years ago

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Why do we keep doing Ophelia dirty?

One of the questions that we like to ask about Hamlet is, “was Hamlet losing it, or just faking?”

This is a good question and can lead to very different and interesting takes on the play, but my question is, “why do we only ask this about Hamlet’s sanity?” You can ask it about almost all the main players, so why do we only ask about Hamlet? But more importantly, why do we assume that Ophelia is loosing it?

We like to compare his madness with his Uncle’s. We compare his grief with his mother’s. We compare his action (or inaction) with Laertes’. But We’ve been sleeping on the best character to compare him to.

Ophelia

She loses her father.

Uses subterfuge to gather information (more on that later).

Deals with disputable madness.

And dies tragically because of her efforts.

She is his mirror, but instead of doing her justice we decide to be lazy and brush her under the rug. It makes no sense!

So let me explain how cool this leading lady is and how, with a few stage directions, you can totally change her character.

First off, what is Hamlet and Ophelia’s relationship?

I’m kinda on the fence about them actually having romantic feelings for each other. there is some dialogue that could support this, but it could also support them tricking others to keep them off their sent while they investigate Hamlet’s Uncle.

Clearly, people think they’re into each other, but everyone who’s had a friend of the opposite gender knows that people will think whatever they damn well please, whether there’s any basis for it or not. I personally am for the, “friends who let people think their together because it’s easier than defending their friendship” angle (and if you’re into shipping Hamlet with Horatio, then she can even be Hamlet’s beard).

Every moment we have of them together is either in front of others (and may be for show) or them telling people (who they do not trust) about private moments. The realest moment we might have is at her funeral when he learns that she’s dead and starts throwing hands with her brother. All we know is that they spent a lot of time together and they were both very witty.

So I propose that they were friends. That Hamlet confided in her about his suspicions about his uncle and she decided to help him keep people in the dark by insinuating his madness was love for her. And it sorta works, at least on her fool of a father and his shipping mother.

When her brother and father tell her to avoid Hamlet, she nearly rolls her eyes telling them not to worry about her. Then, Hamlet decides in one scene to play mad and the very next scene Ophelia is planting the seed of deception to her gossipy dad.

The Nunnery scene is obvious, Ophelia knows Claudius and Palonius are watching, and she reveals them to Hamlet so they can put on a show, which backfires. Later, during the play within a play they make a show of flirting, presumably to fix their mistake, and continue to hide his intent to capture his Uncle.

Every moment a ruse.

Next, Ophelia’s flowers and Death.

If you watched Harry Potter growing up you may be aware of the trivia about Snape’s first class. The plant’s that he asks Harry about are an apology for Lily’s death through flower language. Which is totally self serving because Harry is a modern-ish eleven year old who would have no understanding of flower language, but my hatred for Snape isn’t important here. The point of this is Ophelia’s audiance would have understood flower language, and so would a fair portion of Shakespeare’s.

After Hamlet gets sent away, Ophelia starts to pretend she’s mad also, but she comes for peoples throats, with her flowery accusations and sing song “revelations”. not long after, she is found dead by the queen, who comes into a conversation about murdering her son and she tells them that Ophelia drowned.

This is probably the biggest stretch, but also, is it really? Ophelia was murdered. She knew to much, and Claudius couldn’t just send her away like hamlet, so she had to go so he could keep her brother on his side. The queen sees her get murdered and was going to tell her husband, but she starts to finally put things together, and overhearing his conversation with Laertes cements her worries, so she decides to keep silent.

Bonus: This is makes Gertrude a better character and explains why she drinks the poison, actively protecting her son in the end.

Finally, Stage directions

There doesn’t need to be any change to the text, just acting and staging choices. let’s get into it. (this is getting long and I’m getting hungry.)

Act 1 Scene 3, Ophelia rolls her eyes at her brother and father. let them think what they want attitude.

Act 2 Scene 1, Either between acts or during this scene, show Hamlet and Ophelia plotting. If you’re filming it you can show visuals while Ophelia gives her story, if you’re doing a stage play, show it before.

Act 3 Scene 1, Ophelia points out that they are being watched, with a look, nod, or gesture, with her first line to him. it’s perfect, because the next thing he says to her is “I humbly thank you.” Then they get to pretend to fight for the benefit of their audience.

Also, make it clear that Ophelia overhears that Caudius’ suspicions have grown.

Act 3 Scene 2, Either between scenes or while Hamlet is working things out with the actors, have Ophelia “tell” Hamlet that their ploy didn’t work and that they should be “lovey dovey” again. Cue making sure to getting their parents attention and “flirting” during the play.

Act 4 Scene 5, lot’s of pointed looks here. Ophelia as she passes out her flowery judgement, and Claudius as he realizes that she could out him and then makes it clear to some guards that she needs to be taken care of.

Act 4 Scene 7, We either see Ophelia get murdered before this scene, or during Gertrude’s monologue. Gertrude is seen over hearing the last part of Claudius’ and Laertes’ conversation, makes a noise, then they stop talking and she walks in and pieces together her lie, looking real nervous all the while. this is where you can do a flash back to what actually happened if you’re doing a film, if it’s staged, keep it beforehand and show Gertrude running away.

Act 5 Scene 1, Show Gertude’s guilt as the Priest talks about Ophelia not getting a better funeral because she killed herself. It should be eater her alive that she keeps ignoring the truth to protect herself, maybe give her a moment of resolve to make things right. Also, after the funeral, maybe have her pull Hamlet aside and explain the truth. Let them have a moment of despair over her death and Hamlet’s father’s. This parts a little shaky though with the events of Scene 2, so maybe not.

Throughout Act 5, show Gertrude's nervousness and Claudius’ growing suspicion of her, maybe even include a moment where the guards who killed Ophelia reveal what actually happened. This completes Ophelia’s affect of over play, and richens Claudius’ decent into his own madness and desperation.

Conclusion?

Ophelia is super cool and should be played as such. Stop making her a soft girl who loses her mind over a boy, it’s a bad take!

Also, if you love Ophelia as much as I do, check out this game where she’s the main character and is trying to solve a mystery and save everyone from dying like they do in the play. I didn’t make it, I just think it’s super cool.

Elsinore

#This isn't as polished as I'd like but I'm tired #thank you for coming to my TEDtalk #Justice for Ophelia #I love her #she deserves better #shakespeare #hamlet #ophelia #theater

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hamletandthegang · 4 years ago

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Funeral

Hamlet sped down the sidewalk on a rented bicycle. He could see the castle, far ahead of him. His phone had been remarkably quiet, no frantic texts from Horatio or Annalise, or even his mother. Guildenstern and Rosencrantz were probably still in the middle of the English Channel, and Hamlet wondered how long they’d float. That probably sounds sadistic, he thought, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it, as he was already nearing the castle. He hoped nothing else had happened since he’d been sent off, it had only been a day, so most likely everything was fine.

He ditched the bike by the row of trees on the lawn and rushed into the castle. It was quiet, and empty of everyone save a few guards stationed here and there. He checked many of the rooms, but after a while gave up and sat down in a chair to catch his breath. Where were they? The castle was rarely quiet, it gave him an eerie feeling that something was very wrong.

He turned his head, and looked out the window. He stood up sharply, spotting the small group of people standing in a field by a bunch of candles set up around… something, he couldn’t tell what.

He rushed out of the room, and down the steps to a door that led him to the hill outside of the castle, and he skirted around the edge towards the group of people, careful not to be seen.

He made his way around to the ridge right next to the large group, and watched them from over the top of it.

It was a small group, composed of the King and Queen, Laertes, Annalise, Horatio, and a few others, completed by a preacher who was speaking from a small book in his hands. He seemed to finish his speech, Hamlet wasn’t close enough to hear what he said, and slowly, people filed by the circle of candles and pictures in a line, each placing a small pink flower into the circle.

Hamlet realized that Ophelia wasn’t there. Laertes, Horatio, and Annalise brought up the rear of the line, but not Ophelia. If it was Polonius’ funeral, she certainly would’ve been there. So it couldn’t be his…

Laertes stopped in front of the candles, and placed his flower on top of the others. “Goodbye, sister,” Hamlet saw him say, and a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

At this point, most of the people had left to their various cars and were driving back to the main road, but the close family and friends were staying behind, a group consisting of only the King and Queen, the preacher, Laertes, Horatio, and Annalise.

“I’m sorry!” Laertes’ voice broke sharply as tears began to stream down his face. Horatio’s usually pale face was completely red and blotchy from crying, and Annalise was keeping a calm expression, although her eyes were red from crying the night before. “I loved you, I promise I did,” Laertes whispered and sobbed, and Hamlet felt the rage bubbling up inside of him again.

Before he thought about what he was doing, he had leapt over the ridge and strode over to where Laertes and his friends stood.

Everyone turned and looked at him, shocked to see him back already. “Is she…?” He started, and bent down to see the pictures of Ophelia placed around the candles. He looked up at Horatio, praying he would shake his head, but he only stared back at him sadly. “She can’t be, I was only gone a day. Did she do it?” He added, voice barely audible. Annalise nodded, not daring to open her mouth for fear of breaking down again. Hamlet sat down, realizing what must’ve happened.

Laertes began to sob softly into his hand, and Hamlet looked up at him, disgust written all over his face. Hamlet and Laertes both were hot-headed and impulsive, and Horatio and Annalise looked at each other with concern, wondering whether to separate them or let them go. “How can you even pretend to care?” He asked. “You were terrible to her, you and your father were completely despicable-”

“At least I loved her enough not to kill her father!” Laertes barked, unable to keep his anger at bay. He dove at Hamlet and tackled him to the ground, and punched him near his eye. Annalise shrieked and Horatio ran to get Laertes off of him, but before he could even get near them Hamlet had thrown Laertes off, rolled over, and stood up.

“At least I didn’t manipulate her for her whole life!” Hamlet shouted back as Laertes struggled to his feet, dirty blond hair falling in his face.

“At least you didn’t tell her it was her fault,” Annalise muttered under her breath spitefully, and Hamlet spun around.

“He did what?”

Annalise nodded, expression completely dead as she looked over at Laertes. He dusted himself off and rushed at Hamlet again, full of passion. Hamlet easily dodged him and kicked the side of his knee, sending him to the floor again. Laertes was a fantastic fighter in all things fencing, guns, and even street fighting tactics, but he was completely overwhelmed and driven into a frenzy, and Hamlet had no trouble overpowering him.

The priest and the King grabbed him and hoisted him off the ground, kicking and shouting as Hamlet taunted him. “You were her brother, and a shitty one at that- I loved her more than life itself, I would’ve done anything for her. What did you do? In her hour of need, you didn’t comfort her or even help her!!”

“Shut up!” Laertes shouted, still being held back.

“You did the same to Horatio when you burned down Notre Dame!” Hamlet reminded him, and Horatio looked at him, not wanting to bring that up, but Hamlet kept talking. “You gaslight and manipulate everyone you come into contact with, even your own sister!”

Laertes wrenched himself out of their arms and ran at Hamlet, “You killed my dad! You sick bastard! You’re a murderer!” And threw another punch. Hamlet expected it and dodged, but stumbled backwards when Laertes hit him with a second blow. Then they were on the ground again, and were finally drug away from each other.

Horatio shoved Hamlet back so he wouldn’t try to rush at Laertes again, and Hamlet finally stopped. “Watch your goddamn back, Laertes,” he said as he walked away towards the castle, Horatio and Annalise following him.

Gertrude hurried after him, and Claudius stopped Laertes from following, “You must be patient, I told you that you will get your revenge, if you keep your head and anger down!” he said angrily, and Laertes looked at the ground.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” he muttered.

“Oh I’m counting on it,” Claudius smiled. “But there is a time and place for everything, young man, and for now, I want you to go and cool down.” Claudius fished a stack of bills out of his pocket and handed it to him. “Go to the city and stay there, I will call you back when the time is right.”

Laertes looked at him, then sighed and began to walk off towards the parking lot where his car was.

Claudius sighed and went back to the castle.

***

Hamlet sat on the counter by the bathroom sink, as Horatio dabbed at his face with a cloth and Annalise stood behind him watching. His eye was beginning to bruise over from where Laertes had hit him, and both his left eye and the side of his nose and upper cheek were starting to turn purple.

“So, you’re back.” Horatio spoke as he re-wetted the towel he was holding.

“Yeah,” Hamlet said hoarsely.

“Where’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?” Annalise asked. “I haven’t had a text back from them in a while.” When Hamlet didn’t answer, she asked again. “Hamlet? Where are they?”

“They were going to kill me,” he started, and Horatio put down the towel. “I found the letter. My uncle was sending them with me so they’d kill me when we got to England.”

“What letter?” Horatio asked, getting nervous.

“There was a letter, in the King’s seal, that said I was to be executed the moment the ship got there. Rosencrantz had it in his pocket, he had to have been bribed or something.”

“Did they know about it?”

“How could they not?” Hamlet’s voice began to rise.

“Well, did they read the letter?!” Anna asked exasperatedly.

Hamlet realized that the letter had not previously been opened, it was possible that they hadn’t known…

“I- I don’t know...”

Horatio interrupted him, “Hamlet, where are they right now?”

Hamlet took a breath, and began to explain everything- the boat ride, the pirate attack, his journey back to the southern tip of Denmark, taking a trolley back up to their city, and biking all the way back to the castle, and he finished with a sigh with Horatio and Annalise staring at him.

Anna took a breath, then started, “Hamlet, why can’t you go more than 24 hours without killing someone?” but stopped as her phone buzzed. She opened it to find a message from Marc. It was a picture of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern sitting on a bench in Rosencrantz’ cafe, completely wrapped up in blankets by a fireplace. The message read: “Fished these hyperthermic boys out of the ocean, did y’all lose them?”

“Thank Christ,” Annalise breathed as she bolted out of the bathroom and began to call Marc. Horatio gave Hamlet a look of What the fuck dude? and followed her out.

#hamlet #hamlet modern au #shakespeare #hamletandthegang #ophelia #horatio #oc annalise #guildenstern #rosencrantz #laertes #funeral #tw funeral #tw swearing #guess who’s NOT dead :D #r & g babyyyy #~mod h #hatg1

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theflyprinceofdenmark · 6 years ago

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ppl should stop hating on Hamlet - in this essay I will

Okay so I have to study for an oral exam tomorrow which effectively means I have been procrastinating for 5 days straight and also thinking about Hamlet a lot (which is not too bad because the exam is partly about Hamlet, but still)

So there’s something I noticed while reading about 93208405203 different essays on Hamlet from about the same amount of perspectives: Every author seems to feel obliged to at least once on a side note mention that Hamlet is a whiny bitch.

Unpopular opinion: He is not.

Like, I mean of course he does complain a lot, I’m not blind or anything. But, I mean, think about it! He’s at Wittenberg and suddenly a messenger pops in and says “Yo Hamlet, your father died oh and btw your mom married your sketchy uncle about 0.34 seconds later.” I would be upset. And then he comes home and everything is super fucked up and no one seems to care about his dad at all.

So then his best friend from Wittenberg returns and for a moment there is hope but he brings news: Hamlet’s dad is back from the dead and seemingly wants to talk to him? Rough stuff. I mean it, just the sight of a ghost itself is enough to turn some people nuts. But no, the ghost even talks to Hamlet and tells him - Oh right, he’s been murdered! Imagine hearing your dead father has been murdered. Imagine hearing it from your dead father himself. Yeah, right?

Like, and as if that’s not enough he tells Hamlet he can’t rest in peace until he had his revenge. Sadly, Mr. Ghosty McGhostface has no material hands so he can’t do the job himself and Hamlet has to.

YEAH SURE DAD. ANYTHING ELSE I CAN DO FOR YOU OTHER THAN KILLING MY UNCLE, THE NEW HUSBAND OF MY MOTHER (WHO I THINK IS A WHORE (she’s not but that’s for another time) BUT STILL LOVE), IN A COURT FULL OF PEOPLE WHO SUPPORT HIM, AT THE REQUEST OF MY DEAD FATHER?

Great.

On top of that, Hamlet totally is a theatre kid. He knows what a tragic plot smells like when there’s one in the making. (See this post for reference.) He knows that he is going to die once the villain of his own tragedy has died. Because then - and only then - there’s no use for Hamlet himself anymore.

And Hamlet does not want that. Hamlet, who is either 16 and troubled or 30 and frayed at every edge,* Hamlet does not want to die. He does not want to kill, even if it’s his fathers murderer. He’s not ready, and therefore he weeps. Because all together it’s just a bit too much. And I totally get that.

You might say, “But what about Laertes? He almost did the job, so it’s possible” - Yeah, I know. He heard rumors about his father’s death and stormed the castle and attacked the king who just barely got away; an immense sacrilege. But that’s because Laertes is a different kind of man. He’s a hothead and a warrior, he doesn’t hold human lives as precious as Hamlet does. He’s angry, and he wants revenge. From the inside. Hamlet, on the other hand, is forced, blackmailed almost, from the outside into committing a murder he’s not ready for. He’s forced to want revenge. He had no choice. But he has the chance to stall for a bit, and he takes it.

“Okay I get that he’s sad but why is he whining so much??”, you might continue, and let me tell you, I really think he isn’t. Most of the time he’s actually making dirty jokes and insulting people and playing mad. It’s just when he’s alone (or with Horatio) that his true self and his true thoughts reach the surface. And, putting it plainly, almost everyone he knows deserted him at some point. He feels betrayed by his mother for “switching sides” in a sense, his uncle is a sketchy bastard, even his old friends Rosy and Guil are completely unreliable and working for the tragedy’s assigned villain. The whole court is working against Hamlet, what is he to do? I think he’s holding up pretty well.

“Yeah right and what about Ophelia? He made her literally kill herself” - Yes, he did. He killed her father and he was very, very mean to her. BUT. I read somewhere - I can’t remember where - that the nunnery scene might as well be Hamlet telling Ophelia to get the fuck out of Denmark because shit will be going downhill fast from here. Also I do have to admit that he was being mean and that killing Polonius was a stupid move. But I guess Hamlet would totally agree. He regrets it, but he’s also somewhat seen it coming. Because there is a certain tragic energy around the danish court and there are certain forces that make catastrophes like that inevitable. I know that sounds like an excuse, and it kind of is. But think about it: What kind of a stupid move was hiding behind a curtain to spy on - well, everything - in the first place? There is another man in his mothers bedroom, who was Hamlet most likely to expect? Exactly. Her sketchy husband. Also, I don’t really think Hamlet didn’t notice Claudius and Polonius hiding behind the curtains when he meets Ophelia. He knows that she’s a tool, and he’s disappointed. He’s disappointed because the two most important women in his life turned out to be weak (in his view). And that’s why he is being mean. He’s not telling her to go and drown herself. He’s telling her to stop the charade and also to get away from this terrible place. I don’t think that makes him a bad person.

Anyway, this turned out to be a bit longer than I aimed for, but I guess I got carried away. Thanks for listening to my rant, I guess my exam preparations are waiting.

What I actually just want to say is that Hamlet is not a villain, not even an asshole, and especially not a whiny one. He might even have been a really good person if he’d had the time.

Cheers.

__________________________________________

* There is a theory that Hamlet is supposed to be a teenager or a young man, but when they couldn’t find a young actor suitable to portray him, Will changed his age in V.1, which is literally the only time we get a specific age for Hamlet (and also the only argument there is for him being mid-aged)

#hamlet #shakespeare #essay #rant #mine #play: hamlet

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diveronarpg · 6 years ago

Photo

Congratulations, KAITLIN! You’ve been accepted for the role of LAERTES with an approved FC change to KENDRICK SAMPSON. Admin Rosey: Ladies, gents, and all other mob members I am so incredibly happy to announce that we finally have our BAERTES (this is the one and only time I will condone the usage of that nickname). Kaitlin, I am just so incredibly happy that you have brought to us our golden, flawed boy who will likely be the reckoning of us all. You captured the smallest moments so well, where the nuances of his voice crept in and destroyed us all. Verona has longed for the boy with the broken crown who carries the weight of a dead legacy on his shoulders. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Kaitlin.

Age | 21.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | You guys should be pretty familiar with my activity by this point, but long story short I tend to wait a few days and then write replies in one fell swoop when they collect! But it definitely varies on my mood.

Timezone | EST.

Current/Past RP Accounts | La principessa, in case you forgot. ;)

In Character

Character | Laertes; Lawrence Federico Vernon. I’d love to use Kendrick Sampson as his FC, but I can roll with Michael if you guys prefer!

What drew you to this character? |

I was really completely head over heels in love with Lawrence the first time I gave his biography a true and proper read through, but the more and more times I’ve read it, I kind of think that I had him all wrong when I first fell in love. Which, I think, is kind of the entire the point. For the sake of avoiding onion metaphors, I’ll just leave it at saying Lawrence is a character with a lot of surprising layers that I didn’t really see the first time around. I think it’s really easy to kind of take him at face value (which to be fair, I think he probably uses his name a lot to make people take him as a god immediately and then uses that preconception of him to bolster his status as a god even further, but that’s besides the point) and say that he’s the golden boy son who was made in his father’s image and is now out for blood because his father has been murdered. That’s the cut and dry of it, and it’s easy to love Lawrence for the cut and the dry. He’s miraculous in that way, sun-haloed and dripping gold, with a tongue like honey and blood like fire, but for all that he was made by his father he is not actually made from his father’s image. He’s been molded and crafted into this kind of Alvise-adjacent sculpture that’s just as clever, just as much a general and a tactician, a politician in every way except for the personal willingness to spill blood for his own cause. I think, if it were his own glory that Lawrence was fighting for, he’s never spill a drop of the stuff. But he is responsible for the ichor that flows in the Montague’s veins, and in his eyes, responsible for the well being of Verona by proxy. And I think it’s kind of easy to miss this disjuncture between him being his father son, and wanting nothing more than to be his father’s son, with the man that he actually is in his marrow. A chaotic good fighting with a lawful good, if you will. And I’m nothing if not a sucker for characters who suffer heavy internal conflict, even if they’re unaware of it, so, here we are.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

GOLD-COLORED BOY. I am just, first and foremost, super interested in connecting Lawrence with an array of people. He is such a people person, entirely someone who has defined himself and his self worth on the things that he can make other people think about him, the ways he can force himself into their lives by making them be unable to stop thinking about him. He’s got this haloed-in-gold and holier-than-thou thing going on, but you kind of have to wonder how much of that is what other people put on him and what he actually projects himself. Obviously it’s some degree of both, but Lawrence has built himself upon other people, upon the things he inspires other people to do. There’s no malintent in his own actions, only this desperate need to embody the tactician that his father is, and so he plays off of others, molds himself into what situations need of him. But there’s this struggle between who he is, the lionheart, and who his father is, the red hand to Damiano’s bloodied crown. So many of the connections that he’s made over the years have been positive in nature where they can be, and violent and fear-driven only where they absolutely must be. An international agent, he is no vagabond, but he is someone who gets restless, and yet? Never reckless. Part of this is conditioning from his father, knowing that anything reckless would result in Alvise’s intervention and likely his call back to the homefront. Part of it though has to just be who Lawrence is. He’s got this unshakeable commitment to doing what he thinks is right, and I’m really interested to see how his commitment to his vision is going to shift now that his father has died and his motivations will have to shift from finding pride to finding revenge. We’re already starting to see the devolution of his rationality with his investment in Cyrus as an informant. His father would tell him that it’s foolish to trust the Capulet’s princeling, that Lawrence should take anything the boy says and assume that near-on the opposite is true, and yet here he is recruiting him anyways. I’m definitely someone who tends to be a lot more intrigued by devolution in my characters than I am in positive revolution, and I’d love to watch some of Lawrence’s long-fought and hard-won connections start to crumble because they start to feel like he isn’t the same man that they met once upon a time.

ORIGINAL SIN. Mistakes certainly take their toll on our characters, but they make writing them all the more fun for us writers, and I am nothing if not in love with writing characters who are riddled with flaws and who allow those flaws to befall them at inopportune moments. For this reason, as much as it might injure Lawrence, I would love nothing more than for him to take his vengeance upon the wrong person. I mean, Lawrence’s soul is bound in gold and honor. What happens to an honor-bound soul when it commits an unforgivable act? When it does something that in the eyes of God and his people can only been seen as dishonorable? I would love for the death of his father to cause this burning need for vengeance in his soul. One of the constant threads though his biography is fire, with him carrying the ‘torch’ of his name and his wanting to “raze” the city to ash for the sake of finding his father’s murderer. He is through and through someone who has been raised to be okay with the committing the dishonorable for the sake of bolstering another family’s name, but at his core he’s very much the golden ‘Lionheart’ character that you all have named him. The first sentence of his bio, after all, is that he was raised to be so much more than he was. Lawrence was born to be the physical embodiment of legacy, of glory, something holy in its unholiness. Like you said, he’s spent his life taking direction from his father, conditioning himself into being the man that his father needs him to be, and without the sort of guiding hand constantly reminding him that there’s honor to be found in the dishonorable, in deceit and betrayal, that fire and glory go hand in hand, I can’t wait to see how this dishonor takes hold in his heart. Like you said, when all is said and done, funeral pyres and prayers will be the only thing to keep Verona warm when he is through with it–does this not apply to himself? Will he not have to hold a funeral for the man his father turned him into? Or will, in this loss, he find himself turning into Alvise himself? Lose himself in his loss and his grief and his need to have his father as his guiding light?

O’ DESSA, MY DESSA. Those Vernon’s. Their hearts on on their sleeves, in their eyes, in their throats—choking them to death. They use their hearts like weapons, wield their passions like anger and teach their love to feed their wrath, spit venom from their left ventricles and use aorta to pump cunning through to each vein. I’m fascinated by them, almost as equally as they are both fascinated with human hearts. What makes them beat. What makes them break. What can they use against their enemies that might allow those Vernon’s to sink their canines through a left atrium into the right. They both know the strength of the human heart, know how it has defined their own lives, and I think that makes them uniquely capable of using other people’s own hearts against them. But Lawrence doesn’t really see this, no matter its truth. They are both wracked with grief, but both of them know how to use their emotions to their own advantage, and I’d love to see them working together to do just that. Lawrence is so blinded by his heart right now, so completely slave to its angers and its passions and I’m interested to see how that will color his interactions with Odessa. He’s got this ‘my sister, my responsibility’ thing that I’m a total sucker for, but Odessa has no need for his protection, has a heart in her chest that beats as strongly as his own. They are made of the same marrow, yet where he could see cunning, instead he sees softness. Firstly, I can’t imagine Odessa really allowing him to feel this way, can’t imagine her allowing him to keep her small any longer. For God’s sake, he’s been gone for months now, gone traveling to build and bolster relationships and he left her behind. The rational part of him knows that she is capable, knows that she can take care of herself, but I think a big part of him feels like he’s just lost his father and the thought of Odessa putting herself in harm’s way to avenge their father is something he cannot even begin to fathom. And yet—I want nothing more than for Lawrence to overcome his misconceptions, to let go of those wings he’s tried to clip and give them back to her. Better yet, make her snatch them from his grasp and make him see his sister’s heart is equally as much a force of nature as he is.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Bitch…. I might be. (Honestly tho, like, give the guy a break!!!)

In Depth

In-Character Interview: I wrote a para sample, so I’ve only done two of these, but if y’all want more since my para sample isn’t modern, then you’re more than welcome to tell my ass to stop being lazy and ask for them. Anyways!!!

Curled around him like a vine, Lawrence runs his hand through the tips of the girls hair and revels in the quiet moment of after-sex, in the warmth of having another human in his bed. There’s nothing like it, the soft moments of the after, the tender calming moments that come with having shared your body with someone else.

“Tell me about yourself,” she says, and ruins everything. “What do you do all day when you’re not meeting with my uncle?”

Lawrence sighs at the girl’s question, wishes that he hadn’t let her curl herself into his side, but there was something about the human contact that he hadn’t been able to deny. With her head resting on the juncture between his arm and his shoulder, he can feel her breath warm on his skin, and feel strands of her brown hair tickling the skin at the base of his neck. What only moment ago had felt like such a comfort suddenly feels like suffocation, feels like something that should make him run.

But he’s a general. And general’s don’t run.

“Your uncle’s not the only man I work with, you know,” he responds carefully, avoiding her question. He has no desire to discuss his daily routine with the family of one of his clients; even if they aren’t an enemy but an ally, it’s always better to keep your life safeguarded from prying eyes. “Besides, I’d so much rather talk about what you do with those beautiful hands of yours all day than the many tedious business meetings I attend.”

He blushes, and it pulls at something in his abdomen.

He distracts her with stars, makes them shine behind her eyes until he draws that blush across her whole body.

–

Lawrence has just finished securing a new client on the Eastern Russian coast when the client asks him the unholy question, dares to cross a line that he doesn’t yet have the right to cross.

“Tell me, son,” and Lawrence pretends that being called son doesn’t set his teeth on edge; he is not this man’s blood, and he has no interest in being as such. “This war between you and your, how you say, fellow Veronesi brothers, what do you think of it?”

Lawrence can’t help but pause for a moment when the client asks this, partly because he has dared to ask it, and more so because he can feel himself wanting to shiver at the thought of a Capulet being called his brother. Lawrence is surprised by the question, to be sure, but he tightens his jaw the way that his father taught him so many years ago and looks his clients dead in the eyes. “I assure you, генеральный, you have nothing to worry about from my home front. They won’t touch you.”

“I don’t need to be assured you won’t let them get their hands on my business, gonfaloniere. If I had doubts, I would not agree to work with you.” Lawrence resists the urge to furrow his brows together, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep his face free of confusion and anger alike. “I asked how you feel about your war.”

Lawrence considering silence in the way of an answer, but something makes him want to reply.

“War is not the word I would use for it, just the Capulets wishing they had the kind of reach that we Montague’s do and being angry that they do not. There’s a reason you’re here talking to me and not some Capulet принцесса. I avoid paying the Capulets any mind; they are not worth my time. I hope that is answer enough for you.”

The general raises his glass in answer, and Lawrence answers him in kind.

They both drink to their dishonesty.

(the two russian words used here are general and princess, respectively.)

In-Character Para Sample;

Lawrence Vernon is sixteen the first time he becomes aware that his father will stop at no one when it comes to manipulation, not even his own son.

He is playing a game of football with some boys from school, an unorganized team that is mostly made up of boys with too much time on their hands and too little to do with them, boys with restless hearts and reckless souls who want nothing more than to find approval in every glance that gets cast their way, who want nothing more than for people to tell them that they are great–some, in spite of it all. It’s Alvise’s idea his son join, encourages him one afternoon when he gets home to eat dinner with his children, tells him over a bowl of bolognese that he saw a group of boys his age playing and he should think about joining them next time.

Lawrence, never wanting to disappoint, joins the next day.

The boys in his class always loved him, revered him like a god walking, each and every person in Verona knowing in their heart of hearts that the Vernon boy was someone you want in your corner. Among them is a boy with golden hair and a heart like steel, and at first meeting Lawrence dislikes him with a kind of vehemence that he can’t understand. Lionhearts do not call to other lionhearts, and their souls were made of the same. Alvise disapproves the first time that Lawrence complains about the other.

The Cesari boy? His father asks him, and when Lawrence nods yes, his father speaks again. You are as powerful as who you surround yourself with, he says, and smiles something otherworldly when Lawrence’s chest swells with shame. Even if you dislike him, do not discredit him.

The boy was the son of a wealthy man who owned vineyards across northern Italy. Everyone knew it, knew about the gold that lined their pockets and the glory that belonged in their bones, every if they were still new money and Verona was built on something ancient. Lawrence decides to give the golden hair boy another chance, and when he does he finds that somehow their golden halos can come together into something miraculous, something like being understood.

One night, they sneak out of their houses and go for drinks at a local bar, and both are leaning on each other by the end of the night, spilling secrets and fears and other things that would make them anything less than gods.

“We’re broke,” the boy says, leaning his head back against the metal fence the pair of them are propped up against.

“No way,” Lawrence replies, turning to look at his friend. The other boy just closes his eyes and nods his head. “No way.”

“My father he just…” the boy trails off for a moment and shakes his head. “Made some bad calls, bought some new lands, and they turned out to be duds. The wine? Terrible. Thirteen year olds wouldn’t even buy the shit those grapes produced.”

“Yeah, but the other vineyards are still producing, right?”

“Yeah, but profits from those paid for the new land, and then he took out debts looking for more new land that would offset those bad purchases, and now he’s just saving face and praying no one at the banks notices what deep shit he’s in before he can figure out a way to make back the money he took out. He thought maybe this harvest season would help, but,” the boy hiccups, and swallows before going on again. “But there’s some competitor I guess who’s edging him out and my dad can barely afford to keep himself afloat, much less ward off competition.”

Lawrence is silent.

“So, we’re fucked,” the boy says finally, then laughs. “Fucked. Such an American curse. It tastes so good.”

Lawrence brings a hand to cover his mouth, almost wants to hang his head for feeling for his friend.

“And your dad couldn’t use the land he bought for anything else?” He asks, lifting his head to look at the other boy.

He just smiles at Lawrence, shakes his head and then waves him off with a fling of his left hand.

“We’ll figure something out,” then a short pause. “We have to.”

They go back to laughing after that, to discussing their team’s win against another local one, to pushing and shoving each other about the pretty redhead that had stopped to watch their game, arguing over who she was really staring at.

The next day Alvise Vernon calls his son into his office before dinner, and Lawrence walks in casually, not apprehensive in the way he should be. He strides into the office without announcement, his shoulders straight and his smile wide.

“You wanted to see me, Father?”

Looking up from the documents before him, Alvise actually looks happy to see his son. It makes something like pride dance across Lawrence’s skin, and he knows that he would do anything he asked of him.

“I hear that you’ve made a new friend,” his father says, and Lawrence laughs, unimpeded.

“Yes, I suppose I have,” he replies, raising his eyebrows. “But how did you hear about it?”

“When you earn the right to know my sources, then I’ll tell you,” Alvise says, a wolf’s grin painted across his face. “Now, I thought you said that you disliked the Cesari boy. You said he was, I believe your direct words were, a ‘pompous ass.’”

Something about seeing his father use air quotes around ‘pompous ass’ sends Lawrence into a fit of laughter.

“I guess I did say that, yes,” he says, still laughing, a hand pressed against his stomach. “And I stand by it. Cesari is a righteous little shit, but now I know he’s a righteous little shit who’s terrified of the future, and that makes me feel better about the whole thing.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just something he said about his dad.”

“His father? Why would his father make him fearful of the future?” Alvise asks, the tone of their conversation sobering slightly as his brows furrow. “He owns one of the most successful new conglomerates of wineries in Northern Italy.”

Lawrence pauses only a moment before answering. “They’re bankrupt,” he says, pressing his lips together and tilting his head to the side as he raises his shoulders as if to say what can you do?

“How?”

“He made some bad investments, took out loans to pay off the investments thinking his current properties would turn enough profit to pay them off, but I guess the harvest wasn’t great and there’s a new guy on the market selling better product or something. Ergo, bankruptcy. They’re trying to hide it from the bankers and the papers long enough to pay off the debts, but like I said, Cesari’s terrified.”

Alvise purses his lips, then stands up from behind his desk, slowly walking around the edge of it.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he says, and comes to stand before his son. “I’m glad he had you to listen to.”

He walks away before Lawrence can respond, and though the sentiment brings a slight smile to his cheeks, he can’t help but feel something twist in the bottom of his stomach at the way his father said it.

He doesn’t realize until two days later that he should have listened to his gut.

CESARI EMPIRE CRUMBLES read the headlines, and the shiner Lawrence wears on his cheek, courtesy of a boy who was once his friend and could be no longer, feels like a brand when he storms into the Capital Library in search of one Alvise Vernon, feels like a brand that he deserves.

“You used me!” he shouts, pushing open the door to his father’s second office, caring little for the soldier seated across the desk. A single glance from Alvise is enough to send the young woman running from the room, but Lawrence barely looks at her, honor and loyalty battling for dominance in his chest. He cannot believe that his father would use him in this way, would compromise his son’s honor in such a way, but there’s a part of Lawrence that can never question Alvise, a part of him that would just nod his head if his father were to telling him that murder is no sin.

“Elio Cesari and his money were gaining power,” Alvise starts, leaning back in his chair and placing his elbows on the armrests, the picture of ease. “Perhaps you don’t understand this yet, but power isn’t an unlimited resource, and his posed a threat to some of our allies. Yes, I encouraged you to befriend his son in the hopes that he might give you the information we needed to remove him from the playing field, but Cesari’s misfortunes are self-inflicted. I did not have a hand in his poor investments; it’s not my fault if the man doesn’t have a head for business and just got lucky with his first few. Beginner’s luck has no place at our table.”

“And what about my honor, father? You’ve made my word worthless with this, my friendship worthless,” Lawrence starts, feeling like something inside of him is cracking apart with every word. It goes against everything he has ever known to question his father in such a way.

“Oh, stop that,” Alvise says sharply, shaking his head. “This isn’t about you.”

Lawrence opens his mouth to reply, but Alvise shoots him a look that silences him.

“This is about something much bigger than you,” he says, knitting his hands together before him. Lawrence is still standing, but he can feel some of the tension easing from his shoulders, some of the fight in him dying. The longer he is here, the longer he looks at his father and listens, the less able he is to think of him as the enemy.

Alvise Vernon always had been, and always would be, his version of a savior.

“This is about what was right for Verona, Lawrence, about what Damiano and all the other Montague’s needed. Don’t you understand that yet? This is what we are made for, for doing bad things to ensure that something else good can happen. Verona can’t afford to be led by men who cannot handle their own businesses, and that’s what would have happened had we allowed the Cesari’s to continue lying about their profits.”

Lawrence sits down finally in the chair across from his father, the one that had previously been occupied by a young woman terrified of the man before her. Lawrence could only find awe, awe and terror. And is not that we are afraid of not also beautiful? Does it not also captivate?

“It’s hurt you, to sacrifice the Cesari boy’s friendship, but know that it was done for the good of our people. I’m proud of you for that.”

And that’s when Lawrence crumbles finally, lets go of all of his anger and his hurt and his feelings of betrayal. It’s then that he finally understands.

“Legacies are what make families great, boy,” Alvise Vernon says to his son, staring at the young man from behind the mahogany desk. His gaze is hard, nothing soft or conciliatory about it. He rules Verona with iron in his heart and in his fists and he rules his children the same way. “They are bigger than men, far bigger than any individual. The Vernon name has been alive since long before you or I, and if you lead our family in the ways I teach you in the coming years, then it shall be around long after you or I as well. What happened to the Cesari’s is one lesson I hope you will remember.”

And Lawrence never forgets.

Extras:

Mockblog

A disorganized collection of headcanons.

i. Once there was a young boy, a slight and thin thing that begged for a nickname, begged for something, anything, that might be less of a mouthful than Lawrence. Every time that he tried to slip out of his name and into something else though his father would give him a hard look that spoke more volumes than the young boy ever wanted to interpret. The best he ever came up with was Wren, and for weeks at scuola primaria he got away with it, but then his teacher sent a letter home about ‘Wren’ hitting another student and that was the last straw.

The boy father sat his son down and stared at him hard in the eyes, not for the first time and certainly not the last, and said something that would stay with the young boy for the rest of his life.

“Perception is power, Lawrence. Do you not know that? Have I not taught you this well enough yet?”

“But Papá, it’s just a name–” the young boy starts, but is interrupted by his father immediately.

“There’s weight in a name, son. I named you Lawrence for a reason–don’t ever let anyone make you something you are not, including yourself. Our lives are built on our name; they define who we are, who we might become. The names we surround ourselves with are equally as important. You, my son? You are named for the Saint Laurence of Rome, who refused to turn over gold and riches to the Pope and instead presented him with the people who the Church had been instructed to help–the poor and the disabled, the faithful who had lost faith. To bear your name means that you understand your purpose, sometimes better even than the people who have given you this purpose. We Vernons are the hands used to defend our chosen people. The Montagues lead this city, and it is our God-given mission to stand beside them and make their rule possible. If you must choose a nickname, then be called Vernon, for nothing else would do you justice.”

The young boy could only look at his father with wide eyes, but his shoulders stay straight. The father puts his hands on either of the young boy’s shoulders and bends down so that they are at eye level.

“What’s your name?” the father asks, after a long pause.

“Lawrence Vernon.”

The father smiles then, a half-life thing that paints only the left side of his face in warmth, like even with his child he cannot afford to show kindness, to show softness. The boy doesn’t understand this now, but later, when the father is gone, he will. He places a cold palm on his son’s cheek, pats it gently and says “Good.”

And with that he takes his leave.

ii. Lawrence has three different degrees, two from Oxford and one from Cambridge, just for some balance, all of which he did residencies abroad for and completed on accelerated timelines. One he did in Berlin, while he was studying Organizational Psychology. The second was in France, for while he was studying Political Science. The last, and his favorite, was being abroad in Tokyo while he studied Economics. During all of these pursuits of higher education, Lawrence was simultaneously courting and securing new clients across the globe, and reassuring and reaffirming relationship with clients they already had at the same time.

iii. Lawrence’s sense of dress and style was always a point of contention between him and Alvise, who frequently and loudly disapproved of the garb Lawrence chose to don, but it was the singular thing he constantly held his own ground on. He has a strange affinity for hawaiian shirts and other strange forms of decadence, like the gold necklace with a tiny version of the hands from The Creation of Adam painting he sometimes hangs around his neck, or the ornate guns with paintings of saints on them that he loves to buy even though they usually less accurate than the high-grade weapons the mob buys (what his gun lacks, he decides to make up for in personal skill, call it a challenge). He puts on a suit when he must, but it’s usually Gucci or highly stylized Dolce & Gabbana. He likes texture and the ornate, and he won’t let anyone take that away from him.

iv. Her name grows unimportant with time, but the way she lingers in Lawrence’s bones does not change. He is eighteen and on his first solo mission abroad, with war and strategy in his marrow but youth in his blood, when what should be a standard check in with foreign clients in France turns into a month long stay for fear of losing them to a local distributor. He wears the weight of expectation heavy on his broad shoulders and has never once bowed to it, never once stumbled beneath its weight, but for the first and last time a girl will make him question his name.

A girl with her head in the clouds and her feet securely on the ground beneath her feet, she smiles like the sun and it makes his heart sing, blinds him every moment that he stumbles across her path. They meet when he finds out that one of his new enemies is the husband of a local artist and he goes into the man’s studio only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of a woman sitting in the center of the room, a white sheet covering some parts of her, but many not, and when she looks at him it feels like a fire has ignited in his blood, slowly burning away the expectation and the name in his marrow.

They fuck in the room the artist rents to her above the studio that night, and Lawrence stops caring about the world of wars that feels a million miles away, like it’s in another country, in another time, in another life.

Alvise sends men to help Lawrence secure their clients wallets once and for all when he goes silent for over a week, but they report that his strategist son has fallen for a peasant girl. Alvise bids them pay her weight in gold, and Lawrence Vernon comes home, his heart left behind in France where a peasant girl hadn’t even bothered to kiss him goodbye.

Once upon a time there was a girl who he would give away his name for; there never was again.

#accepted: laertes #accepted

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enchantedbyhiddles · 7 years ago

Text

Hamlet: A very short and abridged version (Act 5)

Act 1 Act 2 Act 3 Act 4

Scene I

A graveyard

Two clowns (yes, Shakespeare calles them clowns) arguing: Hey, if she killed herself, how can she be buried in holy ground? – Well, rich people always get the privileges, even if they sin.

Hamlet and Horatio come to that graveyard (marvellous how they go to the strangest places and always find the right situation)

Hamlet: How dare he sing at his job? (Yes, how can anyone have fun in a graveyard! The heresy! The guys are here every day, it becomes business as usual. So stop judging. Beside, you of all shouldn’t judge. You were playing hide and seek with a corps.) The clowns: singing while digging some more graves Hamlet: Wow, now they are playing with the bones. I wonder what that guy was in life. The Clowns: Sing some more. Hamlet: Hey, who will be buried here? The clowns: Oh, just such a rich young girl. Hamlet: Ah, yes. And how long do you work here? The clown: 30 years. Since the day young Hamlet was born. (THIS MAKES NO SENSE AT ALL FOR THE PLAY! NONE! The whole play and everything screams that Hamlet is late teens/early twenties. I will argue to the end about this. And one of the two early versions by Shakespeare agrees with me. This is the big fight in the Hamlet-community. 😉)

Hamlet plays a bit with the skull: Alas poor Yorick!

The whole court comes along to bury Ophelia

Hamlet: OH MY FUCKING GOD! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! Laertes: HOW DARE YOU COME HERE! I KILL YOU!!!! Everyone: STOP IT! This is a funeral! Hamlet: I loved Ophelia more than a thousand brothers could love her! (YOU DIDN’T SHOW IT THOUGH, YOU ASSHOLE! You treated her like shit for this little revenge plot of yours. You are too late! You trusted Horatio with everything, why not Ophelia?) King: Okay, we settle this elsewhere. Fencing match between Hamlet and Laertes.

Scene II

A hall in the castle. The big fight. The last scene. Soon it is over.

Hamlet to Horatio: Okay, I promised you a story. So when I was on that ship to England, I read the letter that Guildencrantz had with them. Said that I should be executed, so I wrote in their names and abandoned ship, when the pirates came. By now those two are certainly dead. Brilliant, isn’t it? Hamlet: And shit, I shouldn’t have gotten that angry at Laertes. We are both doomed by this “king”.

Osric comes in

Osric: Laertes is really a good guy. Hamlet: I know Osric: I’m here to set all the rules for the fencing match.

Goes away and the match is set up in the hall

Horatio: Hamlet, you will lose. Laertes is the best fencer of the kingdom Hamlet: Nope, I trained! (Did I say Gary Stu? Actor, director, writer, and now he is also better than anyone else at fencing.)

At the place of the match. Everyone from Denmark is there

Hamlet: Sorry, if I did anything wrong before it was only my madness! (See, Hamlet is not responsible for the shit he did. I mean, either he was truly mad, then this is the weirdest fast-cure ever, or he pretended to be mad, so did everything intentionally, but still wants to be excused.) Laertes: I accept your apology, but can we still fight? (He doesn’t buy it. He still wants to kill Hamlet. Good Laertes!) King: See, I totally unsuspiciously place this cup here. *and it isn’t poisoned. Pinky promise! *

Some fighting

King: Hey, Hamlet. Maybe a little drink as refreshment? *as I said, not poisoned at all* Queen: Give me the cup. I’m so thirsty! *she drinks* (Not a smart choice. Or was it? Did she know? Questions over questions.) King: SHIT!

Laertes wounds Hamlet, Hamlet takes his rapier and wounds Laertes

Osric: Shit the queen dies! Queen: Oh my god. The drink was poisoned! (Okay, she probably didn’t know.) Hamlet: Is everyone here a treacher? (You still ask this? YOU?) Laertes: Whoopsy. We both die. The rapier was poisoned as well. King and me plotted a bit. Hamlet: Oh, so even more on top of all the other shit he’s done? DIE!

Hamlet takes the rapier and stabs he king

Laertes: Hey Hamlet, you’re a good guy. I don’t blame you for murdering my whole family. (Laertes, do you think that gives brownie points for St Peter?)

King dies, Laertes dies

Horatio: NO, I want to die as well. Give me some poison. (Someone wants to join the party. This is the one though that I would want to avoid. And did anyone think of the gravediggers? They probably won’t sing for a while. Too much to do.) Hamlet: No, you fool. You have to tell everyone about this. The rest is silence. *dies* (See, not the last words in the play. Just Hamlet whining that everything ends with him. Nope. The world still turns. The sun goes up. Everything will continue. Just without Hamlet.)

Fortinbras enters with some Norwegians and English guys and whoever else was talked about

(^Actual depiction of Fortinbras! Congratulations. Everyone’s dead. You won the Game of Thrones. Even though you didn’t even participate.)

Fortinbras: What the fuck happened?

(THIS IS IT! THE BEST THING SHAKESPEARE EVER WROTE! THIS ENTRANCE!)

Horatio: Well, I’ll tell you. Fortinbras: Okay, I will honour Hamlet’s memory. And keep the throne. *sad face*

And that’s all. That’s it. That’s Hamlet. Everyone’s a traitor. Everyone’s dead. Good guy Fortinbras won the throne.

#hamlet: a very short and abridged version #by me

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noshitshakespeare · 7 years ago

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I was wonderin if I could get your thoughts. Want to write from Ophelia's pov but I really can't get a grip on her character. She loved Hamlet - but did he undermine her? Repress her like all the other men of her time did, and that was why they split? Did he just become blind to her 'madness'? WAS she mad? Would she have thought his quest silly and self-centred? Did she aspire to greater things she couldnt achieve as a woman? (stay tuned 4 part 2)

part 2: How did the men in her life let her down /exactly/? she’s not super fleshed out and I could use some thoughts. For e.g. I’m also writing about Desdemona and focusing on abusive relationships, but it’s much harder to pinpoint a specific subject matter for Ophelia (the idea is giving voice to victims of patriarchy in literature) just because all the text on her is very vague e.g “she was oppressed” like ok gimme some to work with here pham. Anyway would love your thoughts/take on her

Sounds like an interesting project… and lots of questions to answer!

I assume you saw this post, which covers some of the problems you address, but I’ll try to answer your questions more specifically.

Insofar as Ophelia is a fictional character, some of your questions are unanswerable. There’s nothing in the text that can give us an accurate assessment of what Ophelia would have thought of Hamlet’s quest and whether she aspired to greater things, for instance. That can be up to you as a creative writer to imagine.

As to why they split up (if they were ever exactly together), the indication is that Ophelia broke off the relationship with Hamlet because her father and brother told her to: ‘as you did command / I did repel his letter and denied / His access to me’ (2.1.105-7). It can’t really be blamed on Hamlet. That’s a typical instance of patriarchal values dictating a woman’s life and how she ought to appear before marriage, and how she ought to act towards men who might not marry her. If the obsession with virginity and purity didn’t exist, then there would be no need for Ophelia’s father and brother to monitor her activity and look out for her. But it’s important to note that Polonius and Laertes’s words and actions are also dictated by patriarchal values that they didn’t make up themselves. Objectively, one can say she was let down by them, but as far as they’re concerned (and as far as Ophelia’s concerned too), they’re looking after her interests.

As for Ophelia, she never actually says exactly what she thinks of Hamlet. She only says that Hamlet has been courting her, but not her feelings. In fact, she says to her father ‘I do not know, my lord, what I should think’ (1.3.103), suggesting either that she’s intimidated by her father, or that she doesn’t have much of a mind of her own (itself an interesting indication of her position). Basically, the text leaves quite a lot of leeway for actors to play her as they like: she could be clearly in love and grudgingly obeying her father and brother, she might be confused, or she might just be going along with whatever she’s told (feeling for Hamlet because he feels for her, stopping seeing him because she was told not to). She does later say that seeing Hamlet mad makes her ‘of ladies most deject and wretched’ (3.1.154), and since Hamlet killing her father is enough to send her mad, she is probably quite fond of him. I don’t say she didn’t love Hamlet, but unlike characters like Juliet or Desdemona, she never says anything passionate to or about Hamlet.

There’s nothing in the text that would suggest Hamlet is undermining Ophelia, but he does insult her and her gender, especially during the nunnery scene (3.1.141-45). Telling her to go to a nunnery isn’t insulting in itself, but he goes on a whole tirade about women and their ways that would be nothing but confusing from her perspective. She does end up putting it down to his madness though, so she doesn’t seem to take that to heart: ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ (3.1.149).

The text does suggest that Ophelia really does go mad, and that the madness is caused by the death of her father at the hands of her lover: all of her songs after she goes mad are about death and sex. This is the biggest hint of the kind of oppression she’s been under: she never talks about sex before she’s mad, which shows that her madness has freed her to talk about the things that actually concern her. This suggests that the patriarchal values that dictate her constrain her not to talk about sex. But you’ve got to remember that Hamlet and Ophelia are never on stage together after she goes mad, so there’s nothing for him to notice. The last time they spend together is in the Mousetrap scene, Hamlet goes to England, and when he returns, she’s dead.

I think the important thing to remember with Ophelia is that there are more men in her life than Hamlet, and that patriarchy and oppression don’t necessarily manifest in certain actions. That is to say that the men in her life don’t have to have let her down for her to be oppressed by patriarchy. This is because, while it can lead to abusive actions and particular instances of mistreatment of women and abusive relationships, patriarchy points to the larger systemic oppression of women that prevents them from acting freely, it’s not necessarily about individual men. There are some moments when this becomes clearer, for instance when she is made to act a certain way (and not see Hamlet) because of social expectations, or where it turns out that the suppression she feels is so strong that the loss of her father is enough to drive her mad, but it’s not like there are exact and specific instances of abuse and repression in Ophelia’s case, because what she’s suffering under reflects a much wider problem caused by the values of the patriarchal society she lives in but that neither she nor the people around her are necessarily aware of.

I’m afraid Shakespeare isn’t simple. Nothing is black and white, and being a victim of a situation often involves forces much larger than a few individuals and their lives.

#Anonymous #Shakespeare #Ophelia #Hamlet #long post #anon anon sir!#asks

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thatgothlibrarian · 6 years ago

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but Jay, should Hamlet's death by poison be an elaborate metaphor for orgasm aka la petit mort? Horatio helping him make peace with his death etc. ANALYZE IT

This is borderline an essay, so please read my flailing after the cut.

Actually, Horatio isn’t helping him make peace. Hamlet is weirdly calm about his death as it is happening. It is Horatio who is in fact distraught.

Through the play, Horatio has been our voice of reason. He is steady, stable, calm. He is the perfect balance to Hamlet’s keyed-up emotions. We don’t know what Hamlet was like at Wittenberg, but right now he is emotional. His father is dead. His mom has married his uncle a little too soon. He finds out his uncle killed his father and he is tasked with seeking revenge. And he knows how that will end.

I like to think that Hamlet has always been very intense. Horatio doesn’t seem to be disturbed by how like, Extra Hamlet is. And Hamlet does the whole “Give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee” while speaking to Horatio. Horatio being a touchstone, a stabilizing factor, for Hamlet seems pre-established. Another reference to this is the “O Damon dear” line, alluding to the story of Damon and Pythias; Damon being a man who was willing to die for his friend, not even thinking twice about it; and it is obvious this is not the first time the two of them have called each other such.

Before the duel, Horatio is like “idk man maybe you shouldn’t do this,” which prompts Hamlet to give the “we defy augury” speech. Hamlet has accepted his death, and has known it will happen, since that ghost spurred him to his revenge. “There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.” Hamlet knows there is really nothing he can do to stop his own death; it’s gonna happen eventually, right? And he’s so tired. And his revenge is so consuming.

So we get to Act V scene ii. The queen is dead. Claudius is dead. Laertes is dead. And Hamlet, after Laertes admits he poisoned the blades, simply says:

Heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee.— / I am dead, Horatio.—Wretched queen, adieu!— / You that look pale and tremble at this chance, / That are but mutes or audience to this act, / Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death, / Is strict in his arrest), O, I could tell you— / But let it be.— Horatio, I am dead. / Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright / To the unsatisfied.

To which Horatio immediately is like OH FUCK THAT and, since he is “more antique Roman than a Dane” (the name Horatio can be the adjective referring to things that are like the poet Horace, after all, and also this is often read as a “I’m too gay to live without you and I love you”), he picks up the poisoned cup to drink, to kill himself, to follow Hamlet into death. Indeed it is Hamlet who takes the cup from Horatio, who keeps Horatio from killing himself. It is Hamlet who helps Horatio make peace with his death, not Horatio who helps Hamlet. “If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,” Hamlet says to Horatio when asking him to stay alive, to tell the story of what happened.

As Hamlet takes his final breaths, he uses them in fact for mundane things: let people know that Fortinbras has my vote for taking over, because I will be dead before I hear news from England, and I hear Fortinbras coming now. The rest is silence. Death is silence. Death is peace. Death is freedom. The rest, indeed, is rest. And this breaks Horatio’s heart:

Now cracks a noble heart.–Good night, sweet prince, / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

SO. If we want to try to make this an orgasm metaphor, how would we go about this? We must first link death and love within this play, and Shakespeare has quite the track record for just that.

1. This almost suicide recalls the end of Romeo and Juliet: Romeo sees his lover dead and drinks poison to kill himself, and then Juliet sees her dead lover and kills herself with his dagger (indeed, what could the dagger be in our extended metaphor). So the death of Hamlet mirrors both deaths: poison, and the second lover killing themselves with something of the first’s.

2. Shakespeare was such a big fan of Christopher Marlowe that the only thing in all of Shakespeare’s plays that he directly quotes is the Hero and Leander poem of Marlowe’s, another tale of tragic love. This poem is also uh gay, and the Chapman addition directly following Marlowe’s death even more so. For an excellent analysis of this poem and particularly the addition, see Queer Philologies: Sex, Language, and Affect in Shakespeare’s Time by Jeffrey Masten, which I am reading right now.

3. Hamlet is full of references to classical lovers and friends separated or almost separated by death. And I use “friends” here in the context of the time: same-sex friendship held different connotations than it does now, and the lines between romantic, sexual, and platonic relationships were not as clean-cut as they are today. Hamlet calls Horatio Damon, thus making himself Pythias. In the Yorick speech, Hamlet calls up Alexander the Great, and particularly his death. The speech Hamlet asks the Player King to perform is the slaughter of Priam, and the thing that strikes him after is the ability for the Player King to show such emotion “for Hecuba! What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her?” Again, two lovers separated not just by death but by tragic death.

4. There’s this essay called “Hamlet: Letters and Spirits” in the book Shakespeare and the Question of Theory that discusses a small throwaway line given by Laertes, where he says the name of the Norman man is “Lamord.” This essay points out how that sounds like “la mort” and indeed also like “l’amour.” Love and death, and the audience would hear both since they sound so alike.

We have our death/love precedent set, then, in a play defined by death, and especially the death of those people love, and then the death they deal out because of it. We have Horatio almost killing himself as Hamlet dies. Indeed, joining him in death. In our orgasm metaphor, I feel I don’t even need to explain that symbolism.

So let’s lay out our metaphor further, so that it culminates in Hamlet dying, and thus some form of cathartic release from life, and what else is orgasm but a release?

Our play opens with a ghost, yes, but Hamlet is introduced to us in a wedding/funeral. He’s upset. He’s grumpy. He’s pissy and sassy. “A little more than kin, and less than kind,” indeed. He’s defensive. And as soon as he is alone, he releases. “Oh that this too too sullied/solid flesh would melt.” Tension, release. We see a similar tension/release with the “rogue and peasant slave” soliloquy. He’s been fucking around with Polonius. He’s been fucking around with Ros and Guil (having some “foreplay” of our release with “what a piece of work is man”). He’s been Extra and requested a highly emotionally charged speech of death and love from the players. When Hamlet is then left alone on stage: “Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.” Tension, release. And each of these releases, they are not pleasurable. They might be cathartic, but they are not releases of ecstasy but rather releases such as lancing a wound, a morbid release. They show how much performing Hamlet is having to do, and then he finally can stop that performance and rest. But those rests are never restful.

Until the final rest. Two men duel with their swords (indeed, Hamlet says the rapier and dagger or whatever the hell he names are only two of Laertes’ weapons wink wink nudge nudge), and through this act of homoerotic violence, everyone on stage dies except Horatio. And only because Hamlet begs him not to die. The psychosexual fiasco that is Hamlet culminates in the final release of death, of la mort and l’amour. Hamlet is dead long before that release and he knows it. And in his death, his la mort, he begs of Horatio out of love, out of l’amour, to “absent thee from felicity awhile” so that this story can be told. The rest, and the rest, is silence. The rest is rest. Death is the ultimate release. Death is the ultimate reprieve, the ultimate sweetness, the ultimate pleasure. Man delights not Hamlet, no nor woman either, but Death comes as a welcome friend, the skull of a jester spoken to with fond remembrance.

For Horatio, we see heightened emotion and almost complete loss of control in this moment. He attempts to join Hamlet in death, in release. Without l’amour of Hamlet, the rest is la mort. Horatio does not get his release, at least not in the same way that Hamlet does. Although Hamlet’s death is a tragedy, it finally allows Hamlet to rest. Note how he says the rest is silence. Horatio is denied sharing the release with Hamlet, and now cracks a noble heart. Horatio has been calm this whole play, and so Hamlet in fact has to help him make peace with what is happening. When Horatio calls Hamlet “sweet Prince,” it echoes back to “Here, sweet lord, at your service,” the only other time Horatio uses that epithet for Hamlet. And yes, sweet had homoerotic connotations when used between two men. Horatio is a service top confirmed. But in this moment, Hamlet is at Horatio’s service. Hamlet has the release of death, the post-orgasmic state of release where the mind is empty. How else is Horatio supposed to address him then if not as a lover? Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Again, we see this theme of rest. The languid, empty-minded rest that comes from orgasm, and indeed this is the final form of that, and it is heavenly. There is this perfect, clear moment of Hamlet’s death. The rest is silence. A beat. Nothingness (and remember what nothing was a euphemism for, kiddos). The entire play has prepared us for this moment. This entire play is foreplay for this moment of release. The rest is silence. Sure, in a Shakespearean tragedy, the climax is in Act III, which is in our case the confirmation of Claudius’ guilt, the ultimate moment of Hamlet’s indecision, and the murder of Polonius (which triggers Ophelia’s madness, which triggers Laertes’ own need for revenge, the duel, and death). But the climax of our metaphor is here at the end, in Act V scene ii. The rest is silence.

But we don’t get an afterglow. With Horatio, we too are left unsatisfied. Now cracks a noble heart. But we see that Hamlet ascends through his release, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

I like to argue that this play is in fact not Hamlet’s but Horatio’s. After all, he is the one telling the story. And I like to think that he, not Hamlet, is our audience analog. We end the play the only people left on stage alive, holding Hamlet in our arms, coming down from the release. And then Fortinbras shows up and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead and it’s a whole bunch of shit nobody can quote and sometimes gets cut out completely. What people remember is an almost pieta like image of Hamlet dead in Horatio’s arms. The rest is silence. Good night, sweet prince. La mort and l’amour.

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allthingsberena · 8 years ago

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An interview with the Independent 2013

The last time Jemma Redgrave gave a proper, full-on newspaper interview was in July 2010, just a couple of months after the deaths of her aunt Lynn Redgrave and her father Corin Redgrave and just over a year after the skiing accident that killed her cousin, Natasha Richardson – an awful succession of loss that the interviewer described as giving her face "the look that grief gives, as if a layer has been washed away". Three years later, and Redgrave appears outwardly restored – friendly, warm and unpretentious, with an unexpectedly hearty laugh that wouldn't disgrace Basil Brush. If she remains huddled under her coat in the well-heated bowels of the Soho Hotel in London, then it's because today she is sniffing her way through a cold. "It was a couple of months after he [Corin] died, so I was quite raw," she says of that 2010 interview. "I still feel the same now, just not with the same intensity." We talk more about her father and other relatives later, and not altogether mellifluously when I reveal that some of my research came by way of a biography of the Redgraves despised by her family. First and more happily, however, we discuss her work. Since leaving drama school, Redgrave has been a regular on television, most prominently as the titular Victorian doctor in ITV's Bramwell. Thanks to its huge global fanbase, however, her role in Doctor Who, in which she debuted last year as Kate Stewart (the daughter of the much-loved Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, played by the late Nicholas Courtney from 1968 to 1989) is set to eclipse all that has gone before, when she returns in the 50th- anniversary episode "The Day of the Doctor". So far we know that this "love letter to the fans" has been filmed in both 2D and 3D, and will see the return of David Tennant and Billie Piper alongside Matt Smith and Jenna Coleman, as well as John Hurt as a previously unknown incarnation of the Doctor, plus Daleks, Zygons and a visit to Elizabethan England. Otherwise, a strict omerta prevails around the 75-minute episode that will be shown simultaneously around the world as well as in cinemas. That's next Saturday – quite the event. "What can I tell you about the 50th anniversary? Practically nothing," she says, giving me a first taste of her pleasingly full-throttle laugh. "When the job offer came in my agent said, 'You mustn't tell anybody about this,' and I thought, 'What am I going to tell the kids?' It's like joining M15." The cat finally exited the bag when scenes were filmed in Trafalgar Square. "The news hit the Twittersphere and within half-an-hour of our being there, there were people with Tom Baker scarves on… people with Tardis safety covers on their iPhones," she says. "It was a huge relief to be able to tell people." Redgrave's peak Doctor Who-viewing years were the early 1970s, when, classically, she'd watch from behind the sofa. "I would then have terrible nightmares," she says. "My dad said he would take me to the BBC studios so I could see the Daleks – and that frightened me even more." Does she meet one in the anniversary special? "Can I tell?" she asks the publicist sitting in on the interview, who signals her assent. "In that case, yes, I come across a Dalek. There was no acting required. It was a scarifying moment." Anything else she can tell? "I work with more than one Doctor… oh, and I worked with more than one Tardis as well." Intriguing, or at least it will be to Whovians. "The community of Who fans have been very kind to me," she says. "Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart was such a loved character and I think people were very open to his daughter making an appearance and, hopefully, touch wood, making more appearances in the future." So, she'll be back? "I think Peter Capaldi is a very exciting prospect as the new Doctor, so that would be wonderful." Born in January 1965, Redgrave is five days younger than her cousin Joely Richardson, whose parents are Vanessa Redgrave and the film and play director Tony Richardson; Joely's sister, Natasha Richardson, was born two years earlier. In the flesh, she bears a far more striking resemblance to her late cousin than she does when photographed – or, at least, I'd never noticed such similarity before. Her paternal grandparents were the actors Sir Michael Redgrave and Rachel Kempson, an acting dynasty, if you like… although Aunt Vanessa doesn't like, insisting that "dynasty implies power – we're a family of professional actors. It's like coming from a family of carpenters or plumbers." "I think that's about right," agrees Jemma (née Jemima). "I associate dynasties with huge corporations… the Murdochs… it feels like a family and quite a few of us are actors." When did she first become aware that she belonged to this extraordinary clan? "I remember one of my teachers at primary school used to call me Vanessa by mistake, and I couldn't understand why and then, of course, later it became clear," she says. "It just seemed very normal to me – like everybody's family seems normal until you realise no one else's family is like that." Was it inevitable that she would follow in the family profession? "No, not at all. None of my brothers are actors – I've got three brothers – Luke is a cameraman, Harvey is a civil servant and Arden is training to be a primary-school teacher. A mixed bag. "I remember once on my grandmother's birthday, my dad was filming In the Name of the Father (the 1993 Daniel Day-Lewis film about the Guildford Four) in Ireland and my aunt and my brothers… a big lot of family… were driving round from here to there in a minibus, having a lovely time and breaking into songs, and my brother Luke heard Harvey mutter to himself, 'I was born into the wrong family.'" Her own sons with barrister husband Tim Owen, Gabriel and Alfie, are aged 19 and 13; Gabriel has just started an English degree at Sussex University. Are there any signs of a new generation of thespians? "There are going to be one or two more… possibly… but I think it's important that they speak for themselves," she says – a statement in stark contrast to Laurence's Olivier's very public announcement of the birth of Vanessa Redgrave, after a performance of Hamlet at the Old Vic, that "Laertes [played by Michael Redgrave] has a daughter." Vanessa could hardly grow up to be an accountant after that. It was Jemma Redgrave's grandmother, Rachel Kempson, who took her – aged five – to her first play, Peter Brook's RSC production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, followed by more Shakespeare, watching her father in Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra. "Complicated theatre really… not Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which I took my children to see." Her parents, Corin and former fashion model Deidre Hamilton-Hill, divorced when Redgrave was nine, by which time her father, like her aunt Vanessa, was deeply involved in far-left politics in the shape of the Workers Revolutionary Party (WRP). "We'd been taken to demonstrations when I was very young," she recalls. "This was the late 1960s, early 1970s, and everybody was demonstrating about something. "It's difficult to explain it now… you know the whole Ed Miliband thing with the Daily Mail and 'it's very important to know where he comes from… very, very left-wing views were expressed round his breakfast table'… well, they were discussed round the breakfast tables of a lot of people who grew up at that time. The children of those people weren't brainwashed." Certainly this child isn't without her own political causes: Redgrave was a prominent member of the Stop the War movement protesting at Blair and Bush's 2003 invasion of Iraq. ("There's no joy in being proved right.") She also helps at a Red Cross refugee centre in Islington, north London. What she can't stand is that any political movement would espouse a cause to the detriment of family life. "I resented the WRP, because my dad was unavailable to me and to my brother because there were such extreme demands made on everybody who became a member of that party," she says. In her book, To Be a Redgrave, her mother recalls Jemma and her cousins Natasha and Joely sitting round the kitchen table discussing how much they hated the WRP. "Vanessa was involved in the WRP for a while so we did have a similar experience, yeah," she says. I add that I'm surprised that she has stated that she has never read her mother's autobiography. "My mum was very angry with my dad for a very long time and I didn't really want to divide my loyalty," she explains. "The least complicated path through that particular difficulty was not to read it." Another contentious book is one that I had blithely borrowed from my local library, The House of Redgrave by Tim Adler, unaware that it had been lambasted by the family for an outrageous false claim that Vanessa Redgrave had once come home to find her husband, Tony Richardson (director of the original Royal Court production of Look Back in Anger and Oscar-winning British New Wave film-maker), in bed with her father, Sir Michael Redgrave. "You can't libel the dead so [Adler] can make up what he likes… I don't even want to comment on it," she says, before adding: "That book was written by a man who got in touch with my cousin Tasha and said that he wanted to write a book about her dad and that he was a huge fan. She did a bit of investigating and she said that she wasn't going to help him. He wasn't a huge fan of Tony's. This is a man whose work was groundbreaking and changed the landscape of theatrical and cinematic culture in this country. And to reduce him to his sexuality… it's… yeah." A long silence follows and we talk about other things to get the conversation flowing again – of her recent house move across north London, her cottage in Wales and her pet Labrador. And then our time is up and she is whisked off for a photo-session with the marvellous Dan, who soon has her booming with laughter again. After the shoot, I tell her that I will return the despised book to the library forthwith. "Or burn it," she says. "No we can't start burning books. Oh, all right – perhaps just this once."

#berena #serena x bernie #bernie wolfe #jemma redgrave #bmam #keep the faith #wolfe warriors

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toomanyfeelings5 · 8 years ago

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the rotten job, part 2

part 1 is here if you want to read about a gay shakespeare leverage AU from someone who’s never seen leverage!

all of the bits are titled after songs from the mountain goats’ album beat the champ, so at the very least, there’ll be some jams to listen to.

~what’s in store for these shakespearean criminal vigilantes of justice? read to find out!~

3. “choked out”

they’re at one of their check-in meetings, and kate thinks about how she’s had worse bosses, honestly.

there had been mr. worthington from her first job, when she was a secretary for the summer-- worthington hadn’t been awful, really, she got to listen to music on her lunch break, and sandra from accounting told the best jokes.

except kate had been sixteen, and worthington was an old golfing buddy of her father’s, and sometimes, when they were getting coffee at the same time, and no one else was in the room, he would look at her funny, the kind of look that made her shrink, the kind of look that made her laugh a bit too high. she had quit right before school started up again, when his fingers had skimmed over her thigh during a lunch break. the asshole had smiled the whole time.

“oh it’s fine that you left, katie,” her father had told her. “greg’ll write you a great letter of recommendation, he loved having you, and then we’ll find you some other place to work for next summer. anything to curb that temper of yours, right?”

“right,” kate had said back, and bianca had almost snorted into her orange juice: sure enough, kate was set for detention the first week of school.

there was also mrs. o’conner, back when kate had worked that pizza delivery stint in college, before she’d flunked out.

“speak english, please,” that bitch had told her, smiling like she thought she was being polite, and kate had snapped back, “i’m talking to a customer,” because apparently she was the only one who knew even a little korean in this shitty joint. mrs. o’conner had stopped smiling.

kate’s never liked comedies. not the popular ones, at least. the funny thing is that when she was a kid, back in like, elementary school, she’d been the class clown, throwing paper airplanes around and interrupting the teacher with fart noises every chance she got.

later, she learned that it’s harder to get people to laugh at your jokes when for so long, people like you have been the punchline. much easier to get a good right hook in, before anyone could open their damn mouth.

at least the army taught people to shut the fuck up properly. granted, there were dirty jokes abound, but those were the best.

her commanding officers hadn’t been all that great. it was kind of their job to be assholes, so she can’t ever hate them, not really. and some of them had been fine, fun even, but most, well. kate’s never been a rule-follower.

then, of course, there had been petruchio at the VA, who never gave her good hours and always squinted at her, like he just couldn’t fucking believe that she had served, that she had lost her damn leg, that she was a veteran too.

her father had known his father, and pete couldn’t be too bad, could he, c’mon, katie, you have so much in common, c’mon, katie, what else are you going to do with your life--

the point is, kate’s new boss is probably the best she’s ever had. which isn’t saying much, but still.

the thing is, the boss is...intense. all the time. does she ever sleep? kate never sees her without at least five cups of coffee on hand at all times.

“i want you all to know,” the boss says, and she’s even shorter than kate, but jesus christ, she has the presence her C.O.s could only dream of, “that this job’s personal. we are going to annihilate every last one of these bastards, because it’s the right thing to do, and because once upon a time, they almost got me killed.” she pauses, and her voice is low and dangerous. in kate’s experience, it’s the quiet ones you need to watch out for. “they won’t see it coming. they won’t even have the chance to blink.”

“understood,” portia says, nodding politely: she always opts for blandness in the face of the boss’s dark stare and curled fists.

kate does a mock-salute, winks. “yes ma’m.” best not to ask questions when revenge is involved.

the boss stares before a tiny smile twitches across her face.

kate breathes a sigh of relief: good to know the woman is actually a goddamn human being, and not a fucking alien squirming around in a skin suit. or worse, a zombie. kate’s never liked horror movies either.

“alright,” horatio says, pushing her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose in her usual grim determination. she pulls her dreadlocks back into a ponytail. “alright, team, let’s get to work.”

portia leaves to visit the only lawyer friend she hasn’t thrown in prison, and kate’s about to head off to find out more about elsinore enterprises when she glances back to see horatio place a hand on the boss’s shoulder.

the boss doesn’t even flinch or snap or anything, just breathes. she slumps minutely in her chair.

the moment feels much more private than it should.

kate nearly sprints out the door. what the fuck is that all about?

4. “hair match”

“god--god, what--where is she, i can’t hear her in the earpiece--?”

“she’s gone.”

minola looks at portia, eyes wild, horror plain on her face. jesus, couldn’t she keep it together for one second?

“what?” minola asks again, voice ragged, specks of blood on her suit jacket from an earlier fight with security. “you can’t--she was right there, we had the files, we’d hacked in, we were all set to expose--”

“be quiet! i have to drive.”

“but--”

“i have to get us out of here. i have to.”

minola leans back in the passenger seat, tapping her prosthetic leg absently, winded and bruised and lost.

for a few blessed moments, portia gets to focus on everything but the mission. the van radio plays some slow, whispery song, and she catches a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror: not a hair out of place, size large dress sequined and perfectly fitted. even her winged eyeliner looks good.

everything had been going so smoothly, they were all putty in her hands, and then--and then--

she takes a deep breath. “we need to tell the boss what happened.”

minola winces. “fuck. fuck, she’s really--?”

“i knew bringing the techie along would be a liability. when was the last time she was out in the field? i knew this was going to happen, i knew--”

“i’m calling the boss.”

portia nearly slams on the brakes. “you’re what? now?”

minola’s already punching in the number. she hastily puts the cell phone on speaker. the ringing starts. “don’t have a choice, do we?”

“alright, ok, just--”

“i know, i know, be cool--”

“did you complete the mission?”

portia takes a deep breath. she is immaculately dressed. she is mary piperton today, and she is invincible. “the mission is nearly completed.”

“nearly?”

minola says, “we have everything we need, but they know they’ve been compromised. we aren’t being pursued. not yet, at least.”

“why?”

“because,” portia answers quietly, soothingly, to prepare. “because they think they know who’s behind the whole thing.”

the barest trace of a chuckle comes through the phone’s speakers. “really? who did you frame? gertrude? marcellus? laertes?”

“no,” minola swallows. “no, it’s not that--we didn’t frame anybody.”

a pause. “what?”

“well,” minola starts, tapping her leg like her life depends on it, “well, what happened was--”

“get to the point. now.”

portia turns onto the street of the motel they’d booked.

minola’s voice cracks. “i--we--”

portia steels herself and says, as gently as she can, “they found out about the cyber-security breach at the last second. we had to get out before they could catch on. there were still some files left that we didn’t need to download, but she wanted to. she insisted on staying behind.” portia takes a breath, finds a parking spot, squeezes her eyes shut, opens them. “they took horatio.”

no one breathes.

dead silence. for ten unbearable seconds.

then: “i’ll send you the new mission parameters tomorrow morning, 6am sharp.”

portia doesn’t get the chance to say, “affirmative,” because the line goes dead.

more silence.

the motel looks especially shitty. the welcome sign is missing the l.

minola makes a fist. her voice is usually loud and abrasive. now it sounds like it’s being dragged out of her. “why didn’t we go back?”

portia stares at her hands. “i couldn’t risk it.”

“don’t bullshit me. we could’ve stopped it--” minola grits her teeth. she cries when she’s really angry, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “we could’ve saved her.”

“no. she made her choice. we did what we had to do.”

minola glares at her shoes. “but what if--?”

“stop. look, what was i supposed to do, get us all compromised in a last-minute rescue attempt? she wanted to stay. i couldn’t lose--i had to.” portia swallows. she feels cold and empty, like she had on that day in court. shylock had not looked at her. he had gazed at the ceiling for a long, long moment. his shoulders shook. he had left staring straight ahead.

he has a new business somewhere out in cali. portia wonders, sometimes, if he feels good about leaving his old life behind.

here, in this nondescript van with a broken air conditioner, portia feels that day’s weight settle in her chest again.

she had promised herself that she was going to be a new person.

she laughs silently. who was she kidding.

minola drags a hand through her short hair. she does not look at her. “let’s go. i’m starving.”

“wait--”

“i have to get my leg fixed up, gotta fucking shower--”

“kate.” portia takes her hand. “kate, i’m sorry.”

minola smiles right at her, eyes crinkled. “portia, i know. it’s just a shitshow, that’s all.”

portia does her best to smile back. neither of them let go.

#shakespeare #leverage #fic #my fic #vague shrug is this even interesting???? who knows not me

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rndyounghowze · 7 years ago

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Hamlet by Aquila Theatre at Stockton College in Galloway, NJ

Something's rotten in the state of Jersey with Aquila Theatre’s touring production of Hamlet by William Shakespeare which stopped at Stockton College for a performance. This production directed by Desiree Sanchez brings something more than Shakespeare but the question of existence itself. Hamlet is the center of a 400 year old story of woe and intrigue. Someone has murdered Hamlet’s father. Gertrude, his mother, has married Claudius, his uncle. What's worse Horatio has seen his father’s ghost has come back from the dead with a message: “I have been murdered and you must avenge my death” Add in the schemings of Polonius who thinks Hamlet is just a lovesick puppy over his daughter Ophelia, the meddling of his parents who use Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to keep tabs on him, and the well wishes of his friend Horatio and you can tell that Hamlet is soon to be torn at the seams by everyone’s expectations of him. How is he going to fulfill every obligation? Does he even want to go on at all? Desiree Sanchez as director worked together with the cast and crew to bring something visceral to the play. When someone watches Hamlet it is easy to watch with your upper brain, the one that wants to dissect it as literature. But through skillful work with actors and long work with designers to shape sound and light she presented a piece that brought us back to the caveman’s campfire. We’re watching Shakespeare in modern dress but we're also talking about the oldest questions of life, family, legacy, and what would we do to preserve each if death were crouching just outside the light in the darkness. I think that she did a wonderful job bringing actors to that dark edge while still making it something that they can do over and over while on national tour. She also seems to curate the whole picture using physical bodies, light, set, and costumes to make the whole experience. Some directors you can tell whether they favor working with actors more or whether they are just putting bodies on stage under pretty lights. Sanchez rides that line down the middle and uses all the resources at hand. That's a perfect skill to have while designing a national tour.

Our cast of eight may as well have been a cast of thousands with the kind of energy they brought to the production. Lewis Brown (Hamlet) gives us a character of struggle. He brings the full body and voice into what he does. I once always thought that Hamlet’s soliloquies were purely verbal and mental but you could tell he was leaning his whole body into it. He turned the iambic pentameter into a physical effort and showed us not only struggle with people but the struggle between the forces in his head. Lauren Drennan’s (Ophelia) did something that I never knew could happen. She made me feel sorry for Ophelia. There is always a sense of naive innocence when you talk about Ophelia and in her voice and her tone she started there but then as things got real and her life started falling apart she turned that innocence into a train wreck. She melded her voice and her body and her energy to become something that made me shiver. During her talk about the flowers I wanted to look away but found I couldn't. I wanted to run onstage, scoop her up, and take her away. Drennan brought her whole acting training to bear to make a character that made me feel guilty for sitting still. Now that was talent! Tyler La Marr (Horatio) served as a Sergeant in the Marine Corps and did two tours in Iraq. What better person to play a man do torn between duty to his country and duty to his prince. Immediately I found a man who was honorbound and struggling with those convictions usually willing to die for them but in his case brave enough to live for them. Kudos! My hat goes off to Guy de Villiers (Claudius) and Rebecca Reaney (Gertrude) who made me feel dirty as the king and queen. But it's also hard to play a king and queen that people hate but they still are captured by and have to take notice of onstage. There were times where I didn't believe their chemistry but I didn't know if that was because their characters literally had none in the story or if their performance was slightly off. I do feel however that it's something that is not as vague in most of their performances of this play. James Lavender played a host of characters from Polonius to the Ghost to the Grave Digger (as well as Osric). I want to focus on the work that he did as Polonius and the Ghost though. Playing both those fathers he brought forth the theme of legacy in the face of mortality. He brought a warmth to Polonius that I haven't seen and a tragic anguish to the Ghost that I've never seen. It really is a touching performance from such a versatile actor.

My hat is also off to Harriet Barrow and Michael Rivers who had to both play the parts of the players and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. I felt that they did the best that could playing two characters that seemed to have conflicting emotions. And motivations. In fact I don't know if the director made the right choice putting the characters together at all. But I so admire the actors for pulling off the feat this mashup presented. Barrow pulls off a wonderful performance as Marcellus and the priest. I feel that I loved Rivers’ Bernardo far more than I did his Laertes and I'm not sure that's supposed to happen. Rivers was obviously at home in Shakespeare and while one of his characters left something to be desired I truly admired his professional caliber performance.

I also want to give a lot of credit to lighting design by Joel Moritz, sound design by Andy Evan Cohen, projections by Lianne Arnold, and Lara de Bruijn’s work on costumes. Together they took a minimal touring production and made every little element have meaning. Even a shift in costume, a square of light, and a piercing shriek of sound could be a major change in psychology or plot. It's such a breathtaking piece of art that these guys have collaborated on and you must go see it!

When you're directing or producing Shakespeare you’re always wearing two hats. The first hat is the director who must become an advocate and lover of this story and bring together a team of artists on one solid mission to bring it to the stage. The second hat is one of an adaptor who must turn a five act Elizabethan script intended for an ancient stage into a two act piece of modern theatre. Unless you're directing museum theatre you're no longer performing Shakespeare in the way it was originally intended. Director Desiree Sanchez also wore these two hats and I don't envy her that job even while I celebrate her work. To adapt Shakespeare in one sense is to make no one happy. There is half the audience that is having flashbacks from years of English teachers shoving the bard down their throats and half the audience are Shakespeare devotees who have seen or read it several times and will swoon the minute they hear a soliloquy or get outraged the minute they see something they love get cut. But like I said earlier to produce Shakespeare today is to change it. So essentially half the audience won't care and half the audience wants to take you out back after the show and punish you for your “crimes”.

This is what made Sanchez’s adaptation so surprising. I first noticed something was awry when the first act was over and I saw some clamor amongst some audience members around us. The person next to me and my wife asked us “Did you notice that they cut “To Be or Not To Be”? My first reaction was to shrug and go “wait did they?” My wife, who is often far faster on the uptake than me snapped her fingers and went “that's what was missing!” The circle of humanity around us seemed a buzz. As if they were saying, “How dare they cut that one piece?” But I was desperately searching my brain trying to figure out where it was supposed to be. You have to understand that I'm a mixture of these two types of people in the audience. I was force fed Shakespeare in high school and then became a lover or him in college and grad school. I went from saying we should never produce Shakespeare again to saying we should desperately revive him and the old canon. The through line of this is that I've had to read, memorize, and discuss that speech my whole academic life. How could I have been watching Shakespeare so intently that I forget that soliloquy!

Right as the lights were going down for the second act my wife said, “We saw what they did with ‘Murder on the Nile’ I bet they’ll put it somewhere in the second act.” I was dubious but found myself silently rooting for her as the show went on. Then it came to the scene at the graveyard. We know that Claudius and Laertes have hatched a plot to kill him. We have already seen him hold the skull of a dear beloved Yoric in his hands. We see Hamlet and Laertes fight over the body of Ophelia. Most of us know the ending is coming. We know that most of these characters are not long for this world. We know that Hamlet will soon go to a grave of his own.

And then Hamlet comes on stage again with these images of life and death fresh in our minds. He comes onstage at a time where both of these predescribed factions of the audience know the plot and then begins to utter those immortal words. A silent hush fell over the audience. My wife grabbed my arm and I was shocked. Not by the audacity of changing the script but because how much weight those words had in that moment. In a graveyard of dry bones with murder plots abound where we know death is imminent Hamlet doesn't talk about life or death. He talks about existence and whether he wants to be on this or not. The sheer weight and density of that moment became so palpable that it lay like a heavy blanket over the whole audience. Sanchez didn't just awake our visceral selves in this play but got two steps ahead of our brains and played our emotions like an instrument. She made Shakespeare new to people who had seen it a million times. Maybe there were some people left in the torch and pitchfork contingent but the standing ovation at the end of the play tells me there weren't many. I got home home and looked up Hamlet and there it was in Act Three. “To be or not to be that is the question”.originally the lamenting of a young man (what my wife calls an “emo teen”) Sanchez made it into the heavy thoughts of a suffering adult. Hamlet seemed to grow up in this version. I also found a myriad of characters that I had totally forgotten were in the play. Aquila Theatre managed to make an old play, not one of my favorites even, and make it hit me where I live. Not only that it hacked my memory and made me watch the play with my emotions not my theatre degree. And for that rare and special gift I give them thanks.

#Theatre #shakespeare #Hamlet #Aquila Theatre #nyc #nj #southjerseytheatre #gallowaytownship #stockton university #whitehorsepike

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hamletandthegang · 5 years ago

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France- Part 3

A dark figure walked towards Horatio in the dark underground corridor. The old green-tinted light attached to the ceiling caste a chilling glare onto everything in the tunnel. Horatio jumped, startled, and his back hit the back of the step he was sitting on.

“Hello,” A dark alto voice said. “Who are you?”

“Hi, uh, hi,” Horatio stood up awkwardly and met her gaze. It was sharp, and cut through him. “Where- um- Where did you come from?”

“I’ve been watching you for a few minutes from over there,” she jerked her thumb back where there was a scooping indent in the tunnel, but it had been so dark he hadn’t noticed her there. “Who are you?” She repeated.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, I’m Horatio Gilbert. Who are you?”

She pushed a piece of her bushy black hair out of her face, “I’m Maggie.”

“Cool,” Horatio said, starting to get weirded out about the random person talking to him. “Well, nice meeting you, but I think I’ll-”

“Not many people come down here,” She interrupted. “Not unless they’re hiding from something. What are you hiding from?”

Horatio was taken back by the question. “I dunno. The world, I guess.”

“Huh,” Maggie looked him over scrutinizingly. She finished her scan of him, and said, “Do you have a place to stay? It’s getting late.”

“Uh, not really. I thought I’d probably get a place at a hotel or something.” Horatio knew that was a lie- he had no money on him at all. He’d had nothing but his phone when he woke up that morning.

“Hotels are expensive around here,” Maggie mused, seeming to have read his mind. “I’ve got a little place where me and some friends are staying, if you wanna come stay for the night. There’s an extra bathtub waiting for you.” She sounded like she was joking, but there really was no way of telling.

Horatio knew that he’d typically be appalled at the thought of staying at a random person’s house that he’d never met before, but in that moment, he had nothing. No roof, no food, no money, nothing. And he felt as though he could pass out. Maggie was offering at least a place to stay the night, before he could find somewhere else to go.

Horatio agreed, and Maggie led him up to the street. She walked quickly, and since there was more light due to the streetlamps and shop lights, Horatio was able to get a better look at her. She was wearing black ripped up jeans, and a black leather jacket. She had on chunky tennis shoes, and had a small bag slung on her back. She had a dark complexion, with curly black hair that circled her head like a crown. She also had a silver nose piercing of a silver spike, and long glossy nails.

Horatio was still wearing the uniform that Laertes had given him back at the base. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his helmet. But he didn’t really care. He just hoped that Maggie didn’t know he was the reason the fire in Notre Dame was raging. Maybe she knew, and that was why she was taking him to her place. Maybe she would turn him in and he’d be dead.

Maybe he deserved that. Maybe he should be.

He tried to stop thinking about that. This was his only hope of having a roof over his head. He had to take it.

After a few minutes of walking, Maggie stopped and turned to look at Horatio. She was standing in front of a fancier hotel, and motioning toward the alley that led down the side of the building. Horatio pushed the red flags away and followed her. She hefted a large dumpster out of the way, behind which a ragged tarp was hiding a short door. Maggie held the tarp up over Horatio as he went inside, and she followed after. He stood up and looked around.

Horatio was standing in a compact room with shelves lining the room. The shelves were packed with cardboard boxes, and in the center of the room, a card table and a few foldable chairs stood. A woman with dark skin and pink braids was sitting in one of the chairs on her phone. As she turned towards him, he realized with a shock that he recognized her. She was the leader of the acting troupe, the one who had attacked Hamlet! Then it hit him. Were the rest of the rebels here too? Then who was Maggie?

For the time being, Horatio was forced to pretend that he didn’t know the acting troupe leader. There were two doors, one he assumed led out to the hotel, and the second was sitting open, exposing the disgusting bathroom inside. The door to the bathroom had a considerable chunk hanging out of the wood. It looked kind of like a gunshot. Horatio peered inside, where a sink, toilet, shower curtain (he assumed that behind that was the tub he’d been promised to sleep in), and dirty rug, all bathed in a sickly greenish orange light. Both the tile on the floor and the mirror had multiple cracks and hunks taken out of them. Maybe he should have slept in the tunnel instead.

“The bathtub’s in there,” Maggie grunted, noticing Horatio’s appalled stare.

“Right,” Horatio made for the door, but the leader of the troupe (Monica, he remembered), jumped up suddenly.

“Oh, sorry, lemme grab some stuff out of there.” She quickly closed the bathroom door and shuffled around. Horatio couldn’t exactly see through the hole in the door, but she seemed like she was taking a bunch of large objects from the tub. She opened the door, and Horatio stepped back to see that she was holding many large guns, pistols, and rifles. She was holding a small revolver in her teeth that she couldn’t hold.

Monica dumped the weapons in an empty box in the corner, and Horatio glanced at Maggie with wide eyes.

“Well did you wanna sleep on them?” She asked sarcastically. “In the morning we can reevaluate and probably set you up with some food or something, but for right now that’s all we got.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Horatio made for the door once again, but Maggie stopped him and threw a lumpy pillow at his head.

“Head’s up.” Horatio caught it and closed the bathroom door behind him. He took a breath and let it out slowly. At least he was alive.

Horatio spread out a little bit, placed the pillow in the bathtub, and sat down in it. Scrolling on his phone, he realized that Hamlet had texted him and he hadn’t felt it buzz.

Where in Paris are you?

He quickly typed out, Staying the night in the backroom of a hotel. I think I might’ve gotten picked up by the rebels.

Hamlet immediately shot back, Wow, small world. Which hotel? It isn’t La Masquerade by any chance?

Actually yeah, I think that might’ve been the name.

I’ll see you soon, gotta backtrack a bit

Horatio put his phone away, and tried to keep from crying. He was so happy Hamlet was coming. He was going to be with someone who wasn’t going to hurt him. He was so overjoyed, he passed out in the tub.

~~~

Hamlet was walking down the sidewalk, and had been for a few minutes. Far behind him was the train he had taken. And now it was dark, so the streetlamps and glow of the restaurants and shops lit his way.

Hamlet had texted Horatio a while ago before he had gotten off of the train, but he hadn’t responded. He didn’t want to open his phone, for fear of the flood of texts from Ophelia who was no doubt mad he had left without telling her. He silenced his phone. No news was coming in, unless it was from Horatio.

Hamlet sat down on a little green metal bench. He was tired from the sudden trip, and didn’t even know where he was going. He looked up to see a tall hotel called the La Masquerade. The moon was bright and blue tinted, and cast a pleasant light over everything.

After a moment, Hamlet stood up and continued walking aimlessly down the sidewalk.

It was over half an hour before Hamlet’s phone signaled that Horatio had messaged him. He opened it, and saw that he had responded to his text. He was staying in a hotel with the rebels apparently. He asked, and found that it was in fact the La Masquerade, the hotel he had passed a while earlier. He turned around, and started back down the other way, when he saw a newsreel being played on a screen. It was showing the same articles he had seen on the train and before he left, mostly just pictures of Horatio and Claudius and the French ambassadors talking. Then something else flashed onto the screen. FIRE OF NOTRE DAME LESSENED; ONE PERSON FOUND DEAD AND ANOTHER RESCUED. MORE INFO AT TEN. The screen flashed two big pictures of Ben and Marc. Ben was gone.

Hamlet stumbled and sat back down on the bench.

~~~

Horatio was jolted away in the middle of the night by the sound of something hard hitting the floor. He heard a soft scraping sound from the room behind the bathroom door, and then the door that led to the hotel opened. He sat up and peered through the hole in the door, and through the darkness he thought he saw a familiar face.

“...Hamlet?” He whispered, perfectly audible in the quiet room. The head jerked to the side, and the person opened the door to the bathroom. Horatio held his breath as the door swung open.

Hamlet stood in the doorway. His eyes lit up as he saw who it was, and Hamlet rushed to the bathtub, and dropped to his knees. He wrapped Horatio in a hug over the white rim of the tub.

Horatio broke down. He had lived a year in the few days since he had seen Hamlet, and he had been hurt in so many ways. Hamlet allowed him to, and hugged him harder.

“It’s okay,” He whispered. “I’m here.”

Monica and Maggie seemed to still be in the other room, sleeping presumably. So the two of them stayed quiet, and tried to communicate as softly as possible.

After Horatio had collected himself, he told Hamlet the whole story. How he had woken up that morning in terrible pain, and Laertes had given him a uniform and his phone, and driven him to Notre Dame cathedral. He told Hamlet how he had been roped into watching for spies with the other people in Laertes’ team, and how the fire had started. He told him about what Laertes had said, and about meeting Maggie. And he told Hamlet how everything was his fault. The fire was his fault, and he was so, so sorry, and he hoped that Hamlet and the rest of his friends would forgive him someday, and that he understood if Hamlet didn’t want him to be around him anymore, and how-

Horatio stopped spiraling when Hamlet hugged him again.

“I would never do that,” Hamlet said. “I would never push you away. You are the one thing keeping our group together sometimes. We won’t make it without you. Well, I won’t make it without you.”

Horatio and Hamlet stayed in the bathroom, talking until morning.

#hamlet #hamlet modern au #Hamlet & Co. fics #horatio #maggie #oc monica #hehehehehehe #we've been really excited about this chapter #send in ur theories if you feel like it!#france debacle #guys this plot point marks the beginning of all the interesting stuff #i think theres only one more part?#maybe two idk #everything just goes downhill from here #ahhh horatio angst #fun stuff #hatg1

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