Classics are ageless, always eluding time’s rusty clutch. Their concepts are influential, profound and pertinent to contemporary issues. They’re regularly debated over, scrutinized and broken down to each individual morpheme; scholars analyze every theme, pulling the literary and metaphysical meaning from beneath the text. Expressions from a multitude of sundry faces accompany the plays throughout the precarious spell of time, as they’re frequently re-enacted. While the works are unremitting, the actors that breathe life into the roles aren’t illimitable.
That’s a prominent reason why actors are revered and receive a surplus of merit. They have an expiration date, an end, identical to every other living organism. Actors are marvelous—able to attain a face from a trunk and model it quintessentially.
The spacious theater progressively becomes subdued as the lights over the audience dim. The loquacious crowd comprised of aristocrats settles down and focuses on the illuminating stage. You alter your position, nestling into the lush, ritzy, seat in the grandiose auditorium. Your eyes scan over the exquisite components of the setting. Heights the performance must climb to are high; the work is revolutionary and legendary. It’s referred to as Shakespeare’s best, Hamlet.
Bernardo, or the player evoking the role, manifests. He clad in appropriate garb and his mocha brown hair is challenging to distinguish from the crawling—vivacious—shadows. Francisco is cloaked in sentential attire and his voice thunders at first, inquiring who is present so late in the night. Bernardo replies and relieves the tired guard, Francisco, of duty. The production carries on as you imagined and shakes hands with the strenuous expectations that are effortlessly met.
It’s a miraculous show. Every aspect introduced is precise and exceptionally acts out the script.
Your eyes enlarge when the thespian playing Hamlet enters. He has corybantic blonde hair and cerulean blue eyes that should hold an effervescent sensation. However, bending to the circumstances the script dictates, his eyes aren’t sparkling. They’re drowning in grief, agony and parallel the rest of his heart-clenching expressions. His angst seems so kosher. He moves and voices with such despondency that it causes your own expression to shift.
You don’t notice the time drifting away as the performance continues, not like you’d want to.
Hamlet’s snappy and sassy remarks never fail to make armadas of giggles leave your mouth. His wit, it’s enthralling and captivating. “Infatuated with him all ready, are we?” Your friend inquires. Your eyebrows raise and you pivot your head to look at your companion. “Am I?” You question; your eyes submerge into incertitude. Your associate nods and replies with “his charms are certainly something else. Maybe that’s why he was able to woo Ophelia effortlessly.”
A pink dust dawdles across your cheeks.
“Do you know his actual name? It should be in the program,” you say to which your friend shakes their head. “No, I didn’t pick one up and I don’t know his name. Maybe you should call him Hamlet?” They suggest with a light teasing. Your lips purse and you turn your attention back to the production, instantly locating your object of infatuation.
Minutes, half-hours, hours—you’re not sure how much time glides by as the play rolls. The plot is thick, plagued by secrets, spying, betrayal, killing, outlandish remarks and a speckle of romance. You’re enchanted by the portrayal, the absolute magnificence that accompanies each act. Despite all factors, in the depths of your mind you desire to know more about the alluring Hamlet, what’s his name? What’s he like outside of the theater doors?
Should you request to see him after the performance?
“When will he be himself?” You question. The end of the production draws near, you can feel it creeping up your spine and in your bones. “Never, he’s an actor. He assumes the role of others and gives up himself. That’s what actors do, of course,” your associate answers. A sigh from your lips trespasses into the air.
When applause sounds and other spectators get up to exit, you’re hesitant to follow them. You crave to stay based on infatuation. You need to converse with him, even if it’s for a moment! Noise couples with the leaving aristocrats and you act.
“H-hamlet!” You shout, earning a few quizzical looks.
However, they’re irrelevant when buoyant blue eyes connect with yours.