Here is a scene from the great Canadian television series Slings and Arrows<\/i>. The company of actors is rehearsing Hamlet<\/i>, and it is not going well. The actress playing Ophelia, Claire, is terrible and nobody knows what to do about it. She is a niece of a board member and nobody can get rid of her. She makes a mockery of Ophelia’s mad scene, dancing around, letting daisies drop, singing in a fluttery voice, as though she actually believes this is American Idol<\/i>. Jeffrey, the loose cannon director, fresh out of a mental institution, stops her during rehearsal.<\/p>\n
CLAIRE [as Ophelia]
\nAnd will not come again
\nNo no he is dead
\nGo to thy death bed …<\/p>\n
JEFFREY
\nStop. For God’s sake, stop.<\/p>\n
CLAIRE
\nWhat?<\/p>\n
JEFFREY
\nWhere is this coming from?<\/p>\n
CLAIRE
\nWhat?<\/p>\n
JEFFREY
\nThis staggering about with your mouth open.<\/p>\n
CLAIRE
\nYou’re being sarcastic again with me. Please don’t be sarcastic with me.<\/p>\n
JEFFREY
\nActually, I’m not. Sorry.<\/p>\n
CLAIRE
\nOphelia’s mad.<\/p>\n
JEFFREY
\nRight.<\/p>\n
CLAIRE
\nI’m playing her madness.<\/p>\n
JEFFREY
\nAnd how does staggering about with your mouth open suggest madness?<\/p>\n
CLAIRE
\nI’m not mad.<\/p>\n
JEFFREY
\nRight.<\/p>\n
CLAIRE JEFFREY CLAIRE JEFFREY CLAIRE JEFFREY CLAIRE JEFFREY And now: the scene itself:<\/p>\n Hamlet<\/i>,<\/strong> Act IV, scene 5<\/p>\n LAERTES O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt, OPHELIA LAERTES OPHELIA LAERTES OPHELIA LAERTES OPHELIA LAERTES OPHELIA LAERTES \nI went a little “insane” myself below. Images of Ophelia through the centuries: actresses who have played her, painters who have painted her … the erotic ones, the violent ones, the pre-Raphaelite ones, the art Deco ones … I couldn’t stop gathering images. Once I decided to do this post (I’ve been reading a biography of Oscar Wilde, and most of his painter friends – the pre-Raphaelites and decadent aesthetes all did paintings of Ophelia, so I decided to look some of the paintings up – and as I started digging, I found myself getting further and further into the world and moved out of that late 19th century era and into other eras, until finally I was totally and utterly lost (in the best way) – and figured I would do kind of in imitation of this one I did about images of Moby Dick<\/i><\/a>. I very quickly realized that I, to put it mildly, was NOT the first one with this idea. BOOKS have been written about portrayals of Ophelia in paintings and etchings! I also found many old photographs of actresses who have played the role (including one of Ellen Terry<\/a> – see if you can pick her out!) – not to mention some more modern 20th century ladies.<\/p>\n I love to see all of the different sensibilities of the artists, and how they see it, how they enter in, what it is that calls to them about this particular character, especially her mad scene and her drowning scene.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Here is a scene from the great Canadian television series Slings and Arrows. The company of actors is rehearsing Hamlet, and it is not going well. The actress playing Ophelia, Claire, is terrible and nobody knows what to do about … Continue reading
\nAnd I never have been, so I have to simulate<\/em> it.<\/p>\n
\nRight.<\/p>\n
\nI’m using sense memory. I’m remembering what it was like being stoned<\/em> and I’m using that. I’m disoriented, my head is spinning, I think that’s what it’s probably like when you’re insane.<\/p>\n
\nRight. Well. It’s not. Trust me. That’s what it’s like when you’re stoned.<\/p>\n
\nOh, forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but I don’t have your experience with insanity.<\/p>\n
\nRight.<\/p>\n
\nAnd this is hard, anyway, because I can’t take any meaning from the text. Ophelia’s just singing nonsense songs.<\/p>\n
\nRight. Claire. Claire, Claire, Claire with the hair. Ophelia is a child<\/em>. She has been dominated by powerful men all of her life and suddenly they all disappear. Her brother goes to France, her father is murdered by her boyfriend<\/em> and he is shipped off to England. She is alone for the first time, grieving and heartbroken and guilty – because, as far as she is concerned, it is all her fault. She ignored her brother’s advice and fell in love with Hamlet and now her father is dead – all because of her – and the pain and the loss and the shame and the guilt, all of this, is gnawing away inside this little child’s mind and it comes out as ‘little songs’. ‘And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No. No. He is dead. My father is dead and I killed him<\/em>.’ ‘Kay? Now, let’s try it again … without the Vietnam flashback.<\/p>\n
\nHow now! what noise is that?
\nRe-enter OPHELIA<\/em><\/p>\n
\nBurn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
\nBy heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,
\nTill our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!
\nDear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
\nO heavens! is’t possible, a young maid’s wits
\nShould be as moral as an old man’s life?
\nNature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine,
\nIt sends some precious instance of itself
\nAfter the thing it loves.<\/p>\n
\n[Sings<\/em>]
\nThey bore him barefaced on the bier;
\nHey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;
\nAnd in his grave rain’d many a tear:–
\nFare you well, my dove!<\/p>\n
\nHadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,
\nIt could not move thus.<\/p>\n
\n[Sings<\/em>]
\nYou must sing a-down a-down,
\nAn you call him a-down-a.
\nO, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false
\nsteward, that stole his master’s daughter.<\/p>\n
\nThis nothing’s more than matter.<\/p>\n
\nThere’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray,
\nlove, remember: and there is pansies. that’s for thoughts.<\/p>\n
\nA document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.<\/p>\n
\nThere’s fennel for you, and columbines: there’s rue
\nfor you; and here’s some for me: we may call it
\nherb-grace o’ Sundays: O you must wear your rue with
\na difference. There’s a daisy: I would give you
\nsome violets, but they withered all when my father
\ndied: they say he made a good end,–
\nSings<\/em>
\nFor bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.<\/p>\n
\nThought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
\nShe turns to favour and to prettiness.<\/p>\n
\n[Sings<\/em>]
\nAnd will he not come again?
\nAnd will he not come again?
\nNo, no, he is dead:
\nGo to thy death-bed:
\nHe never will come again.
\nHis beard was as white as snow,
\nAll flaxen was his poll:
\nHe is gone, he is gone,
\nAnd we cast away moan:
\nGod ha’ mercy on his soul!
\nAnd of all Christian souls, I pray God. God be wi’ ye.
\nExit<\/em><\/p>\n
\nDo you see this, O God?<\/p>\n