Just our hands clasped so tight

The image of clasped hands can mean so much. The clasped hands of a nervous girl waiting for her entrance in a play two years ago; the clasped hands of a girl in a theatre, waiting with excitement for a much-anticipated show; the clasped hands of that same girl yearning with all she has to be a part of what she sees in a theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon. And more: the clasped hands of lovers, meeting and parting again and again; their clasped hands as they embark together into the dark.

What can I say of Stratford-Upon-Avon and the RSC? To me, this is everything I want. This small English town, full of life, energy, shops, history, and above all, Shakespeare. Being here again I feel the same emotions I felt nearly two and a half years ago when I saw the Henry VI Trilogy— such an intense knowing that here is where I want to be, that this type of theatre is what I want to help create. I’ve been, in small ways, beginning to inch towards that goal, but it is still so distant. But being here I remember again how certain I am that I know what I want in life, and I remember why I tell people that I want to be a dramaturg, or to some a literary manager, or an artistic director—whatever words they can best understand my dreams. It’s not some abstract thing to tell people so they won’t question me further about my plans after graduate school: these are my plans.

In the past two days, I have seen both King Lear and Antony and Cleopatra. King Lear was flawless, and Antony and Cleopatra striking. The RSC is… beautiful. I am perfectly convinced that they can make me love any Shakespeare play; I was lukewarm towards King Lear before, but now! The image of Lear standing in the rain with his fool is one I will never forget. And Antony and Cleopatra—watching this show was sheer joy. At times I could still mouth along with the lines.

When we bought our tickets for 1 Henry IV, an Englishman in front of us said he had seen a crap version of A&C at the Globe, but that the one at the RSC was quite good. When we asked him what was wrong with it he said, “Antony is supposed to be a colossus and they played him as if he were a bank manger, while they played Cleopatra like a tart.” He continued, “They are both supposed to be majestic, and the power struggle between them makes the play dynamic.”

How incredibly accurate. Of course, in the play, each is a little proud and a little crazy, and the politics of the world barge in on their happy harmony causing rather terrible rows, but that makes the play fun to watch. What’s theatre without some conflict?

But these are not two hormonal teenagers like Romeo and Juliet, nor is this the superficial love of Miranda and Ferdinand. Antony and Cleopatra are both older, they know their own hearts and minds, they have both had past relationships (Antony with Fulvia, Cleopatra with Caesar), and while those loves were not untrue, what they have for each other is so certain as to cause them to follow each other into the dark.

Today my mother and I went to the Shakespeare birthplace, and in one of the several introductory rooms, the film narrator said, “No other playwright has so impacted our lives like William Shakespeare.” I thought to myself, “Some lives more than others.” For without Shakespeare—and the subsequent club Shakespeare in the Dark (to which my dear friend Mike Johnson inadvertently introduced me before we even knew each others names), my dreams of working at a Shakespearean theatre, the hours spent both with my books in academic study and in the playhouse itself—my life would be a much lonelier, poorer place. Here’s to the Bard.

For the lad of all lads was a Warwickshire lad!
~Ode to Shakespeare, David Garrick, 1769