Spoilerific review of Hamlet

Last night, I had the very great pleasure of watching Gregory Doran's production of Hamlet. I went to see it because of two of the actors playing the main roles - the astonishingly talented Patrick Stewart, and the mercurial David Tennant, and I wasn't remotely disappointed.

We had seats in the gallery, about as far away from the stage as possible, but that's not really saying much, it wasn't a huge theatre. The set was a very pared down space, backed by some revolving mirrors which were used to great effect, either closed, half open, or spun round to reveal some minimalist suggestion of set-dressing.

Ingenious use of lighting illustrated the change from exterior to interior, with chandeliers being lowered for the interiors, and clever use of flashlights bouncing off the highly polished stage floor to create a chillingly eerie atmosphere in the initial scenes with the ghost of old Hamlet.

My husband and Eden were in attendance with me, and Ant mentioned how he is always surprised by how much he understands when he sees Shakespeare performed, last night being no exception. He knew nothing of the play except a potted summary I gave him a few weeks ago. Eden was better prepared, having read some of the play with me, and seen some edited highlights of Branagh's screen version.

The performances ranged from the solid to the stellar, and I'm not sure whether to begin with Tennant's Hamlet, or Stewart's Claudius. Instead, I think I'll bypass them both for now and mention Oliver Ford James as Polonius, in a beautifully realized portrayal of an absent-minded old gentleman, making the text spring to life and sound, not so much like 'Shakespeare' as it was like listening in on a real old man, meandering off on his own ponderings. He was hilarious, and I genuinely felt rather sad when he was dispatched (by Hamlet, in the bedroom, with a revolver).

Oh, go on then, can't really hold back from mentioning Tennant now. Absolutely superb. His command of the language is remarkable, and he is clearly a very intelligent man, wringing all possible wit from the text, including one particular ribald pun that produced audible gasps from some of the more delicate members of the audience. Thankfully, it flew over the head of my seven year old!

Being able to make the dense language of Hamlet, some of which is so over-familiar to us, most of which is almost another tongue, sound as though it is contemporary English is quite a rare gift in my experience, but Tennant manages it. We laughed a lot - his skill with comedy was delightful, particularly the scenes in which he is hiding the body of Polonius, and in fairness, it was the only point in the play where I remembered I was watching the Doctor, but that was a lot to do with the running, I suppose.

He did an amusing impression of Patrick Stewart at one point, and it produced one of those lovely moments in live theatre, catching Stewart himself in a good-humoured smile, and eliciting that sense of a cast comfortable enough with the material now to allow themselves to go with an impromptu atmosphere.

Stewart was a powerful presence, that voice holding the attention whenever he was onstage. His wrestlings with his conscience, just before Hamlet nearly takes the opportunity to kill him, were spell-binding. Despite his natural aura of authority, he managed to convince as a man who really could only achieve greatness by schemes and murder - it's clear that the support of Gertrude is very necessary to him, even in the simple day to day niceties of remembering names.

As the action moved to conclusion, I was thoroughly drawn in, and it's always a good sign when, knowing the ending, you rather hope it plays out differently because you've been so beguiled by the characters. Gertrude and Hamlet had played out the scene in her bedroom with fiery and somewhat alarming intensity, but had managed to convincingly turn it to gentle, weary reconciliation by the end, so that there was actually a laugh drawn from Tennant's domestic delivery of "'Night mother" as he drags the dead body of Polonius away.

From the burial of Ophelia on, I confess I was near tears by the powerful performances, and as the fight scene opened, I was really quite put out that most of the principals would be dead by the end of the play. The fight was breath-takingly good, the energy of it crackling from the stage, furniture thrown about, bodies and weaponry clashing at full tilt.

I was tremendously disappointed in myself when, as Hamlet lay dying, even as I cried from the emotional force of it, I had to squish the little voice in the back of my head that was expecting a regeneration. I did manage to not make any squeeing noises throughout the performance, although I allowed one to slip out at the curtain call. Once a fangirl, always a fangirl, I'm afraid.

Eden's appraisal was that she enjoyed it, especially the costumes, and that she thought the interval came at a very good place, because 'if you've never seen the play, you wouldn't know what was going to happen next'. (It comes as Hamlet is about to kill Claudius as he prays).

In conclusion, it was a stunning production, pulling every last drop of humour, pathos and power from the text, and I'm so, so pleased that I was able to see it. As an addendum, I must give an enormous vote of thanks to my friend Sandra, who gave up her ticket to Eden as we were unable to find another babysitter. I plan on finding some way of making it up to her, because I seriously owe her now!

Battling on...

There are definitely times I have to remind myself that sanctification is a process. For a start, it makes it easier to get along with every other believer if I remember that they're a work in progress like me.

The other reason I need to call it to mind is because I still struggle with the same frustratingly unpleasant sins as I did before I was a believer. Sometimes, the only difference is that I just don't enjoy those sins now.

Before, I'd lose my temper, and I'd take a certain pride in my ability to verbally roast my victim until they melted in front of me. I don't take pride in it now, but I still sometimes do it.

I suppose the comfort comes from the fact that I don't do it nearly as much, I pray a lot more about my temper, and have the Holy Spirit's help to speak with kindness instead of bile. But still. It's there and it hasn't gone away.

It's not just my gob, either. My mental sins are the ones which trouble me the most. I hear fantastic testimonies of people who were converted out of a homosexual life, and everything in the garden became unfailingly rosy. Henceforth, they only had eyes for the opposite sex, and very soon after that, they only had eyes for their spouse.

I wish it was that easy. But I rather think that it's no different to any other thought-sin. Sure, there are some people for whom thoughts of a sexual nature are not an issue. But I don't imagine there are too many people who seriously believe that you can get married and never again be tempted by thoughts of an illicit nature.

I've just listened to a rather good sermon by John MacArthur on keeping a pure mind, and I certainly recommend it to you. He pointed out all the things that we wrestle with mentally - memory in particular stood out to me.

I'm just cottoning on to the fact that there are particular times when I'm more vulnerable - when I'm tired, perhaps in the groggy moments in the morning in between dreams and being awake, and pretty much any time I haven't been actively pursuing things which uplift my mind.

Being a fallen human being, even the most seemingly innocent things can set off a train of thought, but generally speaking, if I fill my head with worldly gubbins, I'm just not going to be in a fit state to battle unwholesome thoughts.

But you know what, just for the record, in case you are under any illusions, being sanctified is hard work, and I really do think sometimes that I would prefer it if I had been converted and then hermetically sealed until it was all over. But then, obviously, if I had been hermetically sealed upon conversion, it would be all over...

None so blind...

I caught the last few minutes of a programme presented by Richard Dawkins this evening. It's a three-part celebration of Darwin, and the theory of evolution. I had a little chuckle to myself, as the evangelical atheist attempted to explain, in breathless tones, the wondrous properties of DNA to some school children.

I know his intended aim was to make them all overcome with excitement about evolution, but I sat there, listening to him detailing the marvellous, mathematical properties of DNA, and how we may 'read' it, like we would read the instructions of a computer, and know what meant what, and was quite astonished at his blindness.

How one would look at an incredible set of biological 'instructions' and not see that there must be some sort of fearsome intelligence behind them is one thing. But that one would explain these fantastical things to children and expect them to suddenly come to the conclusion that it all happened quite by accident - this is surely the product of entrenched dogma far more close-minded than anything mainstream religion teaches.

To quote DJP, the ever watchful guardian of my grammar and spelling - "Isn't evolution wonderful?"

You might be interested to know that a number of the children said that, while they found his talk very interesting, they were still firmly convinced there was a God.

;-D

Out of the Vortex.

My Helmic Regulator has been somewhat askew these past couple of months. Wider family issues, coupled with ill-health of body and mind, have all contributed to me being somewhat all over the place.

However, today, for the first time, I am feeling the benefit of the measures that have been taken about my anaemia, and actually have energy and appetite. It's like the difference between sleep-walking and being wide awake - quite shocking in its own way, really.

I'm beginning to realize the distinction between things which I must endure and things which I have no obligation to suffer. I'm not sure if that's a result of feeling better, and thus seeing more clearly, or whether it's seeing that which has helped to lift my mood.

Either way, it's a good and positive thing. I'm called to be salt and light among those around me - I am not called to be squished underfoot until I have nothing left to savour.

I think sometimes it's rather to easy to give out and out and out, until we literally 'give out' ourselves! I've realized that I am not taking the necessary care of my own needs. I think of the Lord Jesus, withdrawing quietly to pray. Yes, He was often interrupted, but He didn't just give up on the idea.

And even as I write that, I'm battling this odd internal feeling of guilt - just looking at that selfish phrase written out 'my own needs'. Nonsense, say I! I'm not talking about indulging my self. I'm talking about making sure that I spend time ensuring my faith is a priority, because Christ is the ground from which I have to build anything worthwhile anyway, and putting boundaries in place so that I don't go mad trying to meet needs I have no business trying to deal with.

I hope that makes sense to someone!