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Thoth Tarot (Aleister Crowley and Frieda Harris): Art
(image used by permission of the Ordo Templis Orientis, Secretary General/ International Headquarters,
Berlin, Germany)

The Players

[NOTE: If you haven't already read the disclaimer on this section's introductory page with regard to any and all actor names mentioned in this section of the website, please do so before proceeding here.]

"We're actors! We're the opposite of people!"

Thus exclaims the Player [King] (Richard Dreyfuss) in Tom Stoppard's "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead." And as in the case of those two unhappy (or unlucky?) pawns who don't ever really clue into anything besides the fact that they were "sent for," Stoppard's movie again nails it ... hole in one; or, to stick with his own imagery, game, set, match. Because the Players are the ultimate archetypes: not only are they profoundly de-individualised, their very function is to lift the events of the main play onto another and entirely symbolic level (not without reason, therefore, Hamlet calls them his "abridgment"). In fact, we're even dealing with at least five different symbolic levels anchored in Shakespeare's construction of the play, the first one of these being connected with the Players themselves, the subsequent three with their play(s), presented in three different modes of performance, plus a fifth level added by way of interpretation, which also reinforces the Players' symbolic rapport with the main play's events, and which I happen to like quite a lot.

Let's look at these levels of abstraction in the order in which Shakespeare presents them.

Vincent van Gogh: The Caravans – Gypsy Camp Near Arles (1888, Musée d'Orsay, Paris, France)

Before the Players even appear, we learn from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that they are travelling because they have been driven out of the city by bands of out of control children, who are now all the rage and more and more keep the paying audience away from the "real" theatre. (On yet another level this, too – like Hamlet's admonishments on stage craft – is incidentally an example of the Bard himself venting a grievance of his own; but more on this elsewhere.) "O, there has been much throwing about of brains," comments Guildenstern, and Hamlet retorts, "It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while my father lived give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. 'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out." Thus, from the start the Players' own fate mirrors that of Denmark, where reason, justice and honesty are on their way out since the death of Hamlet's father, and have been replaced by chaos, inferiority, and all things unnatural.

Next, immediately after the arrival of the Players, Hamlet expresses the wish for "a passionate speech;" and he not only proceeds to specify which "speech" (i.e., monologue, or soliloquy) he wants to hear, but he himself also begins to recite it. That monologue is a tale from the Aeneid, the Roman take on the fall of Troy and the mythological foundation of the Roman empire, authored by Virgil on the orders of Emperor Augustus in response to the Greek Iliad and Odyssey (albeit here rendered according to the Bard's own modifications, not as a straight excerpt of the original text: more on this, in connection with the analysis of the soliloquy in question). And of course Hamlet doesn't order just any tale, but none other than that of King Priam's murder at the hands of Greek warrior Pyrrhus. Thus, we not merely get a first impression just how infatuated our Prince is with the theatre, not merely a first symbolic reflection of the "regicide" theme in the Thespian world: by choosing a subject matter from classic mythology – moreover, from a narrative context reflected (although quite differently) in both the Greek and Roman tradition – Shakespeare also links his play to both major sources of Western civilisation, much more explicitly so than by creating characters taken from that world (Ophelia/Cassandra and, in part, Hamlet himself: Orestes on the one hand and Apollo on the other hand, at least in his dealings with Ophelia), and also more forcefully than in some of the play's other soliloquies (to name but a few, Horatio's account in the play's first scene regarding the unholy events allegedly preceding Julius Caesar's death; Hamlet's references to Hyperion and the satyr, to Niobe, and to Hercules in "O that this too too solid flesh would melt ...;" his comparison of his father to not one but four gods – Hyperion, Jove, Mars and Mercury, with the further addendum "a combination and a form indeed where every god did seem to set his seal to give the world assurance of a man" – in his confrontation with Gertrude after the "play within the play;" and his reference to Alexander the Great and, again, to Julius Caesar, when contemplating issues of mortality and decay over Yorick's skull).

It is sometimes suggested that these references to the world of Antiquity serve to distance Hamlet from the tragedy's events: I couldn't disagree more. I think that very much to the contrary, by both implicitly and explicitly anchoring his play so firmly in not one but both societies on whose traditions Western civilisation is built, our Bard raises precisely that claim which his friendl Ben Jonson would come to express after his death, namely, that Shakespeare's plays are "not of an age, but for all time." (Modesty, I very much suspect, was not among Old Will's stronger suits.) In fact, there is also an interpretation of his Sonnet 55 – which was likely inspired by an ode of Horace's, and whose topic is the everlasting power of poetry – according to which that sonnet expresses Shakespeare's belief that his words would live forever (and he through them), although it never even specifically names its much-praised subject:

Proud words indeed, although by at least not directly inserting his own person, the Bard actually doesn't go quite as far as Horace, whose Ode 3.30 openly states that he considers himself to have built "a monument more lasting than bronze" ("exegi monumentum aere perennius"). But then, arguably Shakespeare didn't even have to make that point expressly, given the sonnet's similarities to Horace's ode in language, construction and imagery, its numerical symbolism (5hake5peare, or 5hakespeare's 5onnets), and the fact that its text is littered with words containing the letter "S": One of the more common consonants to be sure, but do we really have to have, in direct succession, "you shall shine more bright in these contents," "unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time," and "wasteful war shall statues overturn;" as well as phrases like "Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn," "'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity" – and of course the closing couplet, "So, till the judgement that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes"? And that's not even counting all the phonetically similar "th" sounds contained in these lines ...

Now, back to the Prince of Denmark, the "Pyrrhus and Hecuba" monologue comes in three parts, which Hamlet and the Player King split between themselves: Hamlet starts with the first part – the description of Pyrrhus – and then the Player King takes over for the rest. A more specific analysis is set forth in this website's soliloquies section; suffice it to say here that it is the description of a venerable but essentially defenceless King's brutal slaying at the hands of a hellhound, whom even the era's great masters of visual horror, Hieronymus Bosch ("The Hay Wain" and "The Last Judgement," early 1500s) and Pieter Bruegel the Elder ("The Triumph of Death," 1562), couldn't have painted in more terrifying colours; followed by "the mobled queen" Hecuba's profound exclamations of grief, so strong in impact that they would have been bound to even move the Olympian gods to tears. The monologue's overall intent is clear: Claudius, the King's murderer, is characterised as a creature of hell; and Hecuba does what Gertrude should have done, by loudly accusing the murderer and bemoaning her husband.

The soliloquy's motif is then connected back to the main play itself, when Hamlet, alone after having ordered a play for the next night and dispatched the Players into Polonius's care, reflects on the Player King's moving performance, which although "but in a fiction, in a dream of passion," seemed to bring to bear more feeling than the Prince, who has true cause for rage – and what a cause it is indeed! – finds himself able to express, let alone act upon. ("And all [that performance] for nothing! For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her? What would he do, had he the motive and the cue for passion that I have? He would drown the stage with tears and cleave the general ear with horrid speech; ... Yet I, a dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, and can say nothing!") This is followed by a violent outburst of self-loathing, then by reflections on the powerful effect that a stage performance may have on a guilty mind, by sudden doubts over the reliability of Hamlet's own senses and the suspicion that the appearance of his father's Ghost – and the charge to avenge his murder – may have been a trick played by the Devil to damn him (the Prince), and finally by his famous resolution: "I'll have grounds more relative than this [i.e., merely his encounter with the Ghost]. The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King."

Before we actually do get to see that play, however, Hamlet has yet to ponder issues of life and death in "To be, or not to be" and (again) confront Ophelia ("Get thee to a nunnery"). Sandwiched between "Pyrrhus and Hecuba" and the actual "play within the play," this scene (Act III, Scene 1) is thus placed very, very near the tragedy's heart; not only in its sequencing (both externally, i.e. temporally and performance-wise, and internally, in the play's construction itself) but also in its symbolic import. And this critical positioning is underscored even further by the fact that, although the scene takes place at some point during the day and several hours remain until the beginning of the "play within the play," we are left completely in the dark as to how Hamlet spends the rest of that day. (I personally suspect that it is then, at least in part prompted by his confrontation with Ophelia, as well as out of his sudden doubts over the reliability of the Ghost's appearance and his rising anticipation over Claudius's potential unmasking through the play, that he tells Horatio what he has learned from the Ghost all those months earlier. But that's just me, of course.)

The night of the play opens with Hamlet's admonitions to the Players on the nature of a good performance – read: our Bard himself venting his no doubt powerful feelings – followed by Hamlet's praise of Horatio; i.e., our story's title character connecting once and for all, and for all of us to see, with its anchor to the outside world and to us, the audience: sequentially placed even closer to the play's dramatic core than "To be, or not to be"/"Get thee to a nunnery," which I think even further underscores Horatio's importance. And after yet more public chiding of poor Ophelia, we are all set and ready for the big moment.

Pablo Picasso: Leaning Harlequin (1901, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY USA)

As customary in the Elizabethan theatre, the "play within the play" opens with a so-called "dumb show," that is, with a masked pantomime performance summing up the actual play's plot for its largely illiterate audience. (I'm tempted to draw an analogy to cinematic trailers here ... but, err, well, I guess that depends on how exactly the trailer is cut and what kind of audience it, and of course the movie itself, seeks to reach. Um. Yes. Anyway.) In the context of "Hamlet," the dumb show primarily accomplishes two things: First of all, it reinforces the "regicide" motif on yet another level of performance – the second one after "Pyrrhus and Hecuba;" and from a mere oral representation we're now moving on to the visual – and secondly, as the main part of the "play within the play" is abruptly curtailed, this is the only occasion where we actually see not only the murder itself but also its aftermath, i.e., the murderer's wooing of the recently-widowed queen, and her way too quick acceptance of his graces. I think it is important here not only to see this being played out on the stage, but also to observe Claudius's and Gertrude's reactions – and how better to do so than through Horatio's, our narrator's eyes, who has specifically been charged by Hamlet to watch the King (and Queen)? Of all my five favourite interpretations, Sir Laurence Olivier's movie, which (chiefly for purposes of abbreviation, I suspect) completely does away with the "actual" "play within the play" and lets the dumb show stand in its stead, most explicitly lets us see Horatio taking this role, just as Hamlet has, in fact, asked him to do. – For due to the dumb show, during the main part of the "play within the play" Claudius actually has a fairly early apprehension of what to expect: seeing the murder been played out again later thus doesn't come as a complete surprise to him (as one might think when watching an adapatation which by contrast, like Franco Zeffirelli's, omits the dumb show instead of the actual "play within the play"); rather, the whole play to him becomes a test of willpower, and of the ability to suppress his guilty feelings and maintain a masque of equanimity. Gertrude, on the other hand, in the dumb show receives her first clear warning that her betrothal to Claudius isn't just a moral misstep (an "o'erhasty marriage") but in fact, sanctions nothing short of the murder of her former husband, the rightful King. Thus, she, too, sees a shoe placed in front of her that might just fit a little too well; but unlike Claudius, who knows very well what he has done and for whom the only issue is to conceal his guilt to the outside world, I think Gertrude at this point is still very much in denial – she's uneasy, of course (and it shows: she isn't as accomplished an actor as Claudius by half), but if pressed for a reaction now, we'd probably still get the 15th century equivalent of a drawn-out "Me??? What's all this got to do with me???" – which is precisely what makes her later "The lady doth protest too much, methinks" all the more poignant.

The dumb show over, we are then ready to move on to the most complete level of theatrical abstraction, which brings together the oral component of "Pyrrhus and Hecuba" and the visual component of the pantomime presentation. Actually, of course, the play should begin with a Prologue that again introduces its narrative content, but as the writer of both the main play and the "play within the play," Shakespeare realises that we, his core audience, don't really need any further introduction, and thus, he has the Prologue merely "beg [our] hearing patiently" (not without leaving it to Hamlet to still comment on the introductory verse's brevity, on behalf of those who don't have our [and his] better understanding – and of course, poor Ophelia's reaction also gives him yet more occasion to abuse her). An analysis of the Players' actual text is set forth in the context of the "play within the play's" soliloquy page, so let me just say here that now we're of course no longer surprised at all to see the murder enacted a third time – and as in the dumb show, exactly under the circumstances described by the Ghost, in other words, as the sleeping victim's killing in an orchard by way of poison poured into his ear; and quite crucially with the Player King in the victim's part, not that of the poisoner (however often the Bard himself may refer to Claudius as "the King"). Interestingly also, while Hamlet, who gives the play's name as "The Mousetrap" – although we know from his exchange with the Player King on the previous day that its actual title is "The Murther of Gonzago" – first calls the victim a duke, he later refers to the poisoner as "one Lucianus, nephew to the King" (capitalisation Shakespeare's); which could in theory, one supposes, refer to the relationship between the Players themselves (whose leader is, after all, the Player King), but which by way of an apparent slip of the tongue again in fact squarely introduces the concept of regicide. The murder done, our Hamlet is also darned intent on having Claudius know that "the story is extant:" "Uncle Claudius, my man," he tells him in so many words, "this thing is for real. And oh, by the way, you shall see anon how the murtherer gets the love of Gonzago's wife." – Now, I don't know about you, but judging by Claudius's reaction (as I think we must see it), obviously even the blackest soul has its limits as to what it can take. And while Gertrude is thus spared the barenaked truth about her marriage for yet another half hour or so – with Hamlet himself left to eventually do the honours, pull the wool off her eyes and, alas, kill Polonius in the process – Claudius has more than just a little reason to thank his venerable Counsellor for saving the day (or rather, night), because whatever he has been up to just before Polonius orders the Players to "give o'er the play," it sure as hell has the smell of disaster to me.

In addition to the triple reinforcement of the "regicide" motif by way of a monologue, a pantomime show and a "real" play, interpretations of the tragedy which, like those starring Sir Derek Jacobi and Sir Kenneth Branagh, respectively, in the title role, make full use of the Players, tend to add yet another layer of symbolism, for which Shakespeare does lay the ground work – not only by modeling his hero in (small but pertinent) part on Apollo, the patron of the Muses, but also by having Hamlet specifically comment, after the abrupt end of the "play within the play," on the possibility of his joining a company of actors "if the rest of [his] fortunes turn Turk with [him]" – which by way of its rendition, in these productions, eloquently picks up on the Bard's suggestions and takes them to the next level. For lo'n behold, in the Players our friendless, fatherless, and oh-so lonesome hero suddenly finds friends, brothers, and, yes, with the Player King even a surrogate father, who (notwithstanding his respect for the Prince's station) displays a good deal of warmth and downright parental indulgence towards him virtually from the start, and particularly so in their joint presentation of "Pyrrhus and Hecuba" (and their related interactions with Polonius). In other words, what Hamlet can no longer have in the real world, he still finds in abundance in the world of make-believe. No wonder, then, that his trusted Horatio, man of reason that he is, cautiously – albeit, I imagine, with an understanding smile – responds, "Half a share," when an exuberant Hamlet asks him, while wildly celebrating Claudius's demasking, whether his antics (which the Bard, ever the actors' playwright, leaves to his players' free interpretation) "would not, [along with] a forest of feathers [and] two Provincial roses on [his] raz'd shoes ... get [him] a fellowship in a cry of players."

(Ah well, yes, Horatio, you're right to caution the Prince, but can't ya' let the kid dream just a little moment longer? No, I suppose not. There's still too much serious business to take care of ...)

Before they entirely leave the stage, the Players have one last function to fulfill, in that they provide the prop for Hamlet's cornering of Rosencrantz and (in particular) Guildenstern over their attempts to sound him for his "cause of distemper": a recorder, which Guildenstern professes to be unable to play, thus giving the Prince occasion to chide him for his disrespectful treatment and his attempts to "play upon [him (Hamlet)]" and "sound [him] from [his] lowest note to the top of [his] compass." "'Sblood," our Prince exclaims, "do you think I am easier to be play'd on than a pipe?" Well, Guildenstern is spared an answer to this by the arrival of Polonius; but while all this has been going on, the Players have quietly disappeared – Shakespeare doesn't even bother to give directions for their exit, since it is so patently obvious that their mission has run its course.

How say you then, you've probably been wanting to ask for a while: How would I cast the Players – ultimate archetypes and therefore, unknown actors? Or go the Branagh route and do the contrary, because of their paramount symbolic importance, as well as because it's such darn fun to see Dame Judi Dench give it her all as Hecuba and watch Sir John Gielgud's Priam die as only the paragon of a Shakespearean can, and to even have that monologue acted out completely? Well, a little bit of both, actually. I think "Pyrrhus and Hecuba" should be presented orally only, as it was conceived by the Bard (and here, I can't detect any stage directions or even suggestions for a visual presentation, either): yes, there is the risk of sidetracking the audience's attention by all that between-the-lines banter involving Polonius, but I think Shakespeare is making a clear point with the progression from monologue to dumb show to "real" play, which I would rather preserve. By the same token, the Players are the ultimate archetypes, and you don't exactly get that idea across by casting them with a bunch of high profile modern-day actors (provided any such would stoop to this kind of role in the first place).

However, I think the Players also present a wonderful opportunity to pay homage to the great tradition of Shakespearean theatre, which I would do primarily in three ways: first, by modeling the troupe on the Bard's own Lord Chamberlain's Men, with actors physically resembling the likes of Richard Burbage, Will Kempe, Robert Armin, etc., and of course with a (pre-)pubescent boy as the Player Queen. (Yes, yes, I know, they already did that in "Shakespeare in Love," too. But for one thing, I've yet to see it done convincingly in a production of one of the Bard's own plays; and then ... I mean, even leaving aside the fact that Joseph Fiennes's burning-eyed, impassioned version of William Shakespeare was chiefly inspired by one of the few portraits now declared inauthentic with virtual certainty by the curators of the National Portrait Gallery, the so-called "Grafton Portrait," just take one look at the portraits of Richard Burbage and Edward "Ned" Alleyn and tell me ... for all the gusto that Ben Affleck and Martin Clunes put into their respective roles in that movie, and however likable they may have made their characters: do either Mr. Afleck's or Mr. Clunes's features strike you as anything even approaching a physical resemblance with those of the two stars of the Lord Admiral's Men and the Lord Chamberlain's Men?) Secondly – and this is partly related to my first point – I would want to cast the Player King with one of the great, reigning princes of modern British theatre (provided any such would stoop ... see above): I don't even want to toss out any more big names than I already have; but considering that on the symbolic level represented by the Players, the Player King is yet another incarnation of Shakespeare himself (or at the very least, of Master Burbage and by that token, indirectly also Hamlet), I do think this particular role deserves all the attention it can possibly get. And thirdly, I would love to finally afford Shakespeare's erstwhile comedian Will Kempe an opportunity to respond to the Prince of Denmark's (i.e., the Bard's own) admonitions about not letting those that play your clowns speak ... more than is set down for them in order to keep them from ad-libbing and seeking the spotlight at the expense of another important scene – admonitions probably written a full two years after Kempe's exit and yet, as trenchant as the worst cuts administered by the daggers of Hamlet's tongue to Polonius, Ophelia, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: proof positive how much the disagreement between the two former fellow Players must have stung.

How would I make Kempe respond? Well, as always, not by inserting any extra lines. But then, a great actor like Master Kempe doesn't necessarily need to speak to make his point, does he? And if you can forgive me for tossing out one more name after all: far and away Kempe's closest modern heir, not only in downright comedic talent but even physically, to my mind is the Royal Shakespeare Company's Malcolm Storry: an incredibly experienced Shakespearean actor and a darned funny guy who, I am dead certain, would execute my little "Kempe" ploy to absolutely hilarious effect. (You may have seen him in Michael Wood's feature "In Search of Shakespeare" together with RSC Director Gregory Doran and other renowned British actors like Jane Lapotaire, Harriet Walter and Julian Glover; or on British TV, where he seems to be playing cops more often than not but also made a name for himself with roles such as those in "The Debt" (Tony Stokes), "Children of the New Forest" (Jakob Armitage) and "The Beiderbecke Tapes" (Mr. Peterson).) Obviously I have as little hope as with regard to any of my other casting choices that Mr. Storry would be up for this ride (especially since he wouldn't get to speak a single line), more's the pity – but then, I've said this before. In any event, trust me, folks: if you want to get an inkling how Master Kempe himself might have approached roles such as Dogberry ("Much Ado About Nothing" – the role was probably written with him in mind, although he may have left the company before the play's actual premiere), Bottom ("A Midsummer Night's Dream") or, for that matter, the First Clown/First Gravedigger in Hamlet, had he not been thrown out two years before this play was even written, try to catch a production of one of the Bard's plays featuring Mr. Storry in the role in question. I guarantee you won't regret it ...

And speaking of ad-libbing clowns, just as a final aside, one of the most hilarious accidental gaffes of the 1603 First Quarto are its draftsman's ad-lib additions to this very admonition of the Prince of Denmark's – against ad-libbing:

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Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.