sacrilegious inanity

previously published by me elsewhere:

The houselights poured down upon us. Our shadows melted onto the remnants of the set from the show that closed two weeks ago. There was a chill in the air and some vague attempts at misappropriated British accents. This was the scene at our local blackbox theater on Tuesday evening. Several of us were there to run through a couple scripts of tentative shows for next season. I've steadily become the standby camera guy for their shows and I consider many of them my friends, but beyond that my presence was pretty much unjustified.

On the menu were the screenplay for the 1985 cult classic based on the Parker Brothers game, "Clue", and that rabblerousing "Hamlet" via "Waiting for Godot" piece, "Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead". My apologies in advance, but for my picky palate the soup du jour kicked the entrée's ass.

Over the years I'd merely heard buzz from my dorky Thespian pals and intellectual compatriots about the greatness of the latter work. Although I'll grant that the inactive read-through won't do much justice to most shows, I found it to be a real yawner in parts, mostly for its Shakespearean ass-kissing. When will this persistent canonization of the Bard end? I was set to share these opinions with my brethren, but they all seemed so enthusiastic. That same enthusiasm I have seen before, many times.

That enthusiastic Will Love often comes across to me as disingenuous, as if most people are just trying to impress, look learned, and show the gigantic size of their brainstem. Bill and I go way back. In fact, I recall trying to travail Juliet's tower at a pre-teen age. The tattered copies of Shakespeare's plays filled part of a shelf in the living room, and I've always fancied things full of dialogue instead of all of that other nonsense.

A couple years ago I had planned on making a short film based on "A Winter's Tale" with a friend of mine, who was trying to get me to see or, rather, understand the greatness everyone else seems to grasp. Ultimately the language feels oppressive to me, as if what was once open for the dumb masses has left a sector of the populace out in the cold, scratching their heads, disinterested, and insulted. Might I add, filled with ire? I liken it to my wife's distaste for Bob Dylan. He's highly revered for his extensive contribution to music, yet she'd prefer he shut the fuck up and let anyone else this side of Tom Petty sing the tunes.

Hey, I'll admit I'm limited in my refinement, regardless of the many stories I'd like to tell to dispel such a rumor. I'm less Frasier and more, uh, some less brie-scented option. I'd rather drink my wine, not smell it. I'm the antithesis of a Shakespeare snob, and damn proud of that fact. I've no problem missing the next tights and swords show about some King, or stomping my muddied boots all over Wm.'s coattails, conceiving whatever tragedy that might strike my fancy of my own according and without offering sampling credit on the liner notes.

Take that Kenneth Branagh!