Polonius
On
Sunday afternoon, I watched a production of Hamlet,
four hours of dramatic Polish discourse of which I understood a collective
minute and a half of lines. Żyć albo nie żyć,
is still the question, “To live or not to live?” The answer for those of us in
the audience, even well into the fourth hour, was rather easy, but for the
characters themselves, most of whom indeed perish by play’s end, it is/was a
much liver question. The gravediggers—though, yes, drunk and probably alcoholic
before the letter—seemed to be having the most fun and certainly got the most
laughs. There is something to be said for lives of convivial anonymity. The desperate,
often secret play for power, sex, and position remains the darkliest of dark
comedy in this lighter, brighter, and perhaps more frivolous age. However much
we mock our contemporary political failings and failures, most of those players
are still at least one step removed from this more lethal game of thrones.
Most
delightful and pathetic of the performances was Polonius, who was played—though
he can be played otherwise—comically, lanky and shrewd in his own way, but at the same time,
out of his emotional depths in this lurid contest of wits and wills. His look reminded me
of a cross between Marty Feldman and Mick Fleetwood. After his stabbing through
the drapery, he remains onstage a rather lengthy period of time under the
curtain, as if in a black velvet sack. What does an actor think about under
those circumstances, in the dark, the play still going on about him?
Polonius’s name, of course, derives from an Anglicized reference
to 17th century Poles. In
Poland, Shakespeare himself has recently undergone serious polonization.
Previously, recognizably Shakespeare,
he is now Szekspir.
