Hi Ho!

The Globe Theatre, on the south bank of the murky Thames River in London, is an impressively exact replica of the theatre built in 1599, in which the plays of Shakespeare, himself a part owner, were performed. It is so authentic that to spend 3-1/2 hours sitting on a straight-backed wooden bench, cobbled together for tiny people, is to appreciate the novelty of live theatre for “the masses,” the durabilty of the Bard’s legacy, and how literally “hard-up” they were for entertainment.

I would not have dreamed-up spending the pounds sterling and the time to attend a performance here but, for my sister-in-law, Jan, who has spent 15 years adapting Shakespeare for children’s theater in New Hampshire, this is a pilgrimage to sacred ground and, as she bought the tickets, I go along willingly and ignorantly, hoping to fall in love, as she has, with William. I am determined to enjoy every moment. The original Globe Theatre was built in Shoreditch by James Burbage, father of impresario Richard Burbage, in 1576, but when his 20-year lease expired the building was moved timber by timber and rebuilt near the current site on the very dodgy side of the river. Destroyed by fire in 1613 and soon rebuilt, banned in 1642 by that happy-go-lucky lot, the Puritans, and finally demolished to make room for tenements 1644, it took the persistent vision of American actor-director Sam Wanamaker to shepherd the historically-accurate reconstruction of the first thatched-roof building permitted in London since the Great Fire in 1666. Sadly, Wanamaker died months before its completion in 1997.  

The theatre is built in the round (thus the name Globe) with three steep tiers of wooden benches and a stage that projects into a circular yard open to the sky. Every performance throughout the May to October season is played to a packed house and 700 hearty souls, seeking the authentic 17th-century peasant experience, stand for hours, rain or shine, with necks craned upward toward the stage. These “groundlings” pay five pounds for this, a chiropractor’s delight, and risk recrimination by somber theatre matrons should they violate the “no sitting or leaning” rule. We are lucky to have our straight-backed seats — be careful not to kick the poor sot in front of you — but even the gratis cushion issued upon entry is not enough to stem the mind-and-body-numbing ache of a corny 400-year-old sitcom full of archaic political commentary espoused through muffled vocalizations. 

You see, true to the past, there are no microphones, so you only get the words that are thrown in your direction. Straining to hear adds to the tiresomeness of 210 minutes of physical discomfort. Although there are no mics, electric lights, sprinklers to protect against fire and a maximum capacity of 1,300 per show — compared with 3,000 in Shakespeare’s time — are concessions to modern safety. In the drowsy muffled darkness, my mind drifts to the image of 3,000 filthy, stinking, plague-ridden men and women, drunk on grog and out for an afternoon of bawdy theatre. I dose and wake abruptly as the woman in front, whose back I’ve been kicking, grabs my foot. So Sorry! I stand to stretch in the back row. A matron appears: what are you doing? I shrug, trying to stay awake. The minutes stretch like silly putty and I berate myself for being the only Philistine who is bored to tears. I don’t want Jan to suspect that I am having less than an incredible time. 

Suddenly, Jan’s husband Richard, an avid Shakespeare fan, makes a hasty retreat down the winding stairs. I assume he has to find a loo. But he does not return and some 20 minutes later, when the play mercifully ends, we find him in the courtyard. “I couldn’t take it any more!” he exclaims, almost giddy. “That was the longest three hours of my life!” Jan corrects him, “Three and a half.” Even she concedes it was painfully long and apologizes for our suffering. We all have a good laugh, glad we experienced The Globe, and glad it is over.  With the lanterns along Southwalk casting a romantic glow upon the quiet Thames, we walk across the artistically-stretched steel of the Millennium Bridge, use our international cell phones to check in at home, and head back to our cushy, plague-free 21st century reality. 

This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007 at 5:09 pm and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.