The Ghost of Old Hamlet is such an aimless sort. Why doesn't he go directly to Prince Hamlet? Why does he hang out with working stiffs like Barnardo and Marcellus as if to passively suggest, hey, I don't want to impose on anyone, but would you ask my son if he wants to hang? What if Barnardo and Marcellus, concerned for their mental health, just decided to never mention the apparition to Horatio (and Hamlet—because Horatio lives to shine Hamlet's ego)? Would Hamlet just go off to University and become a priest while the ghost of Hamlet continues to pester the staff at Elsinore castle?
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Something about Hamlet and grief. How everything starts because of a son mourning his father, and going to extreme lengths to find some sort of resolution to fill the aching hole in his heart, to avenge his father. How in seeking this he only manages to destroy what he still has. How in his grief-stricken quest for revenge, he kills his love's father, and she in turn is made mad with grief. How her brother's grief serves as a direct parallel to Hamlet's. How both Ophelia and Laertes' mother's absence, though never directly referenced, hangs over the family's every scene. How, in the end, Hamlet and Laertes and Ophelia destroy each other and everything around them in their grief. How none of it fixed anything. Claudius dies, sure, and Denmark is rid of one asshole king in a long line of asshole kings. His successor is Fortinbras of Norway, another character mourning the loss of a father, though notably (and I think intentionally) devoid of much significant characterization. It isn't satisfying or overtly tragic that he is the one to inherit the throne. It means nothing to the audience because it means nothing in the end. Horatio is left to be the last to grieve, as Laertes grieved a sister, killed by grief of her father, killed by Hamlet seeking revenge in grief for his father, who lost a father, and that father lost lost his. All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
a fic based on the poem
"Lost at sea,
he guides me home.
My lover
is a lighthouse.”
A modern Hamlet feels his feelings after Old Hamlet dies. Horatio comforts him.
Life looked different from up above. It looked smaller. Down in the fray, everything seemed important, urgent. From above (thirty five stories above, to be specific), nothing really seemed to matter.
Hamlet sat on the rooftop of his apartment complex often. When he needed to calm down, to remember that life wouldn’t come crashing down around him, he climbed the stairs that led to the roof, walked across the gravelly rooftop, and sat on the edge of the building, his legs dangling off the sides.
Hamlet found that it was comforting to surround himself with buildings rather than people. Buildings were unassuming. Buildings didn’t expect anything from you. When things got rough, you could sit on top of a tall building, feel the cold air on your face and in your lungs, listen to life without partaking in it, and let the tightness in your chest recede a little.
Or at least, that’s what usually happened.
Today was different, though.
Today, Hamlet had gotten off work to three missed calls from his mother. He called her back on the subway ride home. And that’s when she told him.
His father had passed away at some point last night.
His father, his hero, the man he strived to take after, was dead.
Hamlet was still in shock. In fact, he didn’t quite remember getting off the subway. He didn’t remember walking home, or climbing the stairs, or sitting down on the edge of the roof.
It made sense that he was here, though. Where else would he go? Where do you go when the one person in the world who has always been there for you, always looked after you, since the very beginning, is gone?
Perhaps, to the edge of the world. Or as close to it as you can find. Perhaps, you should go to wherever you can find a vantage point, a place where you can look down on life, where you can see the darkening skyline. Perhaps, if you look hard enough, you can find the person you lost, moving between worlds. Perhaps, you can say goodbye.
He never got to say goodbye.
And just then, like a dam breaking in his chest, everything came flooding out. The anger, the sadness, the guilt. Nothing felt right anymore. The whole world felt like a shirt made from the wrong material, itchy and uncomfortable, not allowing you to focus until you removed it.
But how? How could he stop the feelings breaking free from his chest? How could he stop the thoughts worming their way into his brain, telling him he should have called him more, should have shown more gratitude, should have been a better son?
Suddenly, there was someone next to Hamlet, sitting on the ledge beside him, swinging his own legs over the edge.
Horatio.
Hamlet hadn’t heard him approach. He must have been too caught up in his own feelings. But now he was here.
The wrongs of the world felt just a bit more bearable with Horatio at his side, putting his arm around Hamlet’s shoulder and pulling him in close.
Horatio didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. That was part of his beauty. Horatio understood the value of silence. Horatio understood.
And so Hamlet laid his head on Horatio’s shoulder and cried.
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okay so like, something the rsc 2016 production does that i love and that i wish they did more of is this sense of hamlet being bodily possessed when the ghost shows up. that slaps! i am obsessed with the idea of them speaking as one (because this is supposed to be a scary ghost story, gang) and there’s just this haunting voice pouring out of hamlet that both does and doesn’t belong to him. and when the ghost goes “SWEAR” when hamlet is with horatio, marcellus and bernardo? and hamlet echoes it terrifyingly?? gives them even further justification for their horror (and for why horatio thinks hamlet shouldn’t have gone in the first place :( )
AND THEN we see it again in III.iv. when hamlet is talking to his mom and she’s terrified because oh god her son is being possessed by some evil spirit
anyway i’m very excited to direct hamlet in like 1.5-2 years, i have many ideas
