A Good Accent is Hard to Find

Last week, in the wake of midterms and while examining the many nuances of John Stuart Mill, I went to see Shakespeare's Love's Labour's Lost.

The Globe Theatre of London obligingly left their foggy mysterious city (the majority of my mental pictures of London are scenes from Gaslight) to come to Ann Arbor, where they were no doubt trampled upon by charging mobs of Jansport-wielding students who were too involved in chortling over their latest text message to prevent the injury of a hestitant Shakespearean.

Here's my ticket! I'm saving it the same way you save the coaster at a fancy restaurant. Like a hoarding of proof that you can be expensive.

"Center or side?" the peaked clerk at UMS (University Music Society) had asked me, after he got over his surprise at being spoken to. I looked at the available seats and went instantly into optimization mode. This was just like choosing a seat for a plane ticket! First criteria: aisle! If many aisles available: close to the front! If many aisles close to the front: center row!


There were a few aisles close the front, but none in the center row. So, I got J4. How nice, I thought. I like the number 4. J is a good letter. Well, I arrived, and this was my view:

See that head right there? The one on the right bottom corner? That was not a friend of mine. I presume that was the boyfriend of the girl next to him, since she kept clutching his bicep at random points during the play (more restraining than affectionate in my opinion, but maybe he likes that). Yeah, anyways, given the rather, uh, less than panoramic view that J-4 allowed me, I took the far-too-unnecessarily-close-to-a-strange-person seat -- right next to him instead of the aisle seat. "Hello, stranger," I whispered seductively as I sat down, clutching his arm as a greeting. Ehhm, just kidding. Anyways.

I loved being in a theatre. Especially when it's spelled "theatre." Here's the king looking lionlike.

Here's a picture with most of the cast. There was always alot going on in this play. I was surprised by all the physical humor -- the king kept making this unlikely high-pitched screechy noise (which cracked me up every time, I might add) and this one other guy kept grabbing his crotch and shaking it. This supports my theory that all men have an affection for slapstick and sound effects, even William Shakespeare and Dominic Dromgoole (the director).There was one benefit, although a slightly alarming one, to being so close to the front yet so far to the side. Actors occasionally were very near my seat. Here's the crotch-grabbing man alarmingly close-up. He seemed like a merry fellow, but -I'm sure you understand- not the one I would have chosen to be within touching distance, given his crotch-grabbing history. (Look at his left hand! Where is that going, sir?) Okay, here's the person who I actually wanted to come a bit closer (cue Jay and the Americans). Berowne is the companion of the king who hesitates about swearing off women for three years when the four of them are signing the oath. What a smart lad! The actor, Trystan Gravelle, is Welsh and dashing. Look at him perched, looking broody, on that perillous piece of metal (okay, fine, not actually perillous, but I like to think so). His accent was amazing. Did I mention that he was Welsh? The French princess, in the orange, was also a wonderful actress. And look at their clothes! I love the dresses. Anyways, so after about an hour and a half of the play, everyone clapped and then people started streaming out. I thought it was odd, because the story didn't seem to be resolved. That's a bit abrupt of an ending, William, I tut-tutted in my head. Bicep boy next to me looked relieved when I rose to get my things. In my futile attempts to get pictures of the stage that were NOT grainy and blocked by an enormous pole, I had made some occasional leaps into his arms and lap.

So, I streamed out with the others, my heels clinking satisfyingly on the wooden floor, adding to my feeling of cultured sophistication. I pulled on my gloves. I had just gone to a Shakespeare play, I smiled to myself. All in all, I thought, it was a good experience. I should do it more often, go to the theater. Or better yet, the theatre.

Two hours later, my housemate (who had been at the play but in a different seat -- which probably didn't involve invading anyone's personal space or having no view of the front of stage) asked where I had gone. I blinked at her.

"I saw you get up during intermission," she explained, "then I didn't see you come back in."

"Ohhhh, right," I replied. ("Idiot!" screamed my brain.) "I, uh, had to leave early."

She looked sympathetic. "It's too bad you missed the ending."

It is, isn't it?

Intermission, n.

1. the break during acts; 2. the period when one does NOT waltz home with no realization that the story has not actually ended