His virtues will plead like angels

Sir Kenneth Branagh in the current Manchester stage production of Macbeth

Every summer, I split town/state/country for a couple weeks so I can take a break from my beloved Floridian monsoon season and from my own brain. For the last three years, I've been working on three scifi novels, the bulk of which is written in a creative frenzy during the eight weeks of summer vacation my school job affords me. It's a beautiful thing. But it can make you go a little nutter after a while.

This year, I'm heading back to Brooklyn to be warmed in the bosom of my friends and the wonders of New York City. The last time I was there, I experienced Sleep No More--NYC's ongoing interactive performance of Macbeth. I mentioned it before, but it bears reassurance that it is one of the MOST THRILLING WAYS TO ENCOUNTER SHAKESPEARE EVER. I spent the entire evening running around in a dark, creepy hotel with my dear friend and a bunch of athletic actors silently portraying the physicality of deep dark human emotions associated with The Scottish Play. Seriously, it was worth every cent of the $100+ I spent. We audience members had to wear masks and we could not speak the entire three hours. We were free to wander the floors and throng behind Lady Macbeth to her bathtub or help the witches put their clothes back on. There was blood and gore and moving trees and dancing and cocktails. Unforgettable.

Last summer was also my personal Shakespeare revival of sorts. I was close to my goal of reading every word of Shakespeare at the time, and I was primed for finally tasting the fruits of Sir Kenneth Branagh's films. I caught up very quickly and soon realized that he was the perfect object for my fangirlish predilections. It was love at first soliloquy.

This summer, having polished my Shakespeare/Branagh appreciation to a glistening shine, I am hyper keen for my second trip back to the UK. Last month, in between Skype sessions with my Newcastle friends to plan our jaunt to Dublin, National Theatre Live made a very exciting announcement. On July 20th, they would broadcast Manchester International Festival's highly anticipated stage production of Macbeth throughout the UK. It stars Sir Ken and Alex Kingston (from Doctor Who!). Its Branagh's first Shakespearean role in ten years.

I thought to myself, OMG I will be in the UK on July 20th. 

My brain/ovaries proceeded to explode. The weird sisters themselves couldn't have predicted a more fortuitous situation.

Not too long after the announcement, tickets went on sale at midnight UK time, which was only 7 pm my time, so I was awake and ready to grab front-row seats at the Tyneside Cinema. 

So, just days from catching my flight out of my world and my mind, I have decided to take up this famous speech in honor of Macbeth, the Bard, Sir Ken, and my most loyal and understanding friends who have gamely indulged my nerdiest desires. Macbeth, two ways, two cities, two intense interpretaions. Excuse my *SQUEEEE*

Analysis and ruminations will have to wait until after I return from my voyages. See y'all in a few weeks!

Macbeth, Act I, Sc. VII
Macbeth: If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust;
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.