His whole function suiting With forms to his conceit

Olivier slips into his antic disposition

I've long stood in the "Hamlet Ain't Cray-Cray" camp. Sure, he's an emo hipster at the start of the play, genuinely depressed about his father's death and his mother's o'er hasty, incestuous marriage. But when he meets the Ghost--the moment on which Hamlet's entire psyche hinges--he is not made mad with fear or anger or vengeful thoughts. Yes, he's filled with all these things, but it doesn't drive him mad.

Some people argue that the Ghost scene is enough evidence that Hamlet's already off his nut, but Horatio and Marcellus have confessed to have seen the Ghost as well, and they seem otherwise mentally stable in every way. The Ghost only really speaks to Hamlet, if you don't count the "swear" here and there when Horatio and Marcellus return to the stage to enact their oath to the Prince. Though overwhelmed with this vision and the information imparted about "murder most foul," Hamlet believes the Ghost in the moment, but even then begins to hatch a plan to confirm the Ghost's story. He commands his friends that they not give away the game of his feigned outward appearance and action--his "antic disposition"--no matter how "strange or odd soe'er I bear myself."

Next, Hamlet wordlessly freaks out Ophelia, successfully making Polonius believe he has gone mad with love. Claudius and Gertrude call up Hamlet's old flunkies to find him out, and then Polonius suggests how they might confirm his theory that Hamlet is lovesick for his daughter. When the players arrive, Hamlet is outwardly, eccentrically pleased with himself. No one is the wiser about what's truly sparking inside Hamlet's brain.

Now here's what I learned from memorizing the "O, what a rogue" soliloquy, and why it confirms my belief that Hamlet is not totes bananas. It tellingly begins with "Now I am alone." It's important enough that he announces it: "Now I am alone." He's been so busy putting on his "madness" mask for everyone that he's exhausted and feels he must speak with himself. His duplicity of character begins to appear in this speech, as he mentally breaks his own pate across for not having the courage to express his truest feelings to the world. He's jealous of the players for their masks, and how they can conjure up tears for a conceit, when he cannot weep for a truth. During this diatribe, it is clear that Hamlet is very hard on himself, for it was just the night before that he saw the Ghost, but he soon reveals his cunning plan to the audience. "The play's the thing," he states, "wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King."

At the end of this soliloquy, Hamlet is resolved to "observe [the King's] looks" and "tent him to the quick." He notes that the Ghost may be lying, that he "may be a dev'l, and the dev'l hath power T'assume a pleasing shape." Hamlet's ready for action. He's rationally, scientifically devising a way to test the Ghost's claims before he will allow himself to carry out a rash act of vengeance. This is Spock-like behavior. It may have more the Shantner-esque flourish, but it's Vulcan logic all the way.

But still, many believe that only half a scene later, he's preparing himself for suicide. WHY? Because he comes back onto the stage and recites "To be or not to be."

Respectfully, WTF.

If one forgets that the last soliloquy ever happened, only half a scene before, then one could interpret "To be or not to be" as a pure contemplation on suicide and its consequences. Many people believe this soliloquy is a true representation of Hamlet's character, and that when he sees Ophelia, he is pushed over the edge and gives into his madness.

I call bullshit on this.

Hamlet is a bit paranoid at this point--as his "Now I am alone" line can attest--but not without reason. He is well aware that R & G are spying on him. He suspects the King and Queen suspect he is mad. He knows Ophelia has been scared out of her knickers and that that's why Polonius has been pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.

In Act III, Sc. I, just before Hamlet arrives to enact his famous speech, Claudius says he has "closely sent for Hamlet hither," telling us that Hamlet has been summoned. Hamlet must suspect that someone will be waiting for him. He was never just walking around the castle idly voicing his thoughts. When he enters, he has this fabulous speech prepared, just in case someone is listening. And someone is listening--Claudius and Polonius are there, "seeing unseen" so they may judge what is bothering Hamlet.

Hamlet's no dumbass. He would never discuss his deepest thoughts out loud unless he were sure he were alone. "To be" fits his antic disposition, and could very easily throw off his pursuers. They would never guess from those existential thoughts that he suspects the King has been murdered and that he wishes to indict Claudius.

When Ophelia steps out, Hamlet is momentarily buoyed by her presence, and, for a tiny moment, almost allows her to distract him. But he keeps stepping forward on his balance beam of lies, keeping up his pretense that he is mad over love for Ophelia. "Ha, ha! Are you honest?" he asks, already suspecting her complicity in a trap. "Where's your father?" he asks, giving her one more chance to reveal her true intentions to him. He wants her to be on his side, but as soon as she says "At home, my lord," he knows her alliance is with Polonius, and he is truly heartbroken at that point. He goes a bit mad--for real-- and it feeds into the original lie of his madness, at least as far as Polonius is concerned. Hamlet walks away from this scene more upset than before, and Claudius actually begins to believe that this is not true madness.

But Hamlet is still one step ahead of everyone. If Hamlet were mad, he never would have been able to keep his secret of the Ghost's tale. If the Ghost were lying, Claudius wouldn't have confessed to any murderous actions and guilt for killing his own brother. If Hamlet were suicidal, he would just mope around, unable to rouse himself into the man of action he truly is. And if anyone wants to argue otherwise on that point, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.

There with fantastic garlands did she make

Orchis mascula

In between re-practicing all my speeches and writing a novel (well, three novels... I've been at this every summer for three years now), I am currently engaged in reading A History of the Orchid by Merle A. Reinikka. This publication is something of a Godsend for me, as I have been searching for a legitimate, comprehensive, historical chronicle of human fascination with orchids for quite a while now and I am in heaven with this book.

Ever since I downloaded Darwin's The Various Contrivances by Which Orchids Are Fertilized by Insects onto my Kindle from the Open Library, I find myself compelled to seek out little-known researches and journals on the most engrossing of botanicals. The whole book is essentially very detailed orchid porn, and it has led me to scour the internet for--and in two cases, obtain--some of the orchids he studied. Thank you, Darwin, for everything.

Anyhow, six pages into the History, the author mentions Shakespeare and how he peppered references to all sorts of plants, weeds, and flowers throughout his plays. Entire gardens (I've been to two in NYC myself) have been dedicated to the plants that pop up in his works. Indeed, there are many, but only once did he throw an orchid into the lot.

Of course, it was in Hamlet, Act IV, Sc. VII, when Gertrude is setting the scene of Ophelia's death for Claudius and Laertes:

There is a willow grows aslant a brook
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do “dead men’s fingers” call them.


The author of The Plant-Lore and Garden-Craft of Shakespeare agrees that the "long purples" and "dead men's fingers" are reference to the common purple Orchises (Orchis latifolia, O. morio, O. mascula, and O. maculata) found in English woods and meadows.

This green thumb with over 50 orchids to her name was ecstatic with these tidbits. That the only reference to orchids ever made was in Hamlet (my favorite!) just ices the cake for me.

Orchids, by the way, got their name from the Greek orchis, meaning testis, because most of the orchids the ancients knew about at the time had testiculate bulbs that resembled male genitalia. Based on the "Doctrine of Signatures," plants that approximated human anatomy in shape were believed to treat or cure ailments related to the corresponding body parts. So it follows that orchids were thought to assist with fertility. If a man consumed the plump, fresh orchid tuber, they would beget male children. If a woman ate the dried up roots, they would bear females.

Given all the talk of conception ("Conception is a blessing, but, as your daughter may conceive..." Act II, Sc. II) and "chaste treasure" earlier in the play, one could surmise that poor, scandalized Ophelia may have had certain adult activities on her mind while she was picking her flowers.

Just a bit of vegetation for thought. Next week, I think a new speech is in order. Stay tuned!

The Fig of Spain and other possible Shakespearean cocktails

A Joe Peretore creation

Several evenings last summer, while I was on yet another trip to the cocktail capital of the world, my self-styled bartender friend Joe enthusiastically presented me with a series of new spirited concoctions. It's always like an episode of Iron Chef with Joe--just give him a suggestion for an ingredient and he'll go to work, shaking or stirring up a fine potable for your enjoyment. One night, he ran out of raspberry preserves for something resembling a Clover Club, so he used a spoonful of fig preserves instead. He presented it to me with a slightly crestfallen aura; he was a father whose child had no name. So I took a sip and the first thing that tripped off my tongue was "Fig of Spain." It's an gonads-inspired hand gesture/ insult from Pistol in Henry V. I explained to Joe the term's bawdy origin and a new drink was born. 

While riding city busses and trains and planes that summer, I was always browsing through a Kindle book on my iPod called "Shakespeare's Bawdy" by Eric Partridge, which explains where my brain was at the time. I've always loved colorful turns of phrase, especially ones with clever, tasteful innuendo. Shakespeare is a master of the craft of penis and fart jokes. It's something I wish we could teach kids in high school so they wouldn't be so bored or put off by his plays. If they knew how truly foul-mouthed Mercutio was, or how often Romeo and his buddies talked about snatch, teenagers would relate to Shakespeare so much better. Alas, teaching them what Hamlet meant by telling Ophelia it would "cost a groaning" to take off his edge would be frowned upon in our pretends-to-be-Puritan society. But them's the breaks. 

Flipping through Joe's cocktail recipe books and noting the witty and often risqué names most of them were given, I quickly realized that Shakespeare was an endless mine of beverage monikers. Next time I'm in Brooklyn, I'll have to get Joe to make something called a "Carnal Sting" or perhaps a "Bed Presser." I'd love to try whatever might be called "Fortune's Favours," "Country Matters," or even "Beast with Two Backs." I'll be sure to share whenever we figure one out.

So in the tradition of my dear friend Elissa's Game of Thrones craft blog (which is really awesomesauce, so if you're into it check it out), I give you the recipe for one of my most favorite cocktails ever:

The Fig Of Spain (courtesy of Joe Peretore)

2 oz Beefeater Gin

3/4 oz lemon juice

1/2 oz simple syrup

1 egg white

1 teaspoon fig preserves

Shake all ingredients until your arms fall off.

Add ice until shaker is 3/4 full.

Shake until your heart gives out.

Strain into a saucer champagne glass. 

Sip and recite Shakespeare.

O that this too too solid flesh would melt

Our dear Hamlet, the most emo kid on the block--who actually has very legitimate reasons for being so emo--is the master of soliloquizing, and he lays down his first track with uncompromising skill. He's pissed at his mom for marrying his uncle so soon after King Hamlet died, an event so hastily and thriftily executed that "the funeral-baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables." In this speech, he praises his father to the sky, compares his seemingly grief-proof new "parents" to beasts, calls them incestuous, and then laments that he must keep his trap shut... a self-imposed rule which he proceeds to ignore for five acts.

Hamlet is THIS distraught even BEFORE Horatio conveys the sighting of the king's ghost. And later, Polonius fucks up his love life by berating Ophelia, basically calls her a whore, and forbids her to hang out with Hamlet anymore. Then Claudius and Gertrude set two of Hamlet's flunkies to spy on him because they have no idea why Hamlet is so upset.

This whole family needs an intervention. Or a year's supply of Xanax. Or both.

This soliloquy, for me, is one of the easiest to remember. Its emotion is embedded in the text so deeply and clearly, and the context so plain in its resentment and bemusement that you can't help but begin to chew the scenery as you speak it aloud. Also, I just play Sir Kenneth Branagh's performance of it through my head and it comes naturally. 

Hamlet, Act I, Sc. II

Hamlet: O that this too too solid flesh would melt,

Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world
Fie on't! ah, fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead! Nay, not so much, not two.
So excellent a king, that was to this
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; and yet, within a month-
Let me not think on't! Frailty, thy name is woman!- 
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father's body
Like Niobe, all tears- why she, even she
(O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourn'd longer) married with my uncle;
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules. Within a month,
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue!