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Eating Up “The Waves” by Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf’s The Waves is just a really long, complicated poem. By which I mean, I didn’t completely understand it, but it sounded really nice.

It follows six friends through their lives, from childhood until death, and is narrated by each of them in turn, in strange, trance-like streams of subconsciousness. These streams of sub-consciousness are told entirely using direct dialogue that does not seem as though it is actually being spoken. Breaking up chunks of this ‘dialogue’ are chunks of narration that describe the scenery, the waves and the sun on its journey through the sky, which mirrors our heroes’ and heroines’ journeys through life.

The words and sentences ebb and flow together like the streams of consciousness that Woolf alters between. But where waves can be messy, her tight prose weaved seamlessly together like the cotton threads in a gauzy, flowing scarf.

But, to write up another comparison, my experience with the book was kind of the opposite of how one views a pointillist painting. From far away, seeing it as a whole, it becomes a blur of metaphors and symbols that I can’t grasp. But up close, in one little sentence at the top of a page, a phrase a few paragraphs down, an excerpt later on, I bit into delicious morsels of truth.

Obviously there was a whole feast of truths and ideas, covered in brilliance sauce. But, for a little not-yet-an-English-major like me, the morsels were all I could get at. All I could appreciate. They were sweet champagne, bubbling over in seductive flutes, that anyone might sip. The rest was a deep red wine with notes of this and that, which my inexperienced palate couldn’t yet detect.

But I’m learning that that’s okay. I’m young, I don’t have to know and understand and appreciate every nuance in every piece of literature I read. I can take and enjoy my morsels and come back for a second plate of more substantial dishes later. Because the sumptuous spreads laid out in books never spoil. And you can come back later for seconds and thirds and even fourths. And what you gain from this kind of face-stuffing goes to your brain not your hips.

Theatre’s Aesthetic Appeal

I like looking at pretty things. Nay, I love looking at pretty things. If I had to choose, I’d say ‘sight’ is my favourite and most essential sense (followed closely by hearing and touch). So, it follows that one of my favourite parts of theatre is how it adds up visually. Sometimes, I find it hard to concentrate on what the actors are saying, much less figure out what their character’s names are, because I’m so distracted by everything there is to see.

This is also true of films, but in movies the illusion holds up more. It’s easier not to notice the ‘inauthenticity’ of the sets and costumes and everything else that went into making it beautiful. They’re more seamlessly lifelike.

Whereas, in theatre, even when you get lost in the illusion — as I often do — it’s still pretty obvious that you’re looking at sets on a stage. But I actually adore this distinction between film and theatre. When it’s a play, I notice the aesthetics — and little makes me happier than a well-dressed stage and cast.

Furthermore, the costumes and sets say so much about the tone of the piece. In the past year I saw productions of Our Town and The Matchmaker, both by Thornton Wilder. Though they were by the same writer, they had different tones and therefore the costumes and sets were nothing alike. And because the visuals fit the content and tone perfectly, they were both stunning and added loads of depth.

Because the visuals are such an important part of my theatre-viewing experience, it really bothers me when the visuals don’t live up to my high standards and ideals. This has mostly happened in the Shakespeare productions I’ve seen. Oftentimes, the directors try to update Shakespeare’s plays, and their favourite way to do this is by modernizing the costumes. Period costumes are my favourite kind. And it bothers me when the costumes aren’t right. Either in tone, or geography or time period.

But, when I do see a play with costumes and sets that I adore, and approve of, it is euphoric. Last night I had one such experience. Our school took us to see the play 1776 last week and some of my friends and I liked it so much that we decided to see it again. It’s a ‘musical play’ about the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Despite how lame it sounds (and how lame I thought it would be) it was divine. Aesthetically speaking anyways. The set was somewhat simple, yet elegant — complete with a large turntable to accommodate both indoor and outdoor scenes.

What I also liked was that the ‘congressional janitors’ did all of the between-scene furniture moving, in charactor — so that scene changes were completely integrated into the play itself.

And then there were the actors. You’ll have to pardon me for a moment while I wipe the drool off my keyboard. The nearly all male cast was clad in beautiful, late 18th century attire — complete with pony-tailed wigs and white stockings. I’m aware that this might not sound too appealing, but you’ll have to take my word for it — my friends and I did go back for seconds.

And oh, the colours! Don’t even get me started on the colours. It was a beautiful mix between drab browns for the less haughty, less affluent state representatives and deep, bright hues for the more haughty, more affluent state representatives. And of course there were several shades in between. The two ladies in the play wore elegant, full-skirted, tightly-corseted dresses.

And the (younger) actors themselves aren’t half bad. My gap year program is girls only, so, being a group of male-deprived teenage girls, we were very interested in the actors behind the characters. After last week’s performance, there was much Facebook stalking of these young gentlemen. Also much violent, melodramatic fanning of ourselves. And last evening we waited around after the show to get some autographs. (Which, I must say, made the actors very happy — although it was a little awkward when they had to remind us who they had played because they looked a little different in their street clothes.)

You wouldn’t think it, but Thomas Jefferson is fine. He’s literally tall, dark and handsome. And he has beautiful eyes. Andashirtlesspictureonfacebook. And I MET him, in person, in real life and discovered what it is to swoon.

And then there’s the representative from South Carolina whose name I can’t recall — my friends and I refer to him simply as “South Carolina”. Blue eyes. Pretty face. Southern accent. Bonus: he’s really from New Zealand, so he even has a beautiful accent in real life.

When I swoonfully related all this to my bestest friend (who isn’t as insane as I am), she laughed at me (in a ‘with me’ kind of way) and questioned the point of all this. She’s right, of course. These actors are way older than I am and besides, a several of them are (presumably) a tad homosexual. But, in reality, neither of these facts have any practical effect on my life. It’s not as though anything would happen without these ‘hinderances’.

I generally don’t go mad like this over real people, just fictitious ones. And that’s exactly what these guys are, despite the fact that they’re theatre actors whom I actually met, not film actors who live in a faraway place I’ve dubbed Movieland. The emotional energy I expend on these guys is no less theoretical than the emotional energy I expend on the likes of Mr. Darcy or Gilbert Blythe.

Because, after all, there’s a great difference between actors and the characters they play. And the guys whom my friends and I have lately ‘fallen madly in love with’ are really nothing more than illusions. Visually pleasing illusions, that is.

The Perks of the “Understanding English Teacher”

As always, I stayed in on Saturday night. I ended up watching The Perks of Being a Wallflower. With my parents. I can’t decide whether this is fitting or ironic.

Credit: IMBD

Charlie, our young hero, played by Logan Lerman is a psychologically damaged loner (aren’t we all?) who finally makes friends when he gets to high school, and drama ensues. Wow, that makes it sound like an awful movie. I should probably make a note to self along the lines of, “Self, avoid doing movie reviews”.

Pathetic synopsis aside, I adored it.

It had so many shadows of clichés, and yet, somehow, it seemed fresh. There’s the shy, quiet freshman, eating lunch alone at a big table. The understanding English teacher who’s book recommendations and pieces of wisdom help guide our young freshman. The friends who magically appear and are made with little effort. The gay best friend. The lunchroom fight. The drunken parties, the secretive displays of affection, the drugs. The satisfying ending.

Actually, all written out, that sounds kind of like Mean Girls. Except that Mean Girls is a comedy — of which I can recite almost every line — while this is a drama. And in Mean Girls the displays of affection are rather public and nonchalant. During the final scene of Wallflower, I swear I could hear Cady Heron narrating: “Finally, girl world was at peace.” Not that the line makes any sense in the context of the movie, but more that it made sense in the context of the nice, clean, for-now-everything’s-looking-pretty-good dénouement.

And yet, as I wrote, it felt very fresh. Though looking at what I wrote after that, I’m not sure why.

Maybe it’s because it isn’t what happens, but how it happens and why it happens. It’s a lot like Joseph Campbell’s monomyth, a concept I also learned back in grade nine, with my very own “understanding English teacher”. Campbell has this theory that most “hero’s journey’s” in most stories (from Greek myths to contemporary films) will follow the same basic pattern.

But you can make all kinds of cookies using the same cookie cutter, and they’ll all taste different, regardless of their shape. Furthermore, two bakers can use the same recipe and the same cookie cutters and the cookies will likely come out different. (Don’t believe me? Ask your mom to get the recipe for the cookies your friend’s mom makes and tell me your mom’s taste exactly the same.)

Also, clichés occasionally become clichéd for a reason. A lot of them are pretty true. So you can take that clichéd kernel expand it into something new and meaningful. But then some idiot (such as myself) goes to summarize it, and it gets crunched back into a cliché.

Take the “understanding English teacher”. That’s probably the fastest growing cliché in movies about high school. From Dead Poet’s Society to Freedom Writers to Easy A you’ll find one such character playing a pretty major role. In Mean Girls it’s a math teacher, but even then, English class plays a huge role: that’s where Glen Coco gets his four candy canes, that’s where Gretchen Wieners snaps after deciding that WE SHOULD TOTALLY JUST STAB CAESAR.

You GO Glen Coco! Credit: lolsnaps.com

And why? Because English teachers understand people. Because they read a lot so they must be pretty smart. Because they teach us about life, about ourselves. Which is kind of exactly what (the good) screenwriters are trying to do. And is there an easier way for screenwriters to convey messages, both to us and to the characters themselves, than to have English teachers convey those messages for them? Probably not.

Why else are these characters popping up more and more? Because they’re true. English teachers do change lives. At least the good ones do. They encourage you to read. To write. To explore your passions. To be yourself. To figure out who you even are. I know from personal experience. An English teacher once managed to change my life. Or something like that.

Charlie, while arguably a slight cliché, is true. Despite our entirely different experiences of life, he’s me, and yet, he’s his own person enough to be nothing like me. I want to be more like him, I’m glad I’m not more like him.

I don’t know if this movie was good or bad. I don’t know if it’s fresh or clichéd — sometimes I think life itself is kind of clichéd. But I do know that I adored it. It made me feel — and not just in a superficial way. I didn’t cry — movies rarely elicit such a reaction from me. But I had a lump in my throat the whole time, and puddles of tears that sat in my eyes without streaming over to my cheeks. It meant something to me, and to a lot of other kids my age. And that’s gotta be worth something.

“He Have His Goodness Now”

The other day I went to see Arthur Miller’s The Crucible put on by Soulpepper in Toronto’s Distillery District. It was phenomenal, incredible, stupendous. The sets were perfect in that they were subtle and fitting, the costumes seemed just right and the acting was amazing. There isn’t much more than that to say. When something is subpar, I can wax on forever about its flaws, but when I truly enjoy something, I find it hard to say anything. Not, I imagine, because there isn’t anything to be said, but because it just doesn’t seem to need saying. When something is done well, that generally appears seamless; you don’t sit pondering what makes it so good, you just take it for granted and become engrossed. Which is probably why it’s easier to criticize than to compliment. When something is done well, it is less noticeable, it’s simply as it should be; however, when it is done poorly, that’s what sticks out. This is probably why we’re quicker to notice (and punish) children when they misbehave, than to notice (and reward) children who behave properly.

But, life is more complicated than just good and bad, approval and disapproval. Not everything is all good and must be put on a pedestal, or all bad and to be put to shame. At least according to The Crucible. If something (or someone) is completely good or completely bad, that’s boring. It doesn’t seem worth talking about. It’s the tension between good and bad and the capacity for good and bad that make life (and people) interesting.

So, overall, the play was incredible, but there was one flaw that stuck out for me. I really didn’t like Abigail Williams. I understand that the character herself is not a likable person — we’re not supposed to like her. But I can’t figure out if I disliked her because the actress did such a good job playing her and I didn’t like her because I wasn’t supposed to or if it was because she really didn’t do a good job and that bothered me. I’m inclined to think the latter.

Abigail isn’t a nice person. She had an affair with John Proctor before the play began, and while he’s seen that it was wrong and put an end to it, she refuses to move on. She’s jealous of Proctor’s wife, Elizabeth, and wants her dead, with hopes of taking her place. She uses the witch trials as an opportunity to have Elizabeth accused and hanged for her own corrupt, selfish purposes. She’s a controlling, manipulative liar who gains power through the messed up system created by the trials and leads all the other (previously powerless) teenage girls in accusing many innocent people of “consorting with the devil”. The thing about her, though, is that she’s a really awful character who I just love to hate. She’s deliciously bad and has few to no redeeming qualities.

But I didn’t really get that from the girl who played her. She didn’t really seem so conniving and cruel and malicious. She was just kind of annoying. And her affected innocence didn’t feel enough like affectation. Maybe she didn’t do such a bad job. Maybe the actress or the director had a different interpretation of Abigail’s character than I did. But, because the rest of the play was so good, this one flaw was not only more noticeable, but it also bothered me more and made more of an impact.

Abigail Williams annoyingly portrayed by Hannah Miller.
Photo credit: Soulpepper.ca

The opposite applies as well, goodness has more value when it’s put next to badness. This is illustrated with John Proctor’s character. The play ends with *spoiler alert* his hanging. He chooses to be hanged rather than sign his name to lies and perpetuate the brutal witch trials, which he knows to be senseless, unjust and unfounded in real factual evidence. If he was just a perfect person, if he were a noble, just, well-behaved man from the start of the play, his self-sacrifice in the end wouldn’t be all that spectacular. What else would he do? Rebecca Nurse, an extremely calm, sensible, moral character shares the same fate. But no one really notices. It’s expected of her.

What’s so outstanding about Proctor is that he isn’t perfect from the start but still does the right thing in the end. He’s a good person, but he’s done wrong. He has an incredible reputation, and is respected in his community (which is why his final decision to die honourably rather than live because of a self-preserving falsehood actually matters and helps his society). But seven months before the play even began, he had that affair with Abigail. As far as he’s concerned, that one mistake makes him a terrible person and it was an error in judgment from which he can never recover. He does the right thing in the end, but literally up until the moment that he does, he isn’t sure if he’s going to — partly because he feels that since he’s already done one wrong thing, there’s no point in losing his life to do the right thing. But then he realizes that goodness and badness don’t have to be mutually exclusive. He sees that he does have some goodness in him and he chooses to do the right thing, because having done wrong previously is no excuse to do wrong again.

Patricia Fagan and Stuart Hughes as Elizabeth and John Proctor

The thing that makes him heroic, is that he has done bad but changes and does something good. That’s why he matters. That’s why he’s interesting. That’s why we love him. When something is all good or all bad, it’s boring — or at least boring to talk about. There isn’t necessarily much to say about a play that’s done perfectly or a man who behaves perfectly. But what really sticks out — whether in a bad way or in a good way — is when a play that’s superb has a flaw or when a not so ideal person does something truly noble. Because it’s the inconsistencies in life that are interesting and that really get people talking.

Of course, I’d rather a play that’s executed perfectly or a person who’s always good, but life’s more complicated than that and there’s good and bad in everything. And “there is nothing,” as Hamlet says (in Hamlet, act 2, scene II) “either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”. So maybe what I’m really getting at with this, is what do you focus on? The awesomeness of the rest of the play or the less-than-awesomeness of how Abigail was portrayed? The fact that John Proctor cheated on his wife or that fact that he was able to repent, move past that and do good in the end?

I’d say, learn from Proctor and choose goodness. There’s badness in each of us and there’s badness in the world around us. But maybe we shouldn’t focus on that. Maybe we should focus on the good and — despite our own or other people’s bad choices — try to do the right thing.

The Jane Austen Book Club

The Jane Austen Book Club… What do I think? Well, I read the book at some point in the past two years, last summer maybe? The fact that I don’t know specifically when says something right away, because I tend to track my life based on what I read when. When a book doesn’t make it onto that timeline that tends to mean it either sucked or it just wasn’t worth remembering — oftentimes it’s both. So that’s how I felt about the book: for what it was — chick lit that’s sole purpose in life is entertainment — it was just alright, nothing all that special.

Then I saw the movie. It was one of those rare instances where the movie actually surpasses the book — at least from where I sit lazily on the couch. So that’s where I’m going with this. I’m going to share my thoughts on the movie. But, for once in my life, I’m kind of having trouble forming thoughts. It was kind of really bad, but kind of really good. And I’m afraid to profess either of these opinions, because I don’t really feel strongly either way, but would hate for you to have a strong opinion (or even any opinion) that’s the opposite of whichever I choose and then you’ll think I’m stupid for either liking it or disliking it. That’s probably absurd of me. You probably don’t care one way or the other. You’ve probably never even seen this movie.

Credit: romancegirlsguide.blogspot.com

To summarize, there are these five women who all have issues in their lives, especially their love lives, and they start this book club, to ease the distress of their various circumstances. Oh, and they only read Jane Austen books in this book club — if nothing else, the book/movie is aptly named. They do this thing where they read one of Jane’s novel’s each month and each of them is responsible for hosting one meeting, so they each lead the discussion on one of Jane’s novels. But, (oh no, whatever shall they do?) they need six club members (because Jane wrote six novels) and they only have five. So then this Grigg guy comes in. And adds in some Emma-style drama, because he likes this Jocelyn character, but she tries to set him up with her friend and misunderstandings ensue — can you guess how that plot-line ends?

It’s a cute movie, really it is. I love how it starts with this montage of all the noise and technological annoyances that come with modern life — in contrast, I imagine, to the quiet, “simplicity” of life in Jane’s novels. I say “I imagine” because this wasn’t a theme which was really pursued. I’m not sure that there were any themes that got actually, truly pursued. And that’s okay. I guess. It isn’t a very literary work or anything and I’m probably missing the point. But I’m going to over-analyze the heck out of it anyways, because (according to my mother) I have to over-analyze everything. The book, from what I remember, seemed to be completely just for entertainment, the movie, on the other hand, seemed as though it was trying (so hard) to aspire to something more. It could also be that it really was a deep, serious, literary masterpiece and I just didn’t really get it — but I think it’s pretty safe to assume that it’s the former.

I think the problem is that, for me, it just doesn’t really stand on its own. By which I mean, that it’s nothing without Jane Austen. Yes, yes, I do get that that’s the point, but what I mean is the storyline of the movie itself is just nothing so special. I just couldn’t really care for the characters. And it isn’t really about anything. My favourite parts are when they’re talking about Jane and her books. This isn’t really a problem, per se, but it almost feels as though all the author/screenwriter wanted was to have characters discuss Jane Austen. And she wanted those characters to be similar to Jane’s heroines. And it’s a great idea. With loads of potential. I just don’t think it worked so well. There were too many characters, with too many problems and with some of them it was glaringly clear which characters they were like (especially because it’s spelled out for you) but with others you are (or at least I am) just so lost. Because a lot of the characters in this movie were similar to more than one of Jane’s characters. Which, again, in itself isn’t such a problem, it just felt as though it was trying to be deep and complex but was more just shallow and slightly confusing. Maybe if I watch it again it will be clearer, but I just don’t care to. Because it doesn’t seem like it’s confusing because it was done well and all the characters are just that complex, it seems like it’s confusing because it was just done sloppily.

You’ve Got Mail comes to mind for comparative purposes — although there’s really more of a contrast. It’s all about books and there are a whole bunch of really incredible Pride and Prejudice references. It’s done perfectly, because there aren’t so many references that Jane Austen is being shoved down your throat. Rather, P&P is a delightedly apt, not too overt (but not too subtle either) inter-text for that movie. Forgetting for just a second that P&P is my favourite book and these references are what make You’ve Got Mail my favourite movie, these references are completely vital. They develop Kathleen’s character and they develop her relationship with Joe. You see how she feels about Jane, you see how he feels about Jane, you see them discussing Jane. And, of course, they have this adorable hate-at-first-sight, Darcy-Lizzie relationship going on, that can’t help but end well.

Cover of "You've Got Mail"

Credit: Amazon

What works so well about the Austen references in You’ve Got Mail is that they come second. Yes, Kathleen is kind of like Elizabeth and Joe is kind of like Darcy, but that isn’t the entire point of the movie. It isn’t even most of the point of the movie. P&P got added in because it was relevant and it works to enhance (and add some depth and awesomeness) to the movie. Whereas in The Jane Austen Book Club, the Austen references are the movie, while the actual movie’s storyline and original characters come second. All the similarities between the characters in the movie and the characters in Jane’s novels seem contrived, and the entire point seems to be fitting this movie to Jane Austen, instead of fitting Jane to the movie.

Also, going back to over-analysis of themes, I know it isn’t a literary work, so applying what I know about the major literary movements is probably kind of moot, but I’m going to do it anyways. It kind of seems to be a clash between today’s postmodernism and Jane Austen’s “Jane-Austen-y-happily-ever-after-ism” (I can’t figure out which movement Jane belongs to — I refuse to believe it would be romanticism… would it?). It’s all about love and marriage and human connection in today’s society, where almost half of all marriages end in divorce. It’s about being alone versus being in a relationship. It seems to try so hard to be postmodern in its view of such things. But then it contrives the ending so that everyone ends up happily together with just the right person. It ties it all up just so neatly, which, — aside from being anything but postmodern, it is a rom-com after all — is ironic in light of a conversation earlier in the movie, where they contemplate the messiness of love.

Final thoughts? I don’t even know. It wasn’t really good. But, they talk about Jane Austen… How can I complain about a movie where the central focus is characters gathering around to talk about Jane, her life and her works? That’s probably why this subpar movie didn’t completely die upon arrival — we Janeites just can’t seem to help ourselves.

Have you ever seen it? What did you think? Are you an ardent lover of all things Jane? Do you think that has any impact on how you felt about this movie? (I’d love to hear what someone who isn’t in love with Austen thinks of this movie — but would any such people even bother watching it?)

Where are all the “words, words, words”?

Today I went to see the National Ballet of Canada’s production of Hamlet. It was only the second ballet I’ve ever seen, the first being something along the lines of Cinderella with a great aunt, when I was really small, so I wasn’t really sure what to expect. Nonetheless, I was very excited, especially as I loved reading Hamlet for school this year and I just finished re-reading it to prepare for last week’s English exam.

It turns out that they don’t talk much in ballets. Who would’ve thunk it? Probably someone who knows a thing or two about dance, or is at all cultured or who has been to the ballet a few times. Unfortunately, none of the aforementioned qualities are true of me, so while I had an inkling, I really wasn’t so sure what I was getting myself into. Of course, that isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy it — I did — or that I don’t have some thoughts on the affair — I do. However, bear in mind, that I know nothing about ballet or even dance in general, beyond occasionally watching “Dance Moms” on Slice instead of doing my homework, so this is a pretty uneducated opinion, with more of a literary-minded take on the performance than an assessment of its value as a ballet — mostly because I would have no idea how to assess its value as a ballet.

“Dost thou think Alexander [the Great] looked o’ this fashion in’th’ earth?” (5.1.182-3).
Photo credit: http://national.ballet.ca

In the “Ballet Talk”, before the performance started, the speaker talked about the importance of Shakespeare’s use of language, and in outlining the play’s plot, she touched upon the fact that Shakespeare’s plots where often unoriginal, and what matters more is his language and how he portrays these plots. That being said, she talked about converting Shakespeare’s language and sentiments into movement. I, as someone who apparently doesn’t speak ‘the language of dance’, just didn’t really get it and (for me) a lot was lost in the translation. Of course, it could be argued that there was also a ton gained in translation, and, to someone who can appreciate that medium, it may have been far more powerful than a traditional, theatrical production would be for them. Unfortunately I’m not one of those people.

I’m a words person, I like how they sound, how they feel lolling around on the tip of your tongue, how they can make you ache or laugh ’till you’re in tears. I find music and movement to be beautiful, as the performance certainly was, but it just didn’t move me to the degree I expected, and wanted, to be moved. I saw the silent film The Artist earlier this year, and surprisingly I didn’t miss the talking at all. For some reason, however, I strongly felt the absence of the spoken word in this performance.

That being said, it’s interesting to look at the choice to translate Shakespeare from the theatre stage to the ballet stage. Watching Hamlet play out his inner conflict just physically really got me thinking. Yes, it was an interesting and compelling way to get his turmoil across, but I think that this can be done just as effectively by marrying body language to verbal expression. The woman talking about the ballet mentioned that each movement has deep meaning and serves a creative purpose. Perhaps someone who speaks the language might understand the difference between one hip thrust and another, but I cannot and I felt that much of Hamlet’s “soliloquy dancing” took up more time than necessary. Yes, Hamlet, I get that you’re upset and you’re conflicted, but I understood that five minutes ago, what does this move do to add to my knowledge of your grief? Again, perhaps these physical soliloquys meant more to more discerning audience members, but to me I would have gotten the gist of it in half the stage time.


That’s Hamlet, just being his usual, conflicted, angst-y self.
Photo credit: http://national.ballet.ca

For me, words and imagery paired with that body language would have been far more effective. While I was watching (and my mind was wandering) I was reminded of a child throwing a temper tantrum because she is having difficulty organizing and expressing her feelings. Her mother of course urges her to use her words to explain and work through what’s bothering her. I think that this analogy brings the ballet into a new light. Perhaps this expression through movement is an authentic manifestation of raw emotion, making it a thoroughly appropriate medium for conveying Hamlet’s intensely emotional strain.

That being said, it can also be looked at from the other side, where the mother, or the voice of reason, points out the importance of using one’s words. In the real world, those of us who are emotionally mature express our feeling and interact with one another using spoken language. Of course it is not the only mode of expression, but it seems more mature than just a physical burst of angst and pain. Also, I think that, on its own, movement can only go so far to convey messages. I understood the angst, the slight humour and the love and lust they were depicting, but Shakespeare is about so much more than raw emotions and his words allow him to convey many things on as many levels. From my slight understanding of the ballet, much of Shakespeare’s thematic significance, symbolism and even humour was lost.

This isn’t an argument against the ballet, and I still found myself enjoying the performance quite a bit. While I didn’t get as much out of it as I would have liked, I’m sure this would have been a completely different review if I had some knowledge and understanding of the art form. Is anyone a fan of the ballet (as a whole or with regards to Shakespeare adaptations)? Any challengers want to refute my claims? Any ballets you would recommend? I’d love to hear the other side of the argument, so leave some comments, people!

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