Et In Arcadia Ego

Actually, I've never been happier.

Media - movies, novels and "true life narratives" - give drugs a pretty bad rap. My favourite of them is probably Harvey, a charming fifties comedy about a woman whose attempts to marry off her ward well are continually scuppered by her mad alcoholic uncle and his invisible rabbit friend. Presumably the link between bohemians, depression and creation means that most creative enterprises would naturally champion an unhappy individuality over dull contentment.
Perhaps this is accurate - I've heard mixed reviews from real people too.

...the thing is, at present, I'm not really enjoying anything, I don't have the motivation to work either at uni or on my own projects and I keep feeling unmotivatedly tense and threatened when out with friends and family. All things I've experienced fairly more often than I'd like throughout my life, but over the past few months I've had all three at once and pretty constantly. Once you've got work, play and socialisation out of the window, then I'm willing to give anything a go regardless of what the cinema says. This is especially true when you think my antipathy towards chemical solutions extends as far as paracetemol.

I think the "talking treatment" is very useful, especially for me in particular whose main problem is being bad at talking to people - peverse, I know! Perhaps "bad at communicating" would be a more accurate, Personal Life Skills way of expressing it. The problem is, after a point all it can do is shift these horrific soul-destroying feelings onto someone you care about ("It is the fault of X and Y, because...") or at you personally ("I'm sorry, you simply can't cope with leaving the house because that's just what you're like.") Now, perhaps I'm an inherently useless person and all my friends and family are heinous harpies - but it doesn't seem likely. And even if that is the case, it's hardly a positive step in the right direction. Encouragingly, my GP also seemed to think that three years of counselling was too long without a practical boost as well.

So if you were to ask me when the last time I felt really, really happy I'd actually say recieving a nice shiney box of Citalopram yesterday afternoon. Which testifies to placebo power if nothing else - it's always easier to feel better about anything when you're working towards a solution. Hope is good enough, in the absence of Better.

Mind you, I'm having second thoughts since seeing the side effects list which, as my doctor warned me, is "as long as my arm". Not quite true. It's as long as my elbow to my fingertips, which is still pretty damn long.

In some cases, there's nothing to worry about. 1 in 10 patients experience:

• sleepiness, difficulty sleeping
• reduction in weight, gain in weight
• increased appetite, loss of appetite

Just so long as I get all six. Additionally, there is less than a 1 in 10 chance I will experience
menstrual pain. Impressively, there is also a 1 in 10 chance I will suffer impotence or erectile disfunction - frankly a miracle of modern science, as that's statistically far higher than me suffering either at present.

Of course, it's not all good news. There is only less than 1 in 100 chance that I will experience:

• a state of optimism, cheerfulness and well-being (euphoria)
  

and then only as a side effect, which is rather demoralising when you think about it. 1 in 100 people also experience a "general feeling of being unwell", although how that's not already covered by the previous six paragraphs of runny nose, fits and tics, ringing ears, slowing heartbeat, liver problems, coughing, muscle pain, allergic reaction, headache, dizziness, swearing, lethargy, weird dreams, memory loss e.t.c. I'm not sure.

On the rarest end of the spectrum - less than 1 in 10,000 - I may experience "loss of contact with my own personal reality". What that might do to me in particular I daren't speculate. Possibly relocate my own personal reality, profile stalk and invite it out for an awkward catchup coffee...

One of the coolest things about Christmas isn't aquiring loads of stuff, it's looking at it all at the same time and thinking "yes, this is who I am - all my different interests represented in one place". This is possibly even worse, as it suggests things about being trapped in a consumer society where it is pleasurable to define myself through material items. I don't know.

It was also kinda satisfying to be getting this stuff while my sister was aquiring new make-up brushes, perfume, and the rest, and feeling all smug about getting the best set of presents, which is of course what tends to happens when people have picked things for you in particular.

For posterity, here is a map of my stash. Very indulgent of me. But only self-indulgent people keep blogs anyway...

The Gathering (Doctor Who audio play, woo, with Five and Tegan)

"Conspiracy Theories" (Jamie King) - A short paperback encyclopedia with all the famous theories broadly stroked in two short pages. Especially satisfying watching them dodge potential libel claims ("A certain Japanese animated children's show caused epileptic fits when a major animal character emitted electricity..."). Not thorough, but a nice interest-piquer that keeps tempting me towards the web for - snort - proper indepth research

An "Emily" car-style plate - I'm sure I'll find a use for it somewhere. For now, I'm mostly interested that both mine and Oceanic's are pink. One wonders, had we been named Dylan and Boris, whether they would have been blue...

The Indispensable Book of Practical Life Skills - oh hahahahahahhahaha. Ha. Ironically, the tips on getting heat stains out of wood have already mentally come in handy for the mess on the Acton dining room table. I also find the baby-care chapter encouraging: the models are both male and female. Incidentally, not to sound like a Livejournal polemic or anything, but the only public place I've ever found with baby-change facilities in the men's toilets is the V&A.

Origami to Astonish and Amuse - a.k.a. the book I haven't shut up about since borrowing last month. I'm loving my very own copy :)

A hat - not just any hat. A multicoloured neon rasta-hat. Oh yeah. You're all going to be begging me to appear in public with you with this hat.

A kinder-egg santa - who's actually still in his wrapping because he got a bit crushed in the sleigh.

Total Film - all worth it for two tiny promo-pictures that confirm yes, Holmes 2 is a go. Well, one tiny promo picture repeated twice. Sucker Punch is on the cover, and I once again have to wrestle with conflicting emotions about it. A young girl in the 50s is trying to escape an asylum before she is lobotomised, with the help of four friends, an overactive imagination and buckets of carnage. I love films about all those things, and particularly ones which trouble the fantasy/reality line. Unfortunately, the central cast look like this:...which makes me hope it won't be as potentially misogynistic as it looks. Director Zack Snyder, of Watchmen and 300, isn't known for his progressive gender relations. And my feminist objectivity is a bit complicated by the cast - Carla Gugino, Jena Malone and Emily Browning playing ("Babydoll"), hell, even Vanessa Hutchens...in short, skimpy objectification couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of actresses. I'll wait for the first reviews, I think.

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept (Elizabeth Smart) - George Barker was married, he had an affair with Elizabeth Smart. It went horribly wrong, and they both wrote novels about it. Marvellous literary bitch-off! It's looking pretty pretentious, and is encouragingly short :)

Doctors 9, 10, 11 and the Master in metal miniature - I have all the Doctors for my game now! Charmingly, they also popped a drumstick lollypop into the box.

The Picture of Dorian Gray - in English, but from South Africa.

Classical Film Violence - A great, great book. I borrowed it from the Maughan, but I like having my own copy for reference. I have problems reading the spoilery sections, so I can go back to it as I watch through the films.

Woodwork Jet Fighter - punishment, I think, for trying to get the equipment to carve a dragon after reading a beginner's-guide. Looks awesome! The box claims that age 5-7 "I may need some help!" but 8-12 "I can do it!". I wonder what tips they have for 21?

Adam Adamant Lives! - Victorian Adventurer Revived Fights Crime In The 60s. Nuff said. Probably a disaster waiting to happen, as just so much of it is missing as 1960s television tends to be. It's like actually presenting your heart to be broken. But...he has a sword cane <3

As for the rest:

Grandma - slippers (Servalan style), scarf and hat + a contribution to the piano fund

Grandad - one of those electronic photo-frames. I've always wanted one, but never quite enough to get one so having the excuse is wonderful. I'm thinking of ripping some avant-garde and looping it, as it also plays music and film. Plus a Lord of the Rings, at long last my own copy, in lieu for my birthday.

Oceanic - a harmonica! She has expressed a worry that everyone else is going to hate her now, which could be correct - I love playing it, and have nowhere to practice. Unsurprisingly as even good harmonica players sound like noise. Even better: it's a C-major harmonica, which for the non-music-savvy, means it can't play anything sinister, sad or the Stella Artois theme tune i.e. anything with a bit of subtelty or tact. No, it's major songs only - pop goes the weasel, anything by Bob Dylan. Jaunty, chirpy, irritating noise. I love it! Can already play The Times They Are A Changing, Three Blind Mice, Blowin' in the Wind and, my fave, Dixie. Also a box of "tiddly dark choc reindeers", as she accurately mentioned I like dark chocolate, but only in very small doses.

Parents - a bum bag. Laugh all you like, but I've wanted one for ages. Shall be packing it with essentials - a London map, a spoon ("Make you look like a heroin addict," mum has commented). Plus a donation to the piano fund, which stands at:

50 (parents)
41 (aunts birthday)
60 (grandma birthday and xmas)
= 150, towards aquiring, moving and tuning a piano. I especially love the actual voucher itself -the silhouetted pianist looks just like me - swooping hair, and a natty jacket complete with huge ruffles.

Boif - a pack of lindor chocolates-with-chocolate. He provided the present of the day, probably, in a huge teddy for Oceanic.

Wonderful year!

Best Hamlet ever.

I mean, he's not "my Hamlet", not wholly. If I could act, and the stage was mine, then my Hamlet would be ruthlessly intelligent, incisive, cruel, a scholar out of his depth in events he couldn't rationalise, and always, the only person laughing at his own jokes. And also, a pretty, gangly indie-boy of some sort. I'm not sure Rory Kinnear would obviously tick any of those boxes - he doesn't even find his jokes funny - and perhaps that's indicative of the differences between how Hamlet is percieved as a character, and how he is on the page.

I've just been to the National Theatre, within spitting-distance of the stage, and am about to give a nauseatingly positive review. I'm also about to try and defend that statement above, which wasn't true until I started writing, and discovered it absolutley was.

Often in Hamlet, an individual scene will fail because it just doesn't gel with the actor's interpretation. They'll be subtle, upset, cold - the early scenes offer an almost unlimited range. Unfortunately, that's not true of the second act, so you'll get them suddenly ramping up to 200MPH because the script seems to demand anger - the nunnery, the closet, and the crocodile scenes particularly. It seems jarring and forced in comparison to what has come before.

The graveside most of all: Hamlet has just come back from England in disguise and stumbled on Ophelia's funeral. He abandons his secrecy to pick a fight with Laertes, her brother, because he's pissed off that Laertes is sad. It's inconsiderate - of course Laertes is unhappy that his sister is dead. It's unmotivated - who exactly is he angry at here? It doesn't necessarily tally with the information we've been given - like, no other evidence at all that he cares for Ophelia at all. It's unforgiveably rude - Hamlet has killed Laertes' father, and also been the two chief factors in Ophelia's death. Plus, it's a weird scene which involves the two leads leaping into a grave and playing tug-o-war over a body, with one of them claiming he could eat a crocodile like it's the biggest boast of manliness instead of just a bizzare mental image.

In short, it always makes Hamlet look like a shit and it always comes off as out of character and weird. And that's the problem with gangly indie-boys - unless that's already a note in their character, they seem out of it. Not Kinnear. He's just so unhappy and angry, pain and supressed rage all the way through, that for the first time ever, this scene hasn't seemed terrible in every way. Instead, Laertes just becomes a cathexis for his misdirected rage, just as Polonius, Ophelia and Gertrude have in those other awkward scenes. And they all work so well because those other, early scenes in which others have depicted him struggling to cope merely with despair, he was trying to find a way to bear his anger. Indeed, I'd go as far as to say that the soliloquies were for once the weak spots, compared to how wonderful the ensemble scenes were. Even "oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!", where it is textual fact that Hamlet flies into a rage at himself, and then is ashamed of his inability to control his emotions, too often comes off as the exception (I'm suddenly ANGRY! And now normal service has been resumed) instead of the rule (I'M ANGRY I'M ANGRY, AND SUDDENLY I'M SO ANGRY I CAN'T COPE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA CALM - I'M JUST ANGRY).

This doesn't make it in any way one-note, I mean this is a properly awesome and subtle rage that works alongside the character's melancholy, and intelligence, and humour, but that also works textually without having to jettison anything as part of a perfect character. And that makes the show as a whole more downbeat, because you are never in any doubt of just how much pain he is in. He has the most wonderful fake smile that's almost worse: the humour is properly humourless. A few people tried laughing at the gravediggers' scene, but only because they thought they should.

It's also the first time in some time I've seen a properly cracky Hamlet, and this also works. I like subtle Hamlets, but it's always too obvious that they are calculating and sane - the jokes too funny, the audience too in cahoots in comparison with the oblivious fellow characters. Many Hamlets are just too civilised to "go full retard"; and also, to be properly evil. I rarely believe it when he coldly sends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern off to their deaths, but this production in particular he's unreasonable enough that I understand why it would seem reasonable.

With all that seething anger, you'd wonder how he managed to stretch revenge out to 3-hours-30, so it's time to introduce this production's other ace: the design. Aaaah, beautiful - almost chronologically, I've seen more and more emphasis put on the paranoia of Elsinore, and this is the best I've ever seen. A band of suited security men haunt the stage; in the background during soliloquies, hanging about when Hamlet is trying to talk plans with friends. He is constantly being watched, guarded or followed, and the same is true of the Ophelia and everyone else. The stark sets were topped off with CCTV cameras. The oft-cut scene where Polonius engages Reynaldo to go to France and spy on his son seemed suddenly at home in this horrific context. It's clearly impossible for Hamlet to get anywhere near Claudius.

In fact, this production seems to have addressed my usual quibbles with an almost terrifying accuracy. In the second act, they pack Hamlet off stage for about eight scenes. He's such a driving force, and the scenes he's absent for are so...unspecial, that I never really enjoy Act II as much. Laertes returns and shouts, Ophelia spends two awful scenes going mad, Gertrude delivers an overly-famous speech which always seems forced, and then there's the crocodile scene.

It zipped by! That was helped by the most perfect, wonderful Laertes - a character who too often defaults to "prat", and is then an irritating companion the entire time our hero is out of the way. I can't put my finger on what was so special about this one. Perhaps because Hamlet was so angry, Laertes couldn't be, I don't know. He came across as very sincere, properly sympathetic - a nice, straightforward guy who's completely gullible. A perfect Laertes went some way towards diminishing my Act II boredom.

The same can almost be said of Ophelia, almost. She was one of the best I have ever seen - not sanctimonious, and realistically cowed into misery by the oppressive castle atmosphere. I am now entirely convinced, however, that Ophelia is unplayable and the weakest element of an otherwise watertight play. She has no development, she's very difficult for any sane feminist to approach and totally lacks psychological realism. The relationship between her and Hamlet is a textual black hole, and we have to believe she goes properly nuts just because all her male authority figures have been taken away.

One of the remarkeable things about Shakespeare is how sophisticated and universal his writing is. His dialogue actually contains psychological depth, centuries before the actor's method was invented. Ophelia is a big exception to this: the pathos of the virgin maid singing bawdy pastorals is a 16th century sort of understanding of the human brain. When Hamlet explains:

I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me.

I'm sure we've all had days like that. And it struck me now, more than ever, how perfect so many of Hamlet's descriptions of despair are. I've never seen someone express mental illness through tragic, accusing folk tunes before - the scenes are awkward to play because they're awkwardly written, and Ophelia is treated like some sort of reverent, knowing symbol of something throughout. No, the sound of a sweet voice singing is not enough to bring me to tears. Or move me. Or anything. "Here, have a metaphor!"

Which is why I'm kinda glad they neutralised the stomach-turning description of the world's most beautiful suicide by having Ophelia secretly dragged off by security guards, and Gertrude aware that Claudius arranged to have her done away with. It was fun to see Claudius played as a downright villain again - I like him sympathetic, but this was a nice change. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern too where pretty nasty pieces of work - this too made sense in context. Gertrude was the modern performance you recognise of a frazzled career woman clutching a red wine - very good. I particularly enjoyed the closet scene - she becomes hysterical at the moment Polonius is killed and remains so for that reason because that's what murders to do people. It's so easy for the actors to forget the corpse...and I now think, in contrast with Ophelia, Polonius is impossible to play badly, perhaps because it's always the most experienced actor on stage taking on a pretty easy role. Downsides? Horatio. Wasn't special, and delivered the lines as if they were Sha-hakes-speah, but you can't win them all.

Onto the specifics: the ghost scenes are just splended! Very creepy - the actor sounded like he had reverb or something, but I knew he didn't. And spoke very quietly, but seemed to boom at the same time - most special. Hamlet's small shadow, as he slumped at the corner of the stage, dwarfed by his father's huge one. Hamlet just crying, as well you might, while the Ghost explained the circumstances of his death. And actually, every time the Ghost walked across stage, and you could see him there white against the darkness, before the lights acknowledged he was there: creepy! I've already mentioned Ophelia's unusual death; I also enjoyed the opening scene with her family, which got the level of tenderness just right - her laugh at Laertes' awkward chastity speech, Polonius pausing uncomfortably as he extols the virtues of truth. And I loved Hamlet discovering a mike hidden inside her book, and dictating to it. The closet scene featured Gertrude able to see the ghost, but lying about it: what a wonderful choice!

In fact, there's only one bad thing about this one, and that's a pretty crass attempt to sell T-shirts half way through. But let's not think about that.

Instead, let's focus on the fact that I may just have seen a perfect Hamlet. So many of my quibbles were addressed, and the tedium of the second half almost totally evaporated. Any criticism I could have left should be aimed at the play itself. Which I've fallen in love with, all over again, with a funny feeling that Mr Kinnear has just fundamentally altered the way I see it...