The days when Shakespearean performances were an over-solemn rite to the Bard seem gone. An opposite error now fills our democratic stage. Because Shakespeare was a popular dramatist writing for “the common man,” the common man is allowed to make any demands at all on his theatrical servant. And this summer at Stratford, Connecticut, he demanded laughs.
The Stratford Hamlet was one of the funniest—and saddest—plays I have ever seen: funny because Fritz Weaver could, with a gay wag of his finger, make the whole court of Elsinore merry; sad because Hamlet, now twice dispossessed, never appeared on the scene. Poor aristocratic prince, he could not rub shoulders with the crowd as could the pretender who came in his place. Weaver, who has a beautiful voice, is unfortunately short and slim; and he has a strange, pigeon-toed stance which makes him look like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. These disadvantages were not disguised, but aggravated, by his fainting into the arms of his stronger friends and swooning away before the ghost.




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