In Harmony(36)

“Take five, everyone,” Marty said. He pulled me aside as the others hopped down from the stage. His fatherly smile was gone and his director’s mask was firmly in place—lips drawn down, his eyes full of thoughts and ideas.

“What’s going on?”

Out of professional courtesy, I never bullshitted him about acting. “I’m unfocused.”

“You’re angry.”

I frowned. “What? No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. So instead of trying to force the moment, let’s work a scene where we can use it. We’ll jump to Act Three, Scene One.”

“To be or not to be? Already?”

“Not yet. We’ll start just after the monologue.”

When the cast returned from the break, Martin put a hand over his eyes to shield the lights and scanned the theater.

“Willow? There she is. Willow, come down here please?”

The overheads blared down on Willow, bathing her in a cone of gold light. She wore jeans, boots, and a long gray sweater. My stupid heart clenched at how goddamn beautiful she looked.

“We’re going to give Act Three, Scene One a go,” Martin said.

“Okay…” she said, drawing the word out and flipping through her script. Her eyes widened and she looked up to glance between Martin and me. “The nunnery scene? Already?”

“I don’t work scenes in order,” Martin said. “I work the scenes I feel the energy in the room needs. So. Hamlet has just delivered his most famed of speeches ruminating on whether to take his own life or not. Polonius has convinced the King that Hamlet’s madness is his love for Ophelia. She’s given Polonius a love letter Hamlet wrote to her, and she’s ending the affair on her father’s orders.”

Willow bit her lip. “So…is Ophelia happy about this? Does she want to break up with him?”

Martin shook his head. “No direction right now. I just want your instinctual read.” He looked at us both expectantly. “Well? Let’s go.”

As usual, Martin was right and anger was serving the right purpose. Hamlet was a complete dick to Ophelia in this particular scene, and I had no shortage of motivation. I was no longer the poor bastard with a shitty truck who lived in a trailer and worked his ass off to be here, while she waltzed in on Justin’s arm with the scent of privilege flowing off her clothes like perfume. I was a fucking prince. She was nothing but a henchman’s daughter.

“Ha, ha, are you honest?”

Willow recoiled at my withering, merciless delivery. The uncertainty in her eyes was real, until something caught fire and a line of hers that was supposed to meek and quailing came out with bite.

Martin listened and watched, one arm across his midsection, the elbow of the other resting on it, his index finger curled over his lip. Not two minutes later, he shook his head and stepped between us.

“Stop, stop, stop.” He smiled faintly. “Okay, I take it back, I’m giving direction after all. This scene reveals everything about Ophelia and Hamlet. Some analysts contend the pair never consummated their relationship. Others say they were most definitely lovers.”

Willow’s lips parted in a tiny gasp, and a surge of heat swept through me.

“I hold to the latter idea,” he said. “If they were lovers, so much more is at stake. It’s a richer choice that holds more possibilities. Use that concept as actors: when confronted with yes or no, choose yes. Every time.”

Willow and I exchanged glances.

“Hamlet truly loved Ophelia,” Martin said. “It was all off the page, before the play starts, but that love needs to live behind every word that’s on the page. The betrayal and agony of this scene is more potent if their love is dying here.” He turned to me. “Your Hamlet is pissed off.”

I shrugged. “He’s supposed to be pissed off. Ophelia’s dumping him and conspiring with Polonius and King—”

“Yes, yes, that’s all true. But you’re only pissed off and that’s merely one layer of emotion in the scene. Ophelia’s being forced to leave him and Hamlet knows it. She’s squashed between her love for him and her duty to her father. But the love…” Martin’s eyes were full of the zealous enthusiasm that made him such an extraordinary director. “The love was there first.”

He smiled and put a hand on each of our shoulders. “This play doesn’t work unless we feel that. So on that note, instead of coming to rehearsal this Saturday, I want you to go out together. Grab lunch or something.”

My eyes widened while Willow’s darted to me and back, her lips parted in another little gasp.

“I’m not asking anything outrageous,” Martin said. “I want you two to hang out. Get to know each other. Be friendly. Become real to each other as human beings. I need you to see each other as more than co-actors on a stage.”

Willow and I glanced at each other again and I noticed some of her stiffness had mellowed, her shoulders dropped a little, her frown loosened.

“Do this,” Marty said, and looked to me, “and the next time we run this scene, every cutting word you say to her will cut you back.” He looked at Willow. “Obeying your father, instead of staying true to Hamlet, will be the hardest thing you ever do. You see?”

She nodded.

Martin beamed. “Great. Moving on.” He clapped his hands once and moved off stage. “Act Two, Scene Two. Will someone please wake up Rosencrantz and Guildenstern…?”