The Scottish Play

Well, since it now appears to be a DnMyT instant tradition, you’re getting my first blog on MyT, particularly since it would appear that CWJ has signed on. Hope it’s true!

I agonised about publishing this at the time but eventually plucked up the courage. I got three comments but they were from squarepeg, Stefania and Marya so I had quality on my side, to be fair. The comments have been expunged by MyT, of course,  but I will always remember the kindness that the three of them showed to this newbie.

I have, I hope, tightened up the first attempt a wee bit.

A few days ago, I became the proud owner of one of Coldwaterjohn’s highly -prized virtual quaichs, just because I had gone  to school in the county town a few miles to the south of the cultural and artistic hotbed that is Pitlochry and its Festival Theatre and, as a result, being able to identify that town in his photo.

The photo set me to thinking of my school days and matters thespian. It brought back memories of the superb Shakespearian production that I was lucky enough to witness in my Fifth Year. Every year, the local Repertory Theatre put on a performance of one of the set texts for the  simple reason that it would guarantee them a couple of sell out matinees when all the local pupils got dragged along to see it.

The year before,  ‘Hamlet’ had begun really well. In Act I Scene 4, the director had the brilliant idea of getting Hamlet to leap down from the battlements to confront his father’s ghost. He duly leapt but landed badly. There was a crack which could be heard throughout the auditorium and Hamlet fell to the stage screaming in agony. They brought down the curtain and when it was raised again, ten minutes later, we had a new Hamlet – the director himself, who was at least 30 years older than the previous incumbent. He was also a good foot shorter and a lot thinner and, whilst it was quite interesting watching him struggling with a costume that was many sizes too large, it was the general consensus that the rest of the show had not really lived up to its promising start.

 The next year they did the Scottish Play. We did not hold out any hope that it could match ‘Hamlet’. For a start, Macbeth was to be played by Michael O’Halloran and we knew only two things about him – he was an announcer with Scottish Television and he was a complete slaphead. This was in the days when most men coping with hair loss went for the Bobby Charlton style. As far as we knew, O’Halloran’s only connection with acting was that he was Scotland’s own Yul Brynner.

We expected very little but how wrong we were, thanks to a catalogue of disasters, an under-rehearsed cast who were going through the motions for an audience that they knew did not want to be there, and to that same, splendid director who tended to be a bit literal in his interpretation of the text.

The play bumped along with not much going wrong until we got to the dagger scene. There really was a dagger before him! At least, it was before him until the (relatively) invisible cord from which it was hanging broke and it thudded to the stage.

Fast forward to the second entrance of Banquo’s Ghost in the banquet scene. Macbeth rose dramatically from his throne and hurled his goblet  over his shoulder. It vanished offstage, hit something and re-appeared travelling at speed in the opposite direction to bounce off the skull of an unfortunate courtier.

In due course, we had the murder of McDuff’s family. In his wisdom, the director had chosen the most buxom of the female cast to play the son. In the middle of the scene, all of the bindings that were holding her breasts flat snapped simultaneously and she literally busted out of the top half of her costume to deafening cheers.

We had scarcely settled down when along came the sleep walking scene. This time the director’s business was to have Lady MacBeth walking down a flight of steps while she outed her damned spot. Half way down, she caught the train of her dress on a nail and could not free herself. The whole flight of steps started to rock and, by the time the doctor had summoned up the presence of mind to cross the stage and pull her hem free she had delivered her exit line of ‘To Bed’ about fifteen times and with ever increasing hysteria.

And so to the climactic sword fight. Macbeth took a mighty swipe at McDuff’s blade and his own sword bent at right angles. He raised his shield in front of his face, put his sword behind him and tensed it against the stage, trying to straighten it. At this point, the whole thing got to him and he corpsed. He laughed so much that his wig fell off. Eventually, he recovered and exited to meet his death.

The curtain fell and then rose and the entire cast, particularly McDuff’s son, received a five minute standing ovation. The great O’Halloran then made a short speech. The gist of it was that, if we were going to answer the Macbeth question in the forthcoming Higher exam, we should remember to stress that it was one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, despite the compelling evidence to the contrary that they had given us that memorable afternoon.