The Witches swoop around the downstage lip of the stage. One leans close enough to smell the sweet tea on her breath. My wife bought us front-row tickets to opening night of Drunk Shakespeare.
The cast sit like benched athletes at a “bar” stage right, tossing back plastic shot glasses of water poured from falsely filled liquor bottles, each gently rocking, primed to spring into multiple roles.
To their credit, the Witches slur and stammer, crack up.
I’ve worked with drunk actors. Up there, they’re dead sober.
It’s my birthday, and tonight’s a surprise gift from my wife, bless her. In the lobby, she gobbled glasses of rose to survive. I told her she didn’t have to come. Her existence orbits Marvel movies, romance novels, and a high-pressure job. Normal people stuff.
Leaning over, I murmur along the opening lines, trying to impress her, I guess. She ignores me, listening.
The show goes on. It's cute. Actors are late on cues. Toss in bits, adlib. Lady Macbeth drains a flask, offers the messengers, the doomed king Duncan, even a girl in the front row who I suspect is planted or a friend.
More and more of this. It’s not exactly funny, but they’re having a good time. It’s infectious, warm. Clever, really: horror enhances comedy. Directors forget this.
Finally, we arrive at the big number, the speech everybody knows. Lady Macbeth is dead, dragged downstage by a grinning Seyton, and presented to her distraught king. The audience goes quiet. The “dead” queen takes a final drink and winks at my wife who sniffs a laugh. Macbeth eats the solemnity, vamping like a professional wrestler before his provocative monologue. He knows we came for this. My wife sees I’m excited, smiles, pats my hand.
But a knee goes unsteady under Macbeth, and I see them now–slick eyes. From somewhere, not those crumpled shots of water, he’s sneaking it, swimming. Drunk.
Here’s the “uh oh” look–is the rest of the audience seeing this?
I did a performance in summer rep once where our Prospero, shit-faced on Wild Turkey, blanked and simply sat down. Just plopped on his ass like a tantruming toddler. They curtained and offered the patrons refunds.
For a queasy moment, I think that's it, but his jaws chew into motor memory. Arms, legs, and body follow and he’s tomorrow and tomorrow-ing smoothly on cruise control. The critic in my head switches off, resigned to enjoy the language. Macbeth kneels to linger over his fallen Lady, which is right. I hate soliloquizing loftily to the heavens, or aghast clawing into the void of profundity. Direct your words; speak to something.
Bending like that, over the lain out corpse of his cold queen, it’s misting us, his syrupy bourbon breath, which the others expect.
It’s Drunk Shakespeare, right?
Ball lighting kindles his eyes, and the verse ignites: he’s actually crying–thin, popping tears. The words wretch out in ugly, desperate sobs with no music, rhythm, or drift. I taste notes of a thumping heartbeat, a drum, realize it’s my own open-mouthed breathing. I’ve been sucked toward the stage. He sees me and our eyes meet for a moment, then he’s looking up, out, and saying, “It is a tale told by–I’m the idiot, Leah.”
A mutter ripples back, unsure whether to laugh. “Wait, what'd he say?”
“It was an accident. I don’t even remember.”
He’s sunk to his knees and is talking to us, to everyone, direct address.
“I remember her saying ‘you're so quiet.’ I’m sure I was thinking about you, babe. I don’t even know what we did, Leah. It’s a blur. I didn’t want to–”
Stage right, actors are standing and looking at each other like, “What should I do?”
Macbeth’s scanning eyes find what they’re after, a tall lady in the middle of the house. I can’t help but swivel and bear down on her. Most of us are. Hundreds of eyes. She clutches a bouquet of red roses.
“I’ll quit all this. Stay home. Leah, nothing matters,” he says and scoots forward gracelessly to the edge of the stage nearly sliding Lady Macbeth overboard. His legs dangle.
The tall lady sits, frozen. The roses crush against her denim jacket.
One of the actors, Banquo, puts hands on Macbeth but gets shrugged away. Lady Macbeth, trapped by his leaning hip is desperate to be dead, feigning death like her life depends on it, like, Oh my God, get me out of here.
They dim the lights, but he keeps going.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It only happened once. If it happened.”
He’s all over the place. You can’t follow–pauses, sobs, hiccups. “Let’s start over. She’s gone. Please.”
He apologizes like someone who apologizes for breakfast, but his face isn’t lying.
People are standing in growing groups. The show’s over. It’s murderous how awful this man looks, how the tall lady, Leah, is nailed to her seat, crinkling her bouquet, speechless, looking too stunned to cry, though her cheek twitches, the mechanisms in her face attempting to remind her.
“I love you. You want this, right?” Macbeth is saying. Banquo and the stage manager drag him up, freeing Lady Macbeth to scurry away, cursing.
Macbeth doesn’t need to shout, the room’s still quiet, despite the lines of patrons filing outward. He’s laughing gently, amazed. “Don’t come to my show. Don’t do that; come to dinner. Let's have a date night?”
It’s only Leah and Macbeth here from the look on their faces. My wife is pulling me up and out of my seat. I’m the last one transfixed; everyone crowds the doors.
Out in the cold toward the car, I take my wife’s hand. It’s limp meat, but I grip. We ride silently for six miles, save the bossy GPS. Her hand is warmer now, squeezes back.
I turn to her, smile. “That was the best acting I’ve ever seen.”
She nods at the road, says, “I hate Shakespeare,” and switches the radio on.
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