ONCE UPON A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

As today’s date appears to offer a synchronicity of symbolic events—the Pope’s lying in state, St. George’s Day, and William Shakespeare’s birthday—rather than attempting to tie them all together, I figured I’d choose the subject most relatable to me: that being the greatest bard of all time. ^^

There was always something exciting about being taken on a school trip to see a Shakespeare play, especially when they were evening performances. The raucous coach rides there and back often stood in stark contrast to the hushed focus of sitting in a darkened theatre, watching great actors perform plays we barely understood. Back then, it was more about the vibe than any conscious grasp of the story or themes unfolding before us—and often I've found, that’s a good enough way to absorb something.

Atmosphere, especially, seems to have become increasingly important in how I assess things—whether descriptively, musically, or experientially—and productions at the National or the RSC were often top-notch at delivering a rich sense of it in Shakespeare's settings.

"Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep
To undertake the death of all the world,
So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom."
— Richard III, Act 1, Scene 2

In my first year at secondary school, I chose Theatre, Radio, and Television for my project week at the end of the summer term. I ended up being pretty much the only boy among a gaggle of girls (mostly from the years above), feeling a little like Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

During a memorable week of travelling around the country with our drama teacher, Miss Eleanor, we went from one theatre production to another, with the occasional TV or radio event thrown in for good measure. Having spent one night in a youth hostel near the South Bank talking and smooching with an attractive girl from the third year, I remember watching Ian McKellen as Richard III the following day (bleary-eyed) in a Nazi-style update at the National. The dark menace of the production stood in stark contrast to my deliriously amorous feelings for the older student. It was like being high on innocent, newly discovered emotions while also being forced to sober up with a tale of murder, manipulation, and power. It certainly spoke volumes about McKellen’s performance and the claustrophobic atmosphere of the production that I was momentarily able to forget about the girl—despite the fact she was sitting next to me, holding my hand.

That same week, I remember a summery RSC production of Much Ado About Nothing with Roger Allam as Benedick and Susan Fleetwood as Beatrice. I was especially excited to spot Susan Fleetwood, as I’d loved a BBC television adaptation she had starred in—John Mortimer’s Italian-set novel Summer’s Lease.

"Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles."
— Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 1

A couple of years later, I went with the school to see a production of Macbeth at the Cheltenham Everyman Theatre. It was memorable not so much for the performance itself, but because one of my classmates had brought his pet rat with him—and lost it in the auditorium, unbeknownst to the rest of the audience and cast. It wasn’t long after Scene 3, in which Banquo and Macbeth encounter the witches, that hysteria set in. The play was paused, then ultimately cancelled, and our school was slapped with an indefinite ban for causing such disruption.

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended—
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear."
— A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5, Scene 1

Of all the productions I remember most fondly from those school theatre trips, Adrian Noble’s 1994 RSC production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream stands out as the most magical and memorable. A perfect evocation of nighttime shenanigans where love and fantasy blur into each other, I recall feeling as if I’d lived through the phantasmagorical story myself. Only when the house lights came up did it all begin to feel like a dream.

Now, most memories are like dreams—elusive things that slip through the mind’s eye like sand. And yet, the atmosphere of events can return so vividly when I meditate on those happy first experiences of enjoying Shakespeare as a young person.

Happily, I’ve grown older with his incredible works, which reflect the full spectrum of humanity in their cosmic scope. I find great solace in his characters—especially Falstaff and Prospero—who feel less like figments of the imagination and more like real people made of flesh and blood, always there for me whenever I call on them.

So, Happy birthday then, Mr. Shakespeare—and thank you.