The play's the thing, indeed. And here we all are, onstage with the actors, as they play to us and, in some way, to the echoing house beyond. So we play too; we can't help seeing the whole experience as a quintessentially theatrical one, in which the players' playing of players playing becomes an endless series of mirrors for their own dramas -- and ours, too.
That's a fine way to start this ambitious company's third season; fine, too, is its admirable commitment to making Shakespeare accessible to a wide range of audiences. What is less fine, unfortunately, is the actual texture of too many of the performances themselves.
For while Lombardo has beautifully shaped his concept of the play, he has let some of the actors run roughshod over the lines. This is a boldly physical "Hamlet"; nothing wrong with that. But it's also a monotonously loud, yelling "Hamlet" -- and, especially at nearly four hours, that's not right at all.
Certainly the young prince is angry. Certainly he rages at heaven. But if he does nothing but rage and roar and run around the stage, we miss the quietly self-loathing wit and piercingly acute perception that make Hamlet's inaction more painful to himself than anyone. Benjamin Evett persuades us of Hamlet's fury, but he needs to find the quiet at the heart of the storm.
Marianna Bassham's Ophelia, too, begins at too high a pitch and goes up from there. It's hard to feel much pity for Ophelia unhinged by grief if she's been operating with several screws loose from the start. And Ken Cheeseman, an outstanding Shakespearean in comic roles (including the First Gravedigger here), seems weirdly leaden as the Ghost and the Player King.
