From Kevin, to Helen Bach.

Henrik and Brenda are Friends of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre on Bankside, the painfully exacted reconstruction of a functioning Tudor-Stewart playhouse. They also put on good plays.

Because they are Friends (you know, donors) they get access to special events, and tours. Today we went on the Heaven to Hell tour. Most tours are limited to the house (the seats and the big space in front of the stage, occupied by the groundlings) and the public facilities. We got a top-to-bottom view of the backstage - from the so-called Heavens to Hell.


The Heavens are above the playing area. It is used for, among other things, storage.


Some items are more interesting than others.


A number of hand-crafted tapestries hang from the ceiling.


Our guide threw open the door at the front of the Heavens (we were not allowed any closer) from where, presumably, the cannons were fired during a performance of Henry VIII which, in 1613, burned down the original Globe.


The balcony above the stage is called the Musician's Room, because during most performances, that's where the musicians are. And for some unknown reason, there are a large pair of underpants hanging over the door backstage.


A close-up of the Heavens trap. It's kind of narrow, and the idea of being lowered through it makes me very queasy.


View of the pit from the Musician's Room. Ha ha, they don't get the H2H tour. Ha ha ha ha ha.


Welcome to the stage of the Globe.






Welcome to Hell. There's actually not much there, just a very low ceiling (five feet?) and the trapdoor.


The costume shop. I would look awesome in any of these.




All handmade, not a hook or zipper on them. All laces, all the time.


But first I need some shoes.


There are an awful lot of shoes.


Mark Rylance wore this number in Richard II.


These hats are talkin'.


Meanwhile, outside they are generating excitement for the summer season, which begins in May, by hosting events called Inside Outside, which is to say, things that normally happen inside are going on outside, right on the riverfront. Scenes are performed, music is played, crowds gather and disperse.

I remember visiting Southwark Bank in late 1990, to see the sites of Shakspeare's London. There wasn't much there. Just gray office buildings, some commemorative plaques, and a big hole where Shakespeare's Globe was supposedly, eventually, going to be. Now there's not only the Globe but plenty of restaurants and shops, museums and lots and lots of walking traffic. It's lovely, even in March. And we beat the rain.




Cousins.

Hello, London.

Oi. What a crazy experience. I actually felt like I was doing poorly, it's always so hard to tell. Can't get much worse than having your sound go up at the beginning of the show. We actually got a new CD player to cover for the other two (ours and WBS's) that weren't working well ... only we never really played with it before the show started. I handled it rather calmly, I thought. First time for everything. We ended up using one of the less favorable - though working - players.

Which is emphasizing the negative. Which is dumb. Everything went very well. Great house, lovely people - we attracted 31 audience members. My apologies to Kristen, it just so happens the people she was in touch with were the folks from Southampton. And some of them were from France - and New Zealand. It was the most international audience I'd ever played to.

The opening question of the Q&A almost did me in, however. I can't get it exactly right, but the gist was, "Why would you still do this play so many years after the event ... aren't you over it?" She was baiting me - not in some manipulative way, she was asking the question, I believe, so many have asked her, so many years after the loss of her child. After some of my experiences recently (with Long Island, with Akron) I was wondering if I hadn't just ruined some people's evening. Couldn't be farther from the truth, that was the laucnhing pad into a Q&A that was much more like a conversation than a discussion.

Obviously there were a lot of parents of loss in the house. The folks from SANDS were lovely, we're going to meet next week, hopefully, to discuss future projects. And I think Claire was pleased, it certainly had the turnout we hoped for, and the board members and other WBS dignitaries in attendance also thought it was a great evening.

And then there was the family. Joanna's not even related, but it's like she is, we're having a great time here in the house. She had some extremely kind words following the perf. And it was delightful to have Lydia in the front row - I was worried she might think my impression of her as a six year-old might hurt her feelings (remember, this is the first time she'd ever seen or heard it - she's used to the divine Betsy Hogg playing her on radio) but I think she was more amused by it than anyone else.

And there was Henrik. I think the uncomfortable stuff is over. Funny, it never came up in the Q&A the way it usually does - "has this play been difficult for your family?" That wasn't asked. What was asked was whether or not Toni found it troubling.

And I said, "No ... you may have noticed ... my family finds it hard to express emotion." (Laughter.) And I went on to explain how Toni made it possible for me to connect with my grief in a way that would have been impossible before.

photo: Big hit - ketchup and chicken sandwiches.

She also made it possible to do the show tonight, staying home with the kids. I'll make it up to her - my vacation begins now.

I'm just hoping Father David isn't pissed I didn't put the lighting back exactly the way I found it.

Crikey!

UPDATE 5.05pm GMT - Now with photos!

photo: Claire and I, figuring out the tech ...

Just a word (no time) - went over tech this morning with Claire, she's lovely, and so is her six year-old boy Edward ... there will be pictures eventually. Hated to swamp her with all the cues in one day, but she's obviously going to do a great job. Still and all - Kelly, I miss you!

Actually, the real reason we're really missing Kelly right now is that jet-lag has kicked in hideously and I was up until past two with a screaming Orson, but now I am really digressing.

photo: The charming Edward.

Reservations are up to 28 ... 30 is a sell-out, no kidding, we may be SRO. Lots of people important to the WBS are coming, there is a continegncy from SANDS driving ninety minutes from Southampton ... oh, and Kritsen? None of your peeps have made reservations, Claire says she knows everyone who is coming. Hmn. Could be quite a crowd in a tiny room.

Anyway, anyway, the words ...

(Wait for it ...)

WHO KNEW GERBER BABY FOOD DOESN'T EXIST IN ENGLAND?

It's the big laugh of the show, the big release, and everyone on this little island had Heinz as children (Heinz baby food? Does it all taste like ketchup?) Still working on what to say instead, it won't be the same. Suggestions?

And Toni dissuaded me from changing up any of the words - they know what fries are, for goodness sake. But apparently not Popsicles (a registered trademark, don't you know.) So I either say ice lollies, or get a blank stare. Hmn. Hmn again. What else am I missing, I don't use the word pants, do I?

Gotta run. Still don't know how the slides are going to be projected, and the CD player skips. Brenda has generously offered to read the slides, which worked fine on radio (and my first public read-through) but gives me the hives just thinking about it. I didn't want this perf to be so odd.

Really gotta run, Henrik's made cheese on toast. Cheers.

Scan for Alien Tech

Crazy. I got a "fringe" listing in Time Out London. I don't know if it will make any difference, the brief description of the show is a one-sentence conflation of the two-sentence blurb I usually use, which states flatly that this show is about "the year following his son's birth." I don't think I'd see a show like that if you'd threatened me with violence.

Still and all, it tickled me to see this listing. I had offered to assist with the promotion, and the response I received was, I thought, a polite way of putting me off.

Anyone who knows me knows I am a little schizo about promotion. I actually hate doing it, I got a rep in town for being good at it, but that's like being good at shoveling poop, everyone's so glad you're doing it. But when promo ops are missed, I just get crazy.

When I heard there were only six reservations (this was about ten days ago) I just went a little loopy and filled out TO's automatic "listings submission" form on their website. Never even received a reply, and lo and behold, there it is.

We currently have reservations for 25, which is plenty. I don't imagine any of them came from the magazine. Apparently some of them came from Kristen & Phil (thanks, guys!) and the recommendations of some who heard the radio show on Monday.

It's just as well. Henrik and I had an adventure today. He borrowed a great, old video projector (remember, it's old) to which we were to hook up Brenda's new laptop - that's for projecting the slides. The only truly necessary technical bits of the show are the slides and the sound.

We met Father David at St. Vincent DePaul's, and he showed us the room I will be performing in tomorrow night. It's dimensions are almost exactly those of the little room I performed in at the NY Fringe. It's even got a piano in it, but at least we can move that. I don't think we can seat more than 30 if we wanted to.

However, our trips to find cable to link the laptop to the projector were fruitless. We took the train the Tottenham Road, where you cannot swing a cat without hitting a tech store. The first place we went to, a Panasonic joint, actually told us there was no way to connect these two items (the projector is simply incompatible, too old) but if we were, there was only one store where we could find the necessary cables - MAPLIN. That was a few more blocks down the road ... and that was a bust, too.

Apparently we will simply use a computer monitor, as was done in NYC, for the purposes of this performance. The projector would have been nice.

But at least I got out of the house a little bit. The kids, and Toni are indulging in taking their time adjusting to the time change. That's another great part about staying here for two weeks. They'll be doing some out and about things tomorrow while Claire and I work on the show. I don't have it in me to be nervous yet. That's for tomorrow.

Albion

Zelda's desire for an apple at four-thirty in the morning got me out of bed. We had an apple and string cheese and by the time I got her back in bed her jet-lag had been requited and mine had kicked in. I made coffee, and shuffled around the small table in the kitchen, running lines and remembering moves.

The script evolves. I wonder if it would. There's bits that never worked, of course, those were usually "jokes." A lot of those came out when it was necessary to cut down the length of the radio drama. Some of those are going back in - I think when I say the punchline to "The Closiers" I should snap my fingers the way Drew Carey does in "The Aristocrats."

No? Hello? Am I too hip for the room?

Later Henrik and I will play with the PowerPoint projector and then check out St. Vincent's.

The rest of yesterday was very nice. After a nap we put Orson in the stroller and we all went to get Lydia from school. She and Z. stayed home to play while Henrik, Toni, Orson and I ran errands - and got some much needed exercise. It is a crowded city, even out here, away from the very center of London the streets bustle with people. I should ask the specific ethnic make-up of the neighborhood, a very large number of them appear to be Afro-Carribbean.

Maybe it's because I have been here a number of times in my adult life (this is visit number 4 since 1990) but there's more familiarity and less "exotic-ness" about being here. I don't know who has changed more, me or Britian. There's a Subway (that's new) a MacDonald's, of course - and Asna's, the supermarket chain, is now owned by Walmart.

Lydia (now 11) is a big fan of the radio drama. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, she's apparently listened to it a lot. My brother says she cries every time. She told me yesterday she wishes she could reach through the radio and shout "It doesn't end like this! Soon you will have two beautiful living children!" Which is, of course, a sweet thing for a young girl to say.

She mentioned this over dinner, and I had to put on my tact guard. We have a tendency to be didactic (not the royal we, I mean my brother and I) and I tried to be as casual as possible (with everyone at the table listening) as I explained that that's true, things are very good for us, and we're happy, but and that the show exists as a reminder that we can't forget or ignore those who are in grief in the hopes that someday things will eventually be better for them.

Then she said she someday wants to make an extended family tree out of paper and photographs ... but that she doesn't know what's the right thing to do for Calvin. I said in the old days, and not very long ago, people would get cemetery plots (some still do, not as many, it seems) for their deceased children, some didn't even have names, but they had a stone that say, "Son" or "Baby."

She thought she could put Calvin's name there, maybe with a black square for a picture. I said that would be just fine.

Jerusalem

Made it. Yes, travelling with little people makes the whole affair a bit more stressful. A six-hour flight (was it always six hours? That seems awful short) and I have to be honest, I didn't do anything. Not one thing. I think I flipped through the in-flight magazine for thirty seconds, and played half of one hand of solitaire. The kids were great, and slept for most of the trip, both of them - thanks to our Continental Fairy Godfather we had bulkhead seats and a bassinet for the boy (we owe you guys homecooked meals for a month) - and yet I couldn't sleep or think for the entire trip.

To think I entertained the idea of running lines or reading a book (got a copy of Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation for the journey) but ah well.

Zelda's been marvellous, content to walk along side us through the myriad of concourses - Cleveland Hopkins, Newark Liberty, London Gatwick - rolling her new Winnie the Pooh suitcase.

I swear they got Steve Coogan to do the security announcements at Gatwick, it's weird.

Okay, so, not much to report yet, met the housemates Joanna and Deb, they and Brenda had a loverly breakfast set out for us when we arrived, Lydia's still at school, I have had a two-hour nap and I'm still worthlessly loopy. Tomorrow I will get my first glance at St. Vincent's (the performance space) and hopefully get to do a mental, and physical, walk-through. Maybe I will have time to take in the whole hey-we're-in-Britain thing, but for now the radio in Office Albion is playing old fashioned American R&B.

Oh, and I was wrong about the busses. Where did I read they had gotten rid of the double-decker busses?

Welcome ... and Farewell

I have no idea what kind of listenership WCPN gets at 8 PM on a weekday - for goodness sakes, that's when they normally broadcast the Canadians. But just in case there is a large audience (or maybe I should say, an audience) for this evening's broadcast of I HATE THIS, and in case any of them check out the website and just in case anyone clicks on the "Blog" button ... hello. Thanks for listening.

It's been a good day. I actually need to get back downstairs and check the meatballs. We are making our annual birthday feast, I make spaghetti and meatballs (my favorite) and Toni makes artichokes (her favorite.) There's a cake, too, it has an otter on it. That's a surprise. I'll post a photo later, if I remember to take one. The people at Zagara's did a beautiful job.

We stopped by Cleveland Public Theatre this morning to decorate Calvin's brick, and headed to the zoo to see the otters. Zelda & Orson had a lovely time. If it weren't for Z we would probably not have gone around the main part of the zoo, it was so cold. But not too cold. She loved seeing the elephants get cleaned, and spotted a giraffe right by the window of their house, one we missed even though it was right there, the tallest one, eating from a trough. Orson just liked looking at everything, and was contentedly rosy-cheeked throughout.

Yes, I finished Doctor Who. ("Bananas are good!") I am ready for London.

photo: Happy birthday, Mr. Shreckengost!

Oh, London, yes, if you are new, we are going to England to stay with Henrik and his family for two weeks. And I have a performance of IHT while I am there. I will be posting messages from Britain, and hopefully photos. Wish me luck.

Now, it may be disorienting, if you are new to me or this story, to learn all of this after having just listened to our story. Maybe you are thinking, "Yay! Happy ending!" If so, that wasn't the point. We are very fortunate to have had two successful, subsequent pregnancies, and we are all well and happy and have incorporated Calvin and his life into ours. This is not true of everyone, and we have met so many in the past few years who have suffered in silence because of the fear most Americans have discussing death in general and child death in particular.

I have no answers. Only sympathy and, I hope, support. Toni was approached by a new acquaintance at Orson's music class last week, someone new to town ... and new to this world. They lost a child last fall, shortly before hearing IHT on the radio when it was first broadcast. She heard my wife's name, and Orson's, and well, how many pairs are there like that? She came up to Toni to say hello.

"Does it get better?" she asked. Because she really didn't know. And Toni said yes. We never forget. It's different, it's better. I need to go, it's time for dinner. Zelda wants to sing "Happy Birthday" when the cake comes out. We never used to do that, but how can we say no?



UPDATE: Zagara's Marketplace in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, my friends. They created this ridiculously awesome cake. Chocolate cake with butter cream icing - normally Toni would insist on making her own cake, but our oven has been on the fritz for over a year (can't remember what we did last year.) So Z. and I were looking at designs for a cake the other day, they were all commercial, so I just asked them to put an otter on it.

No words? They asked, no message? Who is the cake for, a child, an adult? That's when it felt weird. It's one thing to state without regret that your eldest actually has an older brother who died in the womb, it's another to have to explain you're getting him a cake. No, I said, it's a commemorative cake (wimp) - the otter will be just fine.

So the artist came out to ask about the design. Is it all right if she just looks at a picture online, what about the colors, green? Blue? Whatever looks right, I said. And today I picked up this. It's beautiful! And delicious.

Happy birthday, guy. I think a five year-old would dig this cake.

Dreading To Fly

Making preparations for our time abroad. Getting mounds of laundry done, collecting various perscriptions, trying to make sure no necessary book or toy is left behind. I have decided not to bring the iPod, I'd only have to purchase an adapter, and I'd rather listen to England, anyway.

Someone remarked that traveling with children isn't reallt traveling, it's more like moving for a short period of time. Luckily, we have a home to stay in. So at least it's not like moving into a hotel for two weeks, there will be cooking and laundry and no one to tip.

I have been folding laundry all day, and cramming Doctor Who into my skull. I should be cramming lines, but there is still plenty of time for that. Like my trip to New York, there are lines that need to be changed for a performance in London. I don't need to tell them what Hamley's is, or what it looks like. I have been resisting the urge to change various words - chips for fries, loo for bathroom - except I wonder to what extent it is more or less distracting to hear unfamiliar turns of phrase than to wonder why the American is saying "telly."

But it's not as though they haven't been watching Seinfeld and Friends, too.

I have been flying since before I can recall. My first flight was when I was maybe six months old, which had Orson beat. As I have grown bigger and my body has become more calcified - and the seats have grown smaller - I have learned to develop the same healthy distaste for air travel that my father has always had.

Sept. 11 changed things, for sure. I have more nightmares about plane crashes than I ever did, which is to say I have them at all. Not that I am like those friends of mine who have refused to fly since then, I was on a plane three weeks after the event took place. But still. It's something that troubles me.

Fortunately, there are too many other things to deal with right now. And Zelda is too excited for words. By tomorrow night we want everything ready to go, so Monday can be spent remembering Calvin. We'll get out to the zoo before lunch, I hope. Maybe it will snow, who knows. It will still be a good day.

Springtime for Calvin

Five years is a long time. It's crazy, I haven't even worked for Great Lakes Theater Festival for five years, and I barely remember what life was like before then.

Several touching and delightful tributes have come to us in the past past few days. MP sent the most beautiful, springy bouquet. The Hansens UK adopted an Asian short-clawed Otter at the Battersea Park petting zoo in our eldest's honor.

And a little after 11 PM on Tuesday, March 14 our dear friends, Harris & Liz welcomed Maximilian Calvin Falk into the world.

There's a little Calvin in all of us.

Reminder

I HATE THIS will be featured on WVIZ channel 25's Applause tomorrow night, Thursday, March 16 at 7:30 pm.

Also, the performance in London on 24 March so far has reservations for 6. So get out there and tell your friends in Battersea to get off their back ends.

THURSDAY UPDATE: We're up to 18 confirmed attendants. At eight days out, for a space with thirty to forty seats, I don't think we have anything to worry about.

Can't believe this is actually going to happen.

London, Summer '92. I think I've changed a lot since then, do you?

I have, from time to time, praised my inspirations for the play I Hate This in this blog. Sometimes other plays, or playwrights, or comic book authors, what have you.

I've been a fan of the band Everything But the Girl since 1988, because I am a weepy, sensitive guy with a thing for British easy listening ensembles. By the early 90s, however, they had gone seriously VH1, and had almost dropped below my radar. On a whim I bought Amplified Heartwhen it was released in 1994. Toni and I fell in love to that album.

It was different from what they had been producing, they'd gotten awfully sappy (see: Worldwide)and with AH they'd gotten back to some seriously cutting lyrics - wrapped in soft and delicate music. It wasn't until almost a year later Missingwas released as a disco remix and they become a club phenom.

When they came to the Odeon in Summer, 1996 to promote Walking Wounded- for their only Cleveland appearance, ever - they sold out, and we were there after the show, waiting for them to emerge for their bus. Though they were making a bee-line for it, Ben Watt was waving his hand to us to follow, saying, "Join us!" We met Tracey and Ben in the door of the bus signing autographs and accepting praise. They were sweet.

It wasn't until later that year that Ben's book Patientwas released in the US. I had no idea. He had been struck in 1992 with a bizarre, rare disease that dissolved most of his intestines. There is a big, ugly scar on his belly in the photos inside AH, but I didn't put it together. That and astounding and unhealthy looking weight loss. Again, what did I know.

It's a great, short book, about his ordeal working back from a near death experience. It's a quiet book. It's the first time I had ever had any insight into his and Tracey's relationship (for all I knew they'd worked together for years, but weren't involved. Straining to maintain your dignity, in fear, dealing with the medical community - which was we all know, is not nearly as brilliant as they pretend to be.

Knowing what he went through also put the lyrics he and she have written since into sharp relief. It also, I imagine, explains the third-life crisis that might send the late 80s light-jazz-pop dolls into the clubs, and turn Ben into an obsessed DJ.

They haven't released a studio album since 1999's Temperamental,which is irksome (the fact that they haven't released any new work is irksome, not Temperamental.) But they appear to have been busy. Serve your muse. Mind your business.

There was a time when I had toyed with adapting that into a solo perf. And sometimes it's better to tell your own stories than someone else's.

UPDATE: I was distressed that the track Love Is Strange from their 1992 release Acoustichas been approriated for a Hummer commercial. I was relieved to read their disclaimed on their website that they were never contacted about this arrangement, that they were opposed to their work being used in that way, and that there was unfortunately nothing they could do about it because though they control the rights to their own songs, it's a different story when you've covered someone else's.

More Books!

Yesterday I received a care package from SANDS (Stillbirth And Neonatal Death Society - they aren't afraid to use the word "death" in Britain) including two copies of their newsletter, and the books Living with Leo by Mario Di Clemente and Fathers Feel Too by Andrew Don. Erica S. from SANDS has been in touch, and is planning to attend the 24 March performance.

I have not finished Fathers Feel Too yet (it's not a thick book) but I will soon. I am enjoying it, if that's the appropriate word (you know what I mean) because it remains an unusual event to hear the story from the father's point of view.

It's also a bit awkward to read in places. I could best sum up my experiences with women in the past fifteen years with a book I'd call, Women Who Run With The Wolves - And The Men Who Love Them. But it makes me cringe at times how hard certain men protest their innner-feminine side, to the point of becoming what they most despise. Case in point - those "sensitive, new-age guys" who yowl in outrage that they aren't allowed to walk with the women during the annual "Take Back the Night" march.

"I am offended that I am being denied my right to show I support a woman's right to walk alone at night without the company of a man!"

Listen to yourself. You're a twit.

Likewise, there is at least one author whose grief at the loss of a child almost seems to subsume the fact that his wife is even involved.

Which, I have to admit, is an accusation that has been directed at me. One review (which otherwise praised the work) stated honestly; While Toni is referred to often and speaks occasionally, this thought-provoking play could be strengthened by a clearer representation of her voice. The father's perspective provides a "safe" viewing point, due to his biological separation from the torment at hand. But it leaves unanswered what Toni is thinking, as her body rebels against the life she so treasures.

But the book (both of these books) are written specifically for the fellahs to read. I even jumped on that bandwagon last fall when I wrote my Open Letter to the Fathers. The most important thing, I think, is that we express ourselves, no matter how we might be perceived, if only to just get our voice out there. No matter how deep. Or obtuse.

Besides, any book about stillbirth or miscarriage that describes the feelings if impending fatherhood by making reference to both Up the Junction and Springsteen's The River must totally rock.

Book Plug

I have been corresponding with Amy Abbey, author of the soon-to-be-released Journeys: Stories of Pregnancy After Loss. This book "is a collection of chapter pairs written by parents, mostly mothers, who endured a loss and coped through the insanity of a subsequent pregnancy."

Amy tells me, "The authors detail their losses, which range from first trimester miscarriage, second trimester deliveries, fullterm stillbirths, and infant death. We all grieved differently yet our pain was the same. Getting pregnant again proved challenging for many of us, obsessive for others. And coping through the next pregnancy, concurrently mourning our losses, proved to push many of us too close to the edge." Amen.

I promised her I would pass word on her new work (I look forward to reading it) in spite of its current availability only on Barnes & Noble.com - the Walmart of bookstores. It includes a foreword by Dr. Michael Berman and back cover comments by Ann Douglas, Michael Nettleton and Sherokee Ilse (who never returns my emails.)

Amy was looking forward to sending a few copies a long to the Long Island event on April 30, but unfortunately I had to inform her there won't be one. This is especially poignant as some of her subjects delivered at North Shore.

Things that make you go hmmmmm.

Anyway, I don't believe their head of OB/GYN would approve of her book.

Is it bitter in here, or is it just me?

UPDATE: It's been a difficult day, in little tiny ways. I'm not sure why, things have been building, note by note, all day. Maybe because it's March. Amy's cheerful email about the April 30 gig reminded me I'm not entirely over that yet. "No, I don't want to hear about your son." How would you feel?

A couple of things have happened in the last couple of hours to put things into better perspective. I got a package from SANDS (see the new link on the bar at the right) which I will get into soon, once I have perused the contents a bit ... and I took a moment to revisit Suzanne Pullen's story about her boy, Avery.

I hadn't watched and listened to the multimedia slideshow that went with it. It's really sweet. If you have a few minutes, please watch it yourself. What a cute little boy. (But what kind of a freak puts a poster in the imaging room that reads "Pandora's Box"?)

I regret, very much, that we didn't call anyone over to meet Calvin. Or take any pictures of him, we just have the ones they took. He deserved better. I'm sorry, boy. We didn't know.

Tempest in a Cellblock

I never get tired of stories like these:

Inmates as Actors, Transformed by Art
- NY Times, 3/10/2006

A pedophile tells us that he chooses to play Antonio because he believes that those most in need of mercy are those "who least deserve it," while a cheery cop killer is drawn to Caliban as a symbol of the savagery in the prison population. As rehearsals progress, and the men delve deeper into their characters, the line between role and self becomes blurred, and the play's themes of forgiveness and redemption unlock long-buried emotions ... (more)

Photos from last year's production of HAMLET.