No one says “good night, sweet prince.” They just ghost him. Then the lights flicker. Then the sound of rain on a skylight. Then — silence, save for one missed call from a father who was never really dead, only on hold.
The players arrive via van, their Hecuba speech lit by iPhone flash. “To be or not to be” is whispered into a payphone receiver, the line dead except for the buzz of 21st-century dread. hamlet -2009-
And when Hamlet finally stabs the arras, he’s not sure if he’s killed a man or a metaphor. The skull in the graveyard has a Bluetooth earpiece still attached. No one says “good night, sweet prince
This is Hamlet for the year of swine flu, Twitter, and two wars. Denmark is a surveillance state, rotten not with treason but with apathy, live feeds, and solipsism. Then — silence, save for one missed call