Franco Zeffirelli: The Art of Entertainment Page #2

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My father, methinks I see my father.

I saw him once. He was a goodly king.

He was a man, take him for all in all.

I shall not look upon his like again.

My lord...

I think I saw him yesternight.

Saw? Who?

My lord, the king your father.

The king, my father?

Season your admiration for a while

with an attent ear...

till I may deliver, upon the witness

of these gentlemen, this marvel to you.

For God's love, let me hear.

Two nights together

had these gentlemen...

in the dead waste and middle of the night,

been thus encountered:

A figure like your father

appears before them.

Thrice he walked by

their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes...

within their truncheon's length...

whilst they, distilled almost to jelly

with the act of fear...

stand dumb and speak not to him.

This to me in dreadful secrecy

impart they did...

and I with them

the third night kept the watch...

where, as they had delivered,

both in time, form of the thing...

each word made true and good,

the apparition comes.

I knew your father.

These hands are not more like.

- But where was this?

- Upon the platform where we watch.

- Did you not speak to it?

- My lord, I did, but answer made it none.

Yet once methought it lifted up its head...

and did address itself to motion,

like as it would speak.

But even then

the morning cock crew loud...

and at the sound it shrank in haste away

and vanished from our sight.

'Tis very strange.

- As I do live, my honored lord, 'tis true.

- Indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.

- Hold you the watch tonight?

- We do, my lord.

What, looked he frowningly?

A countenance more in sorrow

than in anger.

- And fixed his eyes upon you?

- Most constantly.

- I would I had been there.

- It would have much amazed you.

I will watch tonight.

Perchance it will walk again.

I warrant it will.

If you have hitherto concealed this sight,

let it be tenable in your silence still.

Our duty to your honor.

Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.

My father's spirit.

All is not well.

I doubt some foul play.

Would the night were come.

Till then sit still, my soul.

Foul deeds will rise...

though all the earth overwhelm them,

to men's eyes.

No jocund health

that Denmark drinks today...

but the great cannon

to the clouds shall tell!

What does this mean, my lord?

Is it a custom?

Ay, marry is it.

But to my mind a custom more honored

in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel east and west...

makes us traduced and taxed

of other nations.

They clepe us drunkards...

and indeed, it soils the pith and marrow

of our attribute.

The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold.

What hour now?

It draws near the season

wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

So oft it chances in particular men...

that for some vicious mole of nature

in them...

their virtues else,

be they as pure as grace...

shall in the general censure

take corruption...

from that particular fault.

Look, my lord, it comes!

Angels and ministers of grace defend us.

Be thou a spirit of health

or goblin damned...

bring with thee airs from heaven

or blasts from hell...

be thy intents wicked or charitable...

I will speak to thee.

I'll call thee Hamlet...

King, father...

royal Dane.

Answer me.

- Do not, my lord.

- Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life at a pin's fee.

And for my soul, what can it do to that,

being a thing immortal as itself?

What if it tempt you toward the flood,

my lord...

or to the dreadful summit of the cliff

that beetles over his base into the sea...

and there assume

some other horrible form...

which might deprive your sovereignty

of reason and draw you into madness?

Think of it.

I'll follow it.

- You shall not go, my lord!

- Hold off your hands!

By heaven,

I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!

I say, away!

Go on, I'll follow thee.

- My lord.

- My lord Hamlet!

My lord!

I am thy father's spirit...

doomed for a certain term

to walk the night...

and for the day confined to fast in fires.

But that I am forbid

to tell the secrets of my prison-house...

I could a tale unfold...

whose lightest word

would harrow up thy soul.

List.

If thou didst ever thy dear father love...

revenge his foul

and most unnatural murder.

Murder?

Murder most foul, as in the best it is.

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

'Tis given out...

that sleeping in my orchard,

a serpent stung me.

But know, thou noble youth...

the serpent that did sting thy father's life

now wears his crown.

O my prophetic soul!

My uncle.

Ay, that incestuous,

that adulterate beast...

with witchcraft of his wit,

with traitorous gifts...

won to his shameful lust...

the will

of my most seeming-virtuous queen.

But, soft.

Methinks I scent the morning air.

Brief let me be.

Sleeping within my orchard...

my custom always of the afternoon...

upon my secure hour thy uncle stole...

with juice of cursed hebona in a vial...

and in the porches of mine ears

did pour the leprous distilment.

Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand...

of life, of crown, of queen,

at once dispatched...

cut off even in the blossoms of my sin...

no reckoning made...

but sent to my account

with all my imperfections on my head.

Oh, horrible!

Most horrible.

If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not.

Let not the royal bed of Denmark...

be a couch for luxury and damned incest.

But, howsoever thou pursuest this act...

taint not thy mind...

nor let thy soul contrive

against thy mother aught.

Leave her to heaven...

and to those thorns that

in her bosom lodge to prick and sting her.

Fare thee well at once.

The glow-worm

shows the matin to be near...

and begins to pale his uneffectual fire.

Adieu.

Remember me.

Remember thee?

Ay, thou poor ghost...

whiles memory holds a seat

in this distracted globe.

Remember thee?

Yea, from the table of my memory...

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records...

and thy commandment

all alone shall live...

within the book and volume of my brain...

unmixed with baser matter.

Yes, by heaven!

O most pernicious woman!

O villain!

Villain, smiling, damned villain!

My tables, meet it is I set it down.

That one may smile...

and smile...

and be a villain!

So, uncle...

there you are.

Now to my word.

It is, "Adieu, adieu.

"Remember me."

I have sworn it.

So be it.

Hillo, ho, ho, my lord!

Hillo, ho, ho, boy. Come, bird, come.

What news?

- No, you will reveal it.

- Not I, my lord, by heaven.

There's never a villain dwelling

in all Denmark...

but he's an arrant knave.

There needs no ghost, my lord,

come from the grave, to tell us this.

Right, you are in the right.

So I hold it fit we shake hands and part.

These are but wild and whirling words.

I am sorry they offend you, heartily.

Yes, faith, heartily.

- There's no offense, my lord.

- There is, Horatio, and much offense, too.

It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you.

And now, good friends,

grant me one poor request.

Never make known

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