The Laurence Olivier Awards 1997

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This is the tragedy...

of a man...

who could not

make up his mind.

- Whos there?

- Nay, answer me! Stand and unfold yourself.

- Long live the king.

- Bernardo?

-He.

-You come most carefully upon your hour.

Tis now struck 12:=.

Get thee to bed, Francisco.

For this relief

much thanks.

Tis bitter cold...

and Im

sick at heart.

Have you had

quiet guard?

- Not a mouse stirring.

- Well, good night.

If you do meet

Horatio and Marcellus,

the rivals of my watch,

bid them make haste.

I think I hear them.

- Stand ho! Whos there?

- Friends to this ground.

- And liegemen to the Dane.

- Give you good night.

Farewell, honest soldier.

Who hath relieved you?

Bernardo hath my place.

Give you good night.

- Hello, Bernardo.

- Say what? Is Horatio there?

A piece of him.

Welcome, Horatio.

Welcome, good Marcellus.

What, has this thing

appeared again tonight?

Ive seen nothing.

Horatio says tis

but our fantasy...

and will not let belief take hold of him

touching this dreaded sight...

twice seen of us.

Therefore, Ive entreated him along with

us to watch the minutes of this night.

That if again this apparition comes,

he may approve our eyes and speak to it.

Tush, tush,

twill not appear.

Sit down a while

and let us once again...

assail your ears that are

so fortified against our story...

what we two nights

have seen.

Well, sit we down,

and let us hear Bernardo

speak of this.

Last night of all,

when yon same star

thats westward from the pole...

had made his course into that part

of heaven where now it burns,

- Marcellus and myself, the bell then

beating 1.:
00- -

Peace, break thee off.

Look where it comes again!

In the same figure

like the dead King Hamlet.

Thou art a scholar.

Speak to it, Horatio.

Looks it not

like the king?

- Mark it, Horatio.

- Most like.

It harrows me

with fear and wonder.

It would be

spoke to.

Question it,

Horatio.

If thou hast any sound

or use of voice,

speak to me.

If there be

any good thing to be done,

that may to thee do ease

and grace to me, O speak!

Stay and speak!

Stop it, Marcellus!

- Tis here!

- TTis here!

Tis gone,

and will not answer.

How now, Horatio?

You tremble and look pale.

Is not this something

more than fantasy?

- What think you ont?

- Before my God, I might not this believe...

without the sensible and true

avouch of mine own eyes.

- Is it not like the king?

- As thou art to thyself.

Tis strange.

It was about to speak

when the cock crew.

Then it started like a guilty thing

upon a fearful summons.

Ive heard the cock

that is the herald to the morn...

doth with his lofty

and shrill-sounding throat...

awake the god of day,

and at its warning the wandering

and uneasy spirit hies to its confine.

It faded on the crowing

of the cock.

Some say that ever gainst

that season comes...

wherein Our Saviors

birth is celebrated,

the bird of dawning

singeth all night long.

And then, they say,

no spirit can walk abroad.

The nights

are wholesome then.

No planets strike,

no fairy takes,

nor witch

hath power to charm,

so hallowed and so gracious

is the time.

So have I heard,

and do in part

believe it.

But look, the morn,

in russet mantle clad,

walks oer the dew

of yon high eastern hill.

Break we our watch up,

and by my advice let us impart

what weve seen tonight...

unto young Hamlet,

for upon my life, this spirit,

dumb to us,

will speak to him.

Lets do it,

I pray.

Something is rotten

in the state of Denmark.

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brothers

death the memory be green,

and that it us befitted

to bear our hearts in grief...

and our whole kingdom to be

contracted in one brow of woe,

yet so far hath discretion

fought with nature...

that we with wisest sorrow

think on him...

together with remembrance

of ourselves.

Therefore, our sometimes sister,

now our queen,

have we, as twere,

with a defeated joy,

with mirth in funeral

and with dirge in marriage,

in equal scale

weighing delight and dole,

taken to wife.

Nor have we herein barred

your better wisdoms,

which have freely gone

with this affair along.

For all, our thanks.

And now, Laertes.

Whats the news with you?

You told us of some suit.

What ist, Laertes?

You cannot speak of reason to the Dane

and lose your voice.

What must thou beg, Laertes, that shall

not be my offer, not thy asking?

The head is not more

native to the heart,

the head more instrumental

to the mouth...

than is the throne of Denmark

to thy father.

- What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

- Dread my lord,

your leave and favor

to return to France,

from whence, though willingly, I came to

Denmark to show my duty in your coronation.

Yet now, I must confess,

that duty done,

my thoughts and wishes

bend again towards France.

And bow them to your gracious

leave and pardon.

Have you your fathers leave?

What says Polonius?

He hath, my lord,

wrung from me my slow leave...

by laborsome petition,

and at last, upon his will

I sealed my hard consent.

I do beseech you

give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes.

Time be thine...

and thy best graces

spend it at thy will.

But now, our cousin Hamlet

and our son.

How is it that the clouds

still hang on you?

Good Hamlet,

cast thy nighted

color off...

and let thine eye

look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not forever

with thy lowered lids...

seek for thy noble father

in the dust.

Thou knowst

ttis common.

All that lives

must die,

passing through nature

to eternity.

Aye, madam.

It is common.

If it be,

why seems it

so particular with thee?

Seems, madam?

Nay, it is.

I know not sseems.

Tis not alone

my inky cloak, good Mother,

nor customary suits

of solemn black...

together with all forms, modes

shows of grief...

that can denote

me truly.

These indeed seem,

for they are actions

that a man might play.

But I have that within

which passeth show.

These but the trappings

and the suits of woe.

Tis sweet and commendable

in your nature, Hamlet,

to give these mourning

duties to your father,

but you must know

your father lost a father,

that father lost, lost his, and the

survivor bound in filial obligation...

for some term to do

obsequious sorrow,

but to persist

in obstinate condolement...

is a course

of impious stubbornness.

Tis unmanly grief,

a fault to heaven,

a fault against the dead,

a fault to nature,

to reason most absurd,

whose common theme

is death of fathers...

and who still hath cried from the first

corpse till he that died today,

TThis must be so.

Why should we

in our peevish opposition...

take it to heart?

We pray you throw to earth...

this unprevailing woe...

and think of us

as of a father.

For let the world

take note,

you are the most immediate

to our throne.

And with no less nobility of love...

than that which dearest father

bears his son...

do I impart

towards you.

For your intent in going back

to school at Wittenberg,

it is most retrograde

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