The Laurence Olivier Awards 1997 Page #3

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crew loud,

and at the sound it shrunk in haste

away and vanished from our sight.

- Tis very strange.

- As I do live, my honored lord, ttis true,

and we did think it writ down

in our duty to let you know of it.

Indeed.

Indeed, sirs.

But this

troubles me.

- Hold you the watch tonight?

- We do, my lord.

- Armed, say you?

- Armed, my lord.

- From top to toe?

- My lord, from head to foot.

- Then you saw not his face.

- Oh, yes, my lord. He wore his visor up.

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.

Very like, very like.

Stayed it long?

While one with moderate haste

might tell a hundred.

- Longer. - Longer.

- Not when I saw it.

His beard was

grizzled, no?

It was, as Ive seen it

in his life, a sable silver.

- I will watch tonight. Perchance twill walk again.

- I warrant it will.

I pray you all, if you have hitherto

concealed this sight...

and whatsoever else shall hap tonight,

give it an understanding but no tongue.

I will requite your loves.

So fare you well.

Upon the platform, twixt 11:=

and 12:
=, Ill visit you.

- Our duty to your honor.

- Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.

My fathers spirit... in arms.

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

oerwhelm them, to menss eyes.

The air bites shrewdly.

It is very cold.

It is a nipping

and an eager air.

- What hour now?

- I think it lacks of 12:=.

- No, it is struck.

- Indeed?

I heard it not. It then draws

near the season...

wherein the spirit

has his wont to walk.

What does this mean,

my lord?

The king doth wake tonight

and makes carouse,

keeps wassail and the

swaggering upspring reels.

And as he drains his draughts

of Rhenish down,

the kettledrum and trumpet doth bray out

the triumph of his pledge.

- Is it a custom?

- Aye, marry, ist.

But to my mind, though I am

native here and to the manner born,

it is a custom more honored

in the breach than the observance.

This heavy-headed revel

east and west...

makes us traduced and mocked

by other nations.

They call us drunkards, and with

swinish phrase soil our reputation,

and indeed it takes from our

achievements, though performed at height.

So oft it chances

in particular men...

that for some vicious

mole of nature in them,

by the oergrowth

of some complexion...

oft breaking down the pales

and forts of reason...

or by some habit grown too much

that these men,

carrying, I say,

the stamp of one defect,

their virtues else-

be they as pure as grace-

shall in the general censure

take corruption...

from that particular fault.

Angels and ministers

of grace defend us!

Look, my lord,

it comes!

Be thou a spirit of health

or goblin damned,

thou comest in such

a questionable shape...

that I will

speak to thee.

Ill call thee Hamlet,

King, Father.

Royal Dane,

oh, answer me!

It beckons you

to go away with it.

- It waves you to a more removed ground.

- But do not go with it.

- No, by no means.

- It will not speak. Then I will follow it.

- Do not, my lord.

- Why? What should be the fear?

I do not set my life

at a pins fee, and for my soul,

what can it do to that, being a thing

immortal as itself?

It waves me forth again.

Ill follow it!

What if it tempt you

toward the flood, my lord,

or to the dreadful summit of the cliff

that beetles oer 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!

- You shall not go, my lord!

- Hold off your hands!

- Be ruled! You shall not go!

My fate cries out and makes

each petty artery in this body...

as hardy as the Nemean

lions nerve!

Still am I called.

Unhand me, gentlemen!

By heaven, Ill make a ghost of him

that hinders me. I say, away!

Go on.

Ill follow thee.

Whither wilt

thou lead me?

Speak.

Ill go no further.

Mark me.

I will.

I am

thy fathers spirit,

doomed for a certain time

to walk the night...

and for the day confined

to fast in fires...

till the foul crimes

done in my days of nature...

are burned

and purged away.

Alas, poor ghost.

List, list,

oh, list.

If thou didst ever

thy dear father love-

Oh, God!

Revenge his foul

and most unnatural murder.

-Murder?

-Murder most foul, as in the best it is,

but this most foul,

strange and unnatural.

Haste me to knowt,

that I, with wings as swift

as meditation or the thoughts of love,

may sweep

to my revenge.

Now, Hamlet, hear.

Tis given out that

sleeping in my orchard,

a serpent stung me,

so the whole

ear of Denmark...

is by a forged process

of my death...

rankly abused.

But know,

thou noble youth,

the serpent that did sting

thy fathers life...

now wears his crown.

Oh, my prophetic soul!

My uncle.

Aye, that incestuous,

that adulterate beast...

with traitorous gifts

won to his shameful lust...

the will of my most

seeming virtuous queen.

Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off

was there.

But soft. Methinks I scent

the morning air.

Brief let me be.

Sleeping within my orchard,

my custom always

in the afternoon,

upon my quiet hour

thy uncle stole...

with juice of cursed hemlock

in a vial,

and in the porches of mine ears

did pour the leprous distillment,

whose effect holds such an enmity

with blood of man...

that swift as quicksilver

it courses through the natural gates...

and alleys of the body.

Thus was I, sleeping,

by a brothers 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.

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.

Fare thee well at once.

The glowworm shows the matin

to be near...

and gins to pale

his uneffectual fire.

Adieu, adieu,

adieu.

Remember me.

O all you

host of heaven!

O earth!

What else?

And shall I couple hell?

Hold, hold my heart!

Remember thee.

Aye, thou poor ghost,

while memory holds a seat...

in this

distracted glow.

Remember thee?

Yea, from the table

of my memory I wipe away...

all trivial fond records that youth

and observation copied there.

And thy commandment all alone shall live

within the book and volume of my brain,

unmixed with baser matter!

Yes, by heaven!

Most pernicious woman.

O villain, villain,

smiling, damned villain.

So, uncle,

there you are.

Now to my word.

It is AAdieu, adieu.

Remember me.

I have sworn it.

- My lord, my lord!

- Lord Hamlet!

So be it.

Illo, my lord!

Illo, ho, ho, boy.

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