Hamlet

No matter how many times I see Hamlet (and I've seen it a LOT), I always seem to be in directorial mode, mostly to the detriment of what I'm watching. This is one of only two Hamlets where I was capable of actually watching the PLAY, rather than the director's mistakes. Tennant's very tense and tightly-wound Prince exhibits a pain and obtusion almost excruciating to watch. The contemporary gloss (LOVED those black interiors, shiny floors, endless reaches of doors and columns and the infinite dark starkness) doesn't feel superficial and does not distract at all from the text, unless you're one of those Renaissance Purists. Patrick Stewart's Claudius was slick, smooth, menacing, and (oddly enough), almost touchingly revealing. This production's Queen Gertrude had that haggard, 'wanna be young' angst seen in so many truly beautiful women once they hit fifty -- and I liked that she seemed to age as the battalions of misfortune kept coming in waves. Most importantly, I liked that the director allowed the TEXT to take center stage, rather than some radical new interpretational agenda. For once, a director that allows the audience to draw their own conclusions.