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Globe to Globe blog: The final burger

Muse
of Fire
producers/directors/actors Dan Poole and Giles Terera
round off their guest coverage of Globe to Globe, the staging of
Shakespeare’s plays in a different language courtesy of 37 visiting
international theatre companies as part of the World Shakespeare
Festival.


What
exactly is the World Shakespeare Festival? Is it
part of the London 2012 Festival? And is the London 2012 Festival the
same thing as the Cultural Olympiad? Or are they two separate things?
The Globe to Globe Festival is part of the World
Shakespeare Festival, we know that, but is it also part of the
Cultural Olympiad? Is the World Shakespeare Festival only for theatre
or are the things we see on TV also
part
of it? These questions have been chewing at us for the past few
months.

We
asked people out and about if they knew, on the South Bank, on
bridges, outside the theatre. No joy. Answers on a postcard…

Shakespeare
is everywhere. Mark Rylance is set to launch the opening ceremony
of Olympics with Caliban’s ‘isle is full of noises’ speech, but
what does it all actually mean?

What
does make sense is Shakespeare’s Globe’s mammoth contribution. It
makes sense that the Olympics bring together every nation on earth
(almost) to demonstrate just how far human beings can go, and that’s
exactly what Globe to Globe has done in the name of Mr
Shakespeare.

It’s
been so cool to see the performers’ experiences here. How so many of
them kiss the stage at the end. To simply get to the Globe has been a
trial for some of them (never mind learning the lines, what about the
government?). How they watch each other’s performances, spur each
other on as athletes do. How they compete, check each other out. Are
proud of each other. Hand over the baton from one company to the
next.

And
in the end, as trite as this may sound, what comes through loud and
clear is that old idea that it isn’t the winning or the losing,
it’s the taking part. Who gives a shit who’s better or worse than
the next group? Who cares whether this is the finest Macbeth
I’ve ever seen? Rory Kinnear said something when we were doing
Hamlet: “Lots of people have done Hamlet
before me, loads will do it after me. I don’t
have
to be the best, I just have to be me.” The boy’s right.

Our
film Muse of Fire started off with the dire
dilemma that Shakespeare comes loaded with so much baggage that it’s
hard to run with him sometimes. Snobbery, intellectualism, confusion,
elitism, fear. Shakespeare needs an enema. It’s like there are two
Shakespeares: the guy who wrote the plays who cares about telling
beautiful stories to
whoever
will listen; and his evil twin brother, who is cleverer than the rest
of us and who wants to push so much useless crap into our brains that
our heads explode from boredom.

But
here at the Globe ‘Evil Shakespeare’ is nowhere to be seen. Just a
stage. A handful of props. Costumes (sometimes!). A fresh language
and culture every night and perhaps most importantly an open, willing
audience, free of preconceptions who are up for a good story and a
good time. The best theatre happens where the audience have to work
just
as much as the actors.

Henry
V
, the last play in the whole season, says it best. The
chorus struts out
onto
the stage and tells us straight:

O
for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The
brightest heaven of invention,
A
kingdom for a stage, princes to act
And
monarchs to behold the swelling scene.

Piece
out our imperfections with your thoughts;
Into
a thousand parts divide one man,
And
make imaginary puissance.
Think
when we talk of horses that you see them
Printing
their proud hoofs i’ the receiving earth,
For
’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry
them here and there; jumping o’er times,
Turning
the accomplishment of many years
Into
an hour-glass.

Everyone
should have seen this festival. The Queen should have opened it. The
productions should have started in London and then jumped straight on
the bus and done the same thing up in Newcastle or Manchester. The
BBC should have filmed it – prime time. School children should have
been hanging from the rafters. Cameron and his band of merry men
should have realised that while they and Boris have to go all over
the
world
and kiss nations’ asses to come here and spend their bucks, this
bald-headed country boy – dead 400 years, with a wicked sense of
humour and a perfect heart – has them lining up to come and kiss
the British stage.