To the English: An Apology

Through a series of cultural misfortunes arising over the past few weeks, I have developed a deep shame at being an American in a playhouse. It seems as if the theaters are not meant for my kind, and I wish to take this opportunity to apologize for our repeated intrusion into a venue in which we clearly do not belong.

My awakening to our plight began on Tuesday, March 27 while in the audience of a performance of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Henry IV at the Barbican Centre in London. One of my fellow countrymen, I believe hailing from the mid-western region of our fine nation, availed himself of the opportunity to make a call on his mobile phone. He apparently wished to share his exuberance at witnessing an incredibly powerful theatrical performance with some loved one unable to be in attendance. This experience was greatly heightened by the presence of a largeish woman from Rhode Island who apparently suffered from a somewhat unpleasant crossing from Paris and felt the need to exact her vengeance upon Falstaff, grumbling her woes to her companions in a valiant attempt to drown out his catechism. Leaving the event, I was sufficiently embarrassed of my natal affiliation to go so far as to pose as being, of all things, French. Clearly dire straits. Upon my return to the land of the free and the home of the brazen, my indignant rage at our collective theatrical impropriety softened somewhat in the absence of a ready comparison.

Then there was Hamlet. Opening night of the Royal National Theatre’s United States tour brought a full house to the Wilbur Theatre; unfortunately, it brought a quarter of them 15 minutes late. In the middle of Laertes’ first scene with Ophelia, the herd of Americans came traipsing down the aisles like so many elephants, linked trunk to tail. After the requisite bit of coat rustling, umbrella shaking, coughs, sniffs and general settling into seats, the performance was allowed to continue.

I had been lucky enough to get one of the truly excellent seats in the house; it is specially designed for those of us with comprehension problems, coming complete with two arm rests, ample leg room and a running plot synopsis from the middle-aged woman in the truly unfortunate eyeglasses sitting directly behind me. For the benefit of those around her, at no additional charge, she commented upon and explained both individual performances and the design concept of the production, her scintillating observations ranging from, “Ooh, he’s quite good,” to, “Ooh, the lights just changed.” At points, I was so transfixed by her fascinating contributions that I almost forgot to loathe her and everything she represents. Almost.

Intermission provided an interesting exercise for those of us who wished to experiment with techniques of sonar navigation. Unstymied by repeated requests for audience members to take their seats so that Act II could commence, many of my more adventurous compatriots chose to wait for the houselights to dim and the curtain to rise before groping their way through the darkness to their places. Later, in case the interruptive energy contained within the house was not enough, various public vehicles, anything with a siren really, decided to lead an impromptu combination of drag race and parade outside of the theater. It was only minimally disruptive, as Simon Russell Beale was merely attempting to come to terms with his imminent death. It was truly impressive to witness what we, as a culture, could achieve.

The result of all this is a request on behalf of the audiences of my nation to the performers of yours: Do not let us in. In the end, I suspect it will be better for all concerned. And, while I will regret my own banishment from the playhouses, I will retain the bittersweet satisfaction of no longer needing to be ashamed of my country’s entitlement, rudeness and general ignorance in matters of etiquette and good theatrical taste. If you bar us from your theaters, perhaps you will be able to practice your art in peace. Perhaps, instead of contending with the whispered revelations of, “He’s about to die,” the rest can truly be silence.

—Matthew K. Hudson