What happens to minor characters when they're not on stage in a drama?
Well, for the hapless Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of "Hamlet," they're
stuck in a theatrical limbo, an empty stage on which they wonder what
their purpose is. Sure of nothing, not even their names, with only
fragments of memory as to their task of delivering Hamlet to England,
they encounter the play's dramatists, who give them only cryptic
answers, and only every now and then the main characters of "Hamlet,"
who sweep past them, engrossed in their own roles.
It's a little
bit "Waiting For Godot," a little bit "Six Characters in Search of an
Author," and a little bit "No Exit." Ros. and Guild. have, for the
preponderance of the play, only themselves to talk to, annoy, console,
and baffle in turn, and in this case it does turn out that hell is other
people. But this play is brilliant in its own right, with its
meta-textural humor, surrealism, and frank contemplation of death. I'll
tell you one thing, though. Death is not being on a boat. Possibly,
however, at times it is not-being on a boat.
five stars
