Let me hear you say: out, out @#$*! spot!

Appearing on the Sudler Hall lecture stage in little more than their harold bloomers, Shakespearean academics Ian Robertson, DC '01, David Valdez, DC '01, and Bill Marino, TC '00, are out to prove that their notes are even better than Cliff's. The result is a frantic show that not only races through 16 plays of murder, mayhem, and madness in little over two hours, but also manages to whirlwind iambic hauteur into something a little more invigorating—like hip-hop. "Let me hear ya say Oooooh!" (Oooooh!) "Let me hear ya say 'Thello!" ('Thellooo!) When he's not waving 'em in the air like a funky courtier, Robertson proudly holds up the colossal volume of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and invites the audience to imagine "the glorious future when this book will be found in every hotel room."

ANDREW HEID/YH Mch ado abt nthng.

It is, no doubt, a difficult task to do justice to an author who inspires such grandiose visions, not to mention motion pictures starring Mel Gibson. Yet Robertson, Valdez, and Marino have taken on this challenge with unique scholarly responsibility and aesthetic awareness. During spare moments, background information is provided for those unfamiliar with any of Shakespeare's plays, employing sonic and visual aids ranging from tambourines to Teletubbies. And the actors themselves are even more versatile and amusing than the various little instruments they produce from behind the stage, side curtains, and their jock straps. They switch pantaloons, hair rugs, and character with admirable dexterity, alternating abreviated lines of pentameter with hokey puns. The comic timing of Valdez is especially deft: even a flopped joke wins laughs with his subtle build-up and disclaiming snicker. While their comedy is usually more low-key, Robertson and Marino complement Valdez as textbook straightmen.

Yet while this show must be applauded for its demonstration of the humor inherent in Shakepeare's tragedies, it seems only fair to warn potential viewers that they must duck the occasionally corny joke, along with countless other projectiles. Those who choose to sit in the first row will likely be subject to Valdez's chronic hyperemesis (during the brief intermission, an unfortunate member of the front row turned around and pronounced, "I have oatmeal in my sleeves—just wanted you all to know.")

The front row is not the only extension of this stage: the trio makes fluid use of all possible acting space during suicides and swordfights, including stage stairs, a windowed hallway, and the various laps of audience members. The show depends on physical movement and audience participation, and the actors coordinate their farce-fighting with the same rhythm that they employ for one-liners. Between improvised jokes and caterwauling chases, nothing is off-limits in the Shakespeare game. Props are similarly exploited—old Polonius' walker doubles as a scooter, the king's crown is passed off during a rowdy football game, and the ghost's sign reads "oob" when Hamlet is performed backwards. A few jokes are even thrown in at the expense of such staples as Bill Clinton, LAW '73, and the Yale dining hall Shepherd's Pie.

It is a unique experience to be so entertained while seated in WLH 201, where eyes tend to gravitate toward the ceiling's heavenly stratosphere during normal hours. The actors are obviously having fun with this script, which allows for plenty of spontaneity, and the audience is easily strung along by organized chanting and cheering. Although Shakespeare probably would not have envisioned Juliet wielding maracas and prancing about in a detachable black wig and running shoes, these bawdy stars prove that the ensemble really is the thing.

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