In Hawke’s “Hamlet” and Mel Gibson’s 1990 “Hamlet,” I noticed that directors often use female characters to represent forbidden and fatalistic love. This is why I appreciate gender-crossed interpretations of Hamlet, such as Sarah Bernhardt in 1899 or Ruth Negga in 2020. Queen Gertrude is portrayed as either foolish, self-centered, or promiscuous, driven by uncontrollable desire. Many productions depict Act III, Scene 4 physically, where Hamlet confronts his mother in her bedroom. Hawke’s Hamlet forcefully grabs his mother while wearing a black robe and pushes her against closet doors. Gibson’s deranged Hamlet also fights and clings to Gertrude, as seen in Andrew Scott’s portrayal in the 2017 London production by Robert Icke. In Thomas Ostermeier’s bold “Hamlet” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, Gertrude’s sexuality is emphasized greatly, displaying her sensual movements overwhelmed by sexual energy. The text suggests that a woman who freely expresses her affection meets her own demise.
This includes Hamlet’s eternal love interest, Ophelia (symbolized by a skull and pansy tattoo on my right forearm). I used to see her as a weak female stereotype and have longed for a portrayal that empowers her with agency during her grieving, madness, and death.
Kenny Leon’s “Hamlet” at the Delacorte this summer, though otherwise underwhelming, achieved just that. Solea Pfeiffer played an Ophelia who matched Hamlet in intelligence and attitude, speaking with a sense of understanding and rage that brought the character into the present rather than confining her to the 17th century.
This duality in Ophelia — between authenticity and performance, between frenzied madness and coherent, articulated anger — is refreshing. Many directors choose to represent this duality throughout the entire production, using mirrors as symbols of Hamlet’s constant introspection at the expense of taking action, or hinting at the gap between appearance and truth.
However, for me, “Hamlet” extends beyond being just a character study. It is a story that revolves around grief, from beginning to end.
I have a tattoo representing Hamlet and his late father — a jeweled sword piercing a cracked skull wearing a crown. Having lost my own father almost ten years ago, I am familiar with the haunting presence of a father figure who may not be a literal king, but rather a patriarch who continues to influence from beyond the grave, as depicted in James Ijames’s “Fat Ham.” In this play, a Black and queer interpretation of “Hamlet” that engages with Shakespeare’s original text, Hamlet’s connection to his father is not solely based on filial duty, but also guilt, regret, and shame. In “Fat Ham,” I saw glimpses of my own father’s flaws — his spite, prejudice, and toxic masculinity. It made me reflect on how much of Hamlet’s grief is for his father, and how much is for the stability and security his father represented.