I am not an original groundling. Nor could I ever be, what with widespread theatrical ambivalence, modern day health codes and a personal dislike for sloshing through human waste.
However, had I been the child of the 60s (the 1560s), I might’ve felt right at home on the wrong side of the Thames, amongst the bawdy bards and applauding proletariat. Right there, on the floor, standing room only, ankle deep in mud, stale ale and whatever that steaming liquid over there in the corner might be – reveling in revelry with a raucous reaction to sword fights and swooning ladies (men dressed like ladies) all the same.
These are the cheap seats, the Elizabethan equivalent of the Wrigley bleachers during a mid-summer weekend day game – with more beer. Here on the theater’s ground, directly in front of the stage, apprentices skipped out on their masters to pack the floor and interact with the actors. They were loud, rambunctious and if their nickname, “Stinkards,” doesn’t describe them fully enough for you, just know that a trip to the loo meant aiming in between your shoes.
But what the cheap seats during Elizabethan times lacked in hygiene (and they lacked a lot, including any actual seats), they made up for in sheer entertainment value. You were part of the production. The sweat on Shylock's brow as Portia argues his punishment must have dropped right at your poorly shod feet. True, to stand at the foot of the stage meant to be in prime trampling range should an errant spark find its way onto the thatched roof. But the play was the thing, ensnaring the attention of everyone from commoner to king. For what equaled out to ten percent of your day’s pay, a bit of entertainment was worth the risk and the aroma, which may have been just as deadly.
Shakespeare's Globe Theatre is a reconstruction. The original, lost to fire like most of London at one point or another, was located nearby the site of its modern day doppelganger. Like my ability to be a true groundling, the modern Globe is not, nor could it ever be an original. But since a trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon was not on the agenda (and if you don’t get that reference you probably don’t understand half of what I’m saying here), a tour of the Globe was my chance to indulge my inner Shakespeare-o-phile. Unfortunately, because the theater is open air, the season does not start until mid-April. A month early, we settled for a guided tour.
And I came as close as I ever would to being a groundling. Not while standing in front of the stage – but in the staging area inside, before the tour even began.
Danielle made her way to the waiting area while I found the little bard’s room (although an exact replica of the original, they did made a point to include indoor plumbing in this century’s Globe). As I descended the stairway into the waiting area the small crowd all turned to stare. All except my wife, who was in front of them all, like an actor on stage, accompanied by a young woman, an older gentleman and two racks of traditional Elizabethan garb.
My first reaction was to curse my wife not so subtly under my breath. I could see what was about to unfold. I was about to be ambushed by a gaggle of redcoats – planning with their scheming minds to dress me up and parade my be-knickered arse in front of international tourists. With every step toward the group I tried convincing myself it would be fun. I could pull off tights and a feathered cap. Right? Maybe they’d give me a sword, that’d make it manly.
Just as I quelled the embarrassment, my wife’s face turned redder than the scarlet dress hanging behind her. She motioned for me to sit and the young woman announced they’d be dressing Danielle up in the traditional clothing of Ophelia, an Elizabethan royal (albeit Hamlet wasn’t British but they wore the British clothes on the stage . . . you get the idea).
As a groundling, I witnessed the transformation from embarrassed modern woman to embarrassed British lady. She donned a white linen undergarment that looked more bedsheet than bra. The corset came next, followed by a “bump” to make her rear more ample (Elizabethans like a little junk in their trunks). The beautiful crimson dress was finished with an ivory jacket, laden with jewels and delicate stitching. Topped off with a bonnet.
Perhaps I should’ve been more true to the groundling form and heckled her. I had their vantage point, up close and personal with the entertainment. And yet something wholly Shakespearian clamped my voice. She had done this for me. She sacrificed her dignity (and probably a few pounds) by dressing up in heaving period attire, just to round out my Globe experience. I’d like to think Billy would’ve appreciated the scene, for all its skewering of humility, tugging of romantic souls and just plain comedic value (she did look a little like David the Gnome’s wife).
I may not have gotten to see a play in Shakespeare’s holy house but as a wannabe groundling, I thoroughly enjoyed the show.
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