According to a survey by American Theatre magazine, I Hate Hamlet was one of the ten most frequently performed plays of the 1990s. And why not? It pokes fun at television, Classic Repertory theatre companies, arcane actor-training exercises, television, New Age spiritualism, New Yorkers, Los Angelinos, television, idealistic young people, aging movie-idols, Hollywood Hucksters…did I mention television? It celebrates the triumph of art over money, of reckless romanticism over repressive pragmatism, of aphrodisiac euphuism over academic analysis, and of copulation over chastity. (The Geezer and the Old Broad get some, too…no small factor when marketing to baby boom audiences.) There’s no drunk scene, but the action includes a schmoozy seance and a rip-snorting sword fight. Furthermore, everybody ends up with their just deserts, which coincide…whattaya know?…with their hearts’ desire.
Andrew Rally is a TV hunk whose East Coast agent has persuaded him to accept an invitation to play Hamlet at the New York City Shakespeare-In-The-Park Festival. His West Coast agent sees this as a bargaining ploy at best and an end to his career at worst. Ah, but a real estate broker has booked Andrew quarters in the apartment where once dwelt none other than John Barrymore, whose ghost returns from that Big Dressing Room In The Sky to offer the incredulous lad some avuncular advice, actor-to-actor, Hamlet-to-Hamlet.
The role of Barrymore is what anchors productions of this popular play, and Drury Lane Oakbrook director Ray Frewen is blessed to have John Reeger, the quintessential Victorian baritone, playing the dry-witted phantom. (“I can touch you! My hand doesn’t go through,” yelps Andrew, to which his mentor replies, “I’m a ghost. Not a special effect!”) They are ably supported by Derek Hasenstab as a cheerfully amoral lalaland lizard, Andrea Washburn as a virginal fiancée undone by the combination of iambic pentameter and well-turned tights, and Bernadette O’Malley as an icy dowager bent on one last fling with the lover of her youth. (Is there sex after death? Barrymore says there’s smoking…go figure.) Only Susan Hart, perhaps fatigued from her busy summer, coasts on stereotype as the yentisch real estater (who nevertheless gets the most scrumptious of Greg Slawko’s costumes).