The following paragraph is unfortunately not available for the viewing impaired, if able, please read anyways: I was fortunate enough to have been cast as Ophelia in a local student production of Hamlet; only after writing the tune for her songs and my first poem on her (Remembrance) did I fully begin to shape her.

We recently blocked Act 3 scene 1 ("Get thee to a Nunnery") so the blocking I describe here is the blocking we're using. I am also utilizing the cuts in our script, so if some lines are missing or off, that would be why.

This is really just what's going through her head from when Polonius gives her the book and hides to right before "O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown." Because that's just a continuation of her thoughts, it would not be fair for me to re-write Shakespeare's words. Everything in Italics is quote from the play.

"Ophelia, walk you here" says Father. I follow him over to the throne wincing slightly as he brushes past the King with wanton casualty. "Read on this book", he hands me a weathered volume and swiftly melts into the shadows along with His Highness. Hesitating slightly I sit gingerly, obeying father's wishes but realizing that he has absent mindedly instructed me to sit on the throne. I open the musty book and pretend to read as ominous footsteps approach. My innards freeze, dreading the task I have been assigned.

The looming outline of Lord Hamlet casts a warped shadow in the fading afternoon light. He stops; gazing at nothing searching beyond this reality, then turns until I can sense his attention upon me in my peripheral vision. I remain sitting, feigning absorption in my prop. I know he is not the only one watching me.

As he walks towards me I have a sudden, violent recollection of the last time we met, my wrist is still bruised. But I regain focus soon enough.

I initiate a greeting quietly on guard.

"I humbly thank you, well, well, well." He replies cryptically. If I was tense before, it takes all my will power to not simply run away, or conversely, sob into his shoulder, let him shelter me. I know I can do neither.

There is a moment of silence, during which he never once blinks or ceases observing me. I take a deep breath and get it over with:

"My Lord, I have remembrances of yours,

That I have longed long to redeliver.

I pray you, now receive them." As the words tumble awkwardly from my mouth I remove the fuchsia pendant he once gave me from around my neck and hand it to him, my hands trembling. He plucks the cord from me and examines it.

"No, not I; I never gave you aught." He drops it into my lap without another word. I am immobilized; of all the things I prepared myself for, total denial was something I did not foresee. I gather all of what little resolve I have left and try again.

"My honour'd Lord, you know right well you did," I begin, gazing at the keepsake, fondly recalling the gentle vows he had spoken when he first gave it to me but just as soon as I begin to sink into reveries of happier times the gravity of the moment yanks me back to the present and I hold it out to him once again; ending my offer bitterly and with more force than before. His nonchalant rebuff has thrown me off and struck deeper than I could ever have imagined. Even under better circumstances he was difficult to disagree with. I feel nauseous.
But, I should go; I have said what I needed to say, I can end it here and salvage some dignity, escape. Yet he holds the necklace up to the light, the rosy hue highlighting the weariness that has, of late, etched itself upon his face.

"I did love you once" He states swinging the necklace hypnotically, toying with it. I feel the sentence rush at me darting around my head until the sudden confession disorients me. I can only reel inwardly and pray for some explanation because as confused as I am I don't want him to leave, but he is silent.

"Indeed My Lord, you made believe so." I can't formulate any other coherent thoughts; even in madness he navigates the conversation so that my only response can be raw honesty or blatant lies.

"You should not have believ'd me; I loved you not." He makes this comment so offhandedly it doesn't even bother to try and disorient me, so much as deliver a solid blow. A torturous flame is blazing inside of me, sending a crippling pain throughout my frame.

"I was the more deceived." I want to be consoled or held or even just release my tears but it is not to be. If this is the truth than I'd rather have ignorance. But he's not finished. He faces me fully, eyes ever locked on mine.

"Get thee to a Nunnery, why woulds't thou be a breeder of sinners?" He yells and I'm utterly lost because as he continues murmuring these horrible, horrible words he tenderly places the necklace around my head and begins fingering my curls. And his tone…had he been saying anything else this would be a moment to treasure, but it is marred by his meaning.

"We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us" He abruptly engulfs my hand in his, grasping it as if I were something worth holding onto and turns away, his voice low and dark, a warning. I find myself clutching his hand in return even if his words offer no solace; his hand is all that is anchoring me. Until we both hear a muffled sneeze and I know who it must be. But I never could hide anything from him. He wheels around and everything about him changes; he seizes me by the shoulders and pierces me with a crazed glare.

"Where's your father?" He demands. I don't even have time to think about whether or not I should question my loyalties, I merely stammer the answer that cements the allegiance I have been a part of my entire life:

"At home, my lord." He lets me go but doesn't break eye contact. He backs away and in his gaze I know that he knows exactly what I have told him. And I have just hurt him more than he ever hurt me, despite the contents of this meeting. His pain makes mine flare brighter. What have I done?

And then he is ranting again, tearing around the room, throwing back curtains, spinning wildly about, peering into every corner and I can only sit, realizing this is a wrong I cannot simply right with mealy-mouthed apologies. What have I done?

he takes a curtain and swings on it landing right next to me and now he's got around behind me and I start when he places his hands on my shoulders for a second time and presses himself up against me menacingly. We are cheek to cheek, he's holding me in place but even with the barely contained ferocity within his speech his touch is not that of a man who intends harm. Even so the phrases that he silkily articulates are still as vicious as before.

"Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny." He hisses. I am burning up. The hypocrisy of his words vs. his actions are ripping me in two. I deserve it.

"O heavenly powers, restore him." I plead, totally devoid of any other hope. Unable to restrain myself I reach around myself and try to hold onto him but he jerks away. I am released and am all too aware of the absence of unique warmth he transferred, despite his incensed state.

"To a Nunnery, go." He leaves, defeated. I have never sensed that much pain exuding from a living creature.

What have I done?

Please hear me out as long as it is this should theoretically explain everything: This is honestly one of my favourite scenes to ever have performed (says the high school student with the oh-so vast theatrical experience). But seriously, there's so much room for interpretation, reactions, manipulation of punctuation (was that as fun to read as it was to write?), physicality, emotional motives—the possibilities are endless. But no matter what, it always ends up in an unfixable situation, it is hopeless. Inevitably hopeless. And watching two people who love each other lose hope (for crying out loud, this is the only scene in the entire play where they're "alone together"…and they're not even alone together…) is such an invigorating and moving thing to play.

I chose this outlook on her because it just really pisses me off when Shakespearean women are played as delicate flowers—pretty and weak. Don't get me wrong, Ophelia is abused by almost every single character in this play and is being very over powered in this scene but that doesn't mean she should just be bland and scared throughout the entire thing. The more silently resolved she is the more disturbing it is to see her as a mad woman because only then is the resolve totally gone. The way my Ophelia is in this production is just very innocent, there are so many things she simply doesn't understand and has been sheltered from. So her frustration at knowing she is not being told everything can motivate her or her innocence can be used as a device to separate her from the other characters, most of whom are either very troubled or corrupted. (I would suggest reading my poem Remembrances after this; it goes more in depth towards her madness) There could potentially be an element of sexual tension in this scene and, of course during, "Lady shall I lie in your lap?" (Next scene) which she probably feels but doesn't know what it is. She comes to know she loves him and feels for him and feels his pain but maybe not the full intonating of what she's literally "feeling" (i.e. I suppose that's what a part of her "burning" sensation is). The other big enlightenment here is that she becomes aware that she can't help anyone or do anything. She is utterly powerless. All this builds until the final straw of Polonius' death and she snaps like a twig.

Thanks for listening; sorry, that was almost an essay…Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts, questions, comments, concerns etc.

Anon!