Disparate Gazes: Camera Styles in Hamlet

A security camera’s viewfinder frames the empty hallway. Cautiously, a guard trudges down the corridor. The camera pans to track him. After setting the stage in the castle’s night-emptied halls, we are introduced to Horatio, Barnardo, and Marcellus using an over-the-shoulder shot which operates almost as a fourth person eavesdropping on the trio. As the three men huddle together, their retelling of the previous night’s events is interrupted by an abrupt switch to a first-person handheld shot. This viewpoint stalks slowly towards the murmuring group, who quickly turn in terror, shying away from the unseen arrival. Horatio stammers out a command to speak, but the apparition—Hamlet Senior’s ghost—ignores him and departs. Once again the point of view switches abruptly, back to the security camera. Three men stand together, terrified, in an empty hallway. 

Hamlet and Incest

Oedipal Desires & the Subconscious in the Language of Hamlet

For many people, especially those who have never encountered Shakespeare, or who have only experienced Bowdlerized versions, Shakespeare’s works are a clean and wholesome alternative to what they consider “modern filth.” However, even a basic knowledge of Shakespeare’s writing reveals themes such as those found in Hamlet: Self-harm, murder, incest, and more, all used to reveal deeper truths about humanity. This essay will examine Hamlet’s use of incestuous themes, particularly Ophelia’s song to deceased Polonius and two of Hamlet’s interactions with Gertrude; find that Hamlet and Ophelia indeed possess Oedipal desires; and examine possible reasons for Shakespeare’s inclusion of such longings. 

Ireland Belongs to the Dead

“To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart.”

Daniel Patrick Moynihan

I’ve always been ashamed when Shane McGowan queries, “Have you ever walked the lonesome hills, or heard the curlews cry? Or seen the raven black as night upon the wind-swept sky? To walk the purple heather or heard the west wind sigh, and know that’s where the rebel boys must die?” For years, my answer has always been no. And I’ve been ashamed.  And now my answer is yes, I have done these things, Shane. I wish it weren’t so. In the curlew’s shrill keening there is only loneliness. A black-winged raven wheeling in widening blue-grey gyres brings only sorrow. Ireland belongs to the dead. 

Heretical Babblings: Something Krampus Snow Titles Are Hard!

Hello again. I'm catching up on sleep and video games and the next section of The Walking Fella, so have some more vomitings from my sugar-highing brain.

Last night—well, this morning—I beat Borderlands 2. Honestly, not super impressed by the last houror two. The final mission took things from a fun shooty looty game to a mind-numbing slog. And don't even get me started on the final boss. It was like fighting the Rakk Hive, only with ten times more health and slightly more effective attacks. Not fun. Just boring. It took me about twenty minutes of standing and tanking hit after hit while firing at the glowing weak spot to crush the thing. Here's hoping the DLC fares better.

The Walking Fella in Hell: Heretical Murmurings

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

He meandered past my window in that devilish fog, chanting quietly to himself in some heathen tongue. Doctor Henniway told me all about the walking fellow and his murderous ways. Shameful that in a civilized society men should still be killing men over trifles. And now Sheriff Hedge had gone mad and shot the little Vandeusen boy. Such a terrible shame. All this violence. Most certainly caused by the walking fellow. He had brought trouble with him to this little town—though we have long deserved chastisement for our sinful name. Blasphemy and pride! It has called down ruin upon us! 

The Walking Fella in Hell: Whiskey Exorcism

In a world so unforgiving

You mean more to me each every day

So may the living be dead in our wake

He sat at my bar, down at the end, as far from daylight as possible. What the hell was he—Festus got it started calling him the walking fella—doing in my bar? Besides paying too much for rotgut whiskey and pouring it over his head, that is. Occasionally he drank some. But most of it went into the sawdust by his feet. A big damp pile of sawdust.

Heretical Babblings: Winter Has Come

Hello and welcome to the inside of my skull. Don’t mind the clutter! I’ll clean the place out someday. Someday. It’s been a busy couple of weeks, as I’m about to enter finals territory and it’s cold cold cold. But still, I’ve carved out some time to read a couple books and watch some TV and just generally be a lazy bugger. So here’s the scoop on what’s been floating around in my head lately. I’ve slapped this together with absolutely no concern as to narrative flow or any of that jim-jam. Deal with it. Also there’s no pictures. Deal with it, I sez.