Haunted Hamlet
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Category:
S through Z › Slings and Arrows
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
891
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the television series that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Haunted Hamlet
“Thank you, Richard,” says Darren into the phone, “but I’ve chosen Corialanus and I think we can-“
“No, Darren, you don’t understand.”
He doesn’t like that tone.
“We’re not doing Corialanus on the Rose, I need it for South Pacific.”
“But-“ says Darren,
“No buts. Don’t forget who got you this job.”
The dial tone rings in his ear, an unpleasant reminder of his own effective impotence.
When are you going to do something about this? Asks a little unpleasant, nagging voice in his ear, and Darren feels the grim cold hand of powerlessness curl around his throat. He puts his head in his hands and takes a deep breath.
“Shit.”
This isn’t going nearly as well as he’d hoped it would. At least he has an office all to himself? He can hide in here and the hanging portrait of Oliver, and the woman in the Klimt painting replica can be the only witness to his defeat.
As if on cue, both pictures fall off the wall.
“...shit.”
~~~
Darren is in, working late, writing feedback for the directors, whose rehearsals he’s been sitting in on all the past month. The production of Metamorphosis is going wonderfully, the beetle is very intimidating. The Chekov’s a little dry, but then, it’s Chekov. Richard’s South Pacific is burning through it’s budget too quickly, but Darren already knows that that just means a few fewer lights for one of the others.
And they’re already stretched tight enough this year, what with Colm Feore’s cost... the man had agreed to star in three productions, one of Richard III, one of a one man show, and one of Trudeau, a kind of spinoff thing to the tv show, which the box office is raving about. Ticket sales are topping last years, even. Richard is thrilled. Darren fucking hated ‘Trudeau.’
“My advice? Abandon ship,” he tells the skull on the corner of his desk.
The skull rolls off the desk and nearly gives him a heart attack.
~~~
Darren wants to do Lear, in memory of Charles Kingman.
“Darren,” whines Richard, “you know you can’t do that. Not with your duties.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Richard, but it is traditional for the artistic director to occasionally direct?”
“The board felt it would be best if you participated in the artistic side in a more general capacity, relegating equal attention to all productions. Besides, after the fuss with Lear, we can’t possibly drag up all the old bad press. And! We’ve already signed Aqua Vitae , our major sponsor, to have their name under the run of our flagship Shakespeare.”
“Charles Kingman died, Richard, a Canadian theatre legend.”
“Darren, I’m not being insensitive. It’s just good business. It’s in the contract. You can check. And what did I tell you about wearing scarves with your suits? You need to put on a professional front. Now I need to get back to work.”
“Richard!”
Darren is left looking at the closed door of his office.
“Fuck.”
He swears he hears someone mutter ‘you can say that again.’
At this rate, he’ll be crazier than Geoffrey within a month.
~~~
“Oliver?” Darren asks the theatre, tentatively, in the dark, like he’d heard Geoffrey do.
There’s no answer.
He’s not sure if he’s relieved or sorry.
~~~
He puts his foot down on the Lear.
It’s worth it, to see the look on Richard’s face.
“Charles Kingman did extraordinary things in his time, Richard, ask any actor here.”
“They all hated him.”
“But, they knew he could act. And I’ve told you Richard, in the theatre there is a loathing controlled by a thin line of respect. Besides, I knew him when I was in college, and some of his work then was absolutely groundbreaking. He single handedly redefined...”
“Darren, listen to me.”
Darren suddenly knows what Richard’s about to say. And it makes him furious.
“No, Richard, you listen to me. You may have thought you’d found yourself a figurehead for this position, but I intend to take it seriously, and it is my decision that we will produce Lear next season and it will be dedicated to Charles Kingman.”
A vase falls off a nearby filing cabinet. Richard jumps. Darren doesn’t.
“And furthermore, you will remember that I am, in fact, the artistic director and if I bring to the attention of the board your mismanagement of money this season, not to mention your summary dismissal of several of the old guard of the festival, I think you’ll find they have a few things to say about your contract, Mr Smith-Jones. Especially as it is needing the stamp of approval for renewal within the next month or two. A decision that it falls to whom, again, to make?”
Take that, spineless cur, says a voice, not his own, and he ignores it. Instead, choosing to smirk at Richard’s defeat.
“This won’t be the end of this, Darren.”
“I didn’t think so, Richard, and I don’t think I care. Good day.”
~~~
The next morning when he comes in, he finds documentation of Richard’s relationship with one Ms Holly Day on the edge of his desk, and a series of other incidents relating to attempted seizure of power from the previous artistic directors. And a letter from dear Anna in Bolivia. Apparently, they’d won some sort of strike against something or other.
Darren writes her back and tells her she should write a play about it. He’d put it on.
Still, he can’t help but wonder who gave him the papers.
~~~
He’s walking home, it’s dark, and he hears footsteps behind him. Close.
There’s no one there.
This goes on for a week. Then two. Then three. Darren calls ‘Oliver?’ over his shoulder, and doesn’t get an answer.
~~~
He’s hiring Anna’s replacement. It’s a job given to him at his own request, casually pointing out to one of the board members over coffee that isn’t Richard doing a lot of the hiring these days? And aren’t the new specifications of the power of the board a little bit vague?
He settles on an older woman, with glasses that slip down her nose and a beaded shawl and an attitude that screams ‘come to me for help, I’ve got your back in any situation. Fuck with me, and I’ll kill you.’
It’s partially the shawl. It’s mostly that when she’s settling down into his office chair, it pushes itself in for her and she says ‘thank you, dear,’ even though Darren’s four feet away.
~~~
The door to his office won’t open. It won’t. It just won’t.
He’s trying his key again when the chief executive of something or other stumbles in and says ‘Darren, are you just coming or going? We need to talk.’
“Just leaving, I’m afraid,” he says, and is able to slink out unscathed.
Thank heavens for shoddy locks.
~~~
“Hello, Ellen, darling,”
“I’m not your darling, Darren, and I’m wanted by the fucking government and if you turn me in for the bounty on my head I swear I’m telling everyone about the time you got drunk during titus and proposed to the horse.”
Charming as ever, he sees.
“Ellen, I need to talk to Geoffrey.”
He can hear the scepticism dripping in her tone.
“You can’t. About what?”
“About New Burbage, what do you think?”
“You can’t. I don’t want him thinking about New Burbage. He’s insane when he’s at New Burbage.”
He wasn’t insane all the time? This is news to Darren.
“It’s nothing like that, darling, just a little advice on dealing with the dear Mr Smith-Jones.”
“Richard? Darren, just—“
“Ellen, I need to talk to Geoffrey.”
“You can’t.”
“Ellen.”
“I mean literally, Darren. God, don’t be so small minded. You can’t, he’s at work.”
“Can you give me his work number?”
“I could. But they haven’t paid their phone bill in four months, so I think they’ve been cut off.”
“Fucking Geoffrey.”
“Tell me about it. Shall I tell him you called?”
“Best not. He’ll stop paying your home phone too, then, darling.”
“You’re probably right. Give my love to everyone.”
“I will.”
He even does, even though he knows she didn’t expect him to.
~~~
He’s trying to decide the next season, aside from the Lear. There’s a one woman show that would have been perfect for Ellen. He resolves to call her up again and do some enticing.
He’ll see if he can maybe get Domini Blythe back from Shaw. He thinks he’d like to do Othello. And Dream. He wants to do Dream. Maybe Dr Faustus would fit right in? Richard’s musical, something contemporary but light- the romantic comedy, by what’s her name.
And how many years has it been since they did a commissioned piece? Hmm.
He lifts a notebook and finds a sticky note with ‘The Caribbean’ scribbled on it.
Next morning, someone submits a script for a Caribbean-tradition version of the Odyssey. Darren says ‘yes’ before he’s even finished reading it.
~~~
“It’ll be called, ‘Changing the World,” he tells the voice on the other end of the phone, “we’re very excited about the series.”
“What plays, then, have ‘changed the world’?”
“Well,” begins Darren, and goes blank.
A copy of ‘A Doll’s House’ by Ibsen falls off his shelf. He didn’t even know he owned it.
‘Thank you,’ he mouths at the empty space. “Well, A Doll’s House arguably was at the root of feminism in Europe...”
He swears he hears ‘you’re welcome’ in his ear. He’s so startled he has to pretend there’s someone at the door so he can put the phone on hold.
~~~
He takes Richard down in front of the board, verbally quashes him into nothing, feels their support behind him and silent glee, like sharks with blood in the water.
Richard leaves, whit faced and pathetic, like some sort of grub.
Darren leaves and falls against the wall of his office.
“We did it, Oliver,” he tells the skull on his desk.
“Why you keep talking to him, I don’t know,” says Charles Kingman, who’s sitting in his chair, dressed in a pale grey shirt over white pants, looking like he did before the cancer got bad. Darren just about swallows his tongue.
“Now. Tell me what you had in mind for this Lear?”
“No, Darren, you don’t understand.”
He doesn’t like that tone.
“We’re not doing Corialanus on the Rose, I need it for South Pacific.”
“But-“ says Darren,
“No buts. Don’t forget who got you this job.”
The dial tone rings in his ear, an unpleasant reminder of his own effective impotence.
When are you going to do something about this? Asks a little unpleasant, nagging voice in his ear, and Darren feels the grim cold hand of powerlessness curl around his throat. He puts his head in his hands and takes a deep breath.
“Shit.”
This isn’t going nearly as well as he’d hoped it would. At least he has an office all to himself? He can hide in here and the hanging portrait of Oliver, and the woman in the Klimt painting replica can be the only witness to his defeat.
As if on cue, both pictures fall off the wall.
“...shit.”
~~~
Darren is in, working late, writing feedback for the directors, whose rehearsals he’s been sitting in on all the past month. The production of Metamorphosis is going wonderfully, the beetle is very intimidating. The Chekov’s a little dry, but then, it’s Chekov. Richard’s South Pacific is burning through it’s budget too quickly, but Darren already knows that that just means a few fewer lights for one of the others.
And they’re already stretched tight enough this year, what with Colm Feore’s cost... the man had agreed to star in three productions, one of Richard III, one of a one man show, and one of Trudeau, a kind of spinoff thing to the tv show, which the box office is raving about. Ticket sales are topping last years, even. Richard is thrilled. Darren fucking hated ‘Trudeau.’
“My advice? Abandon ship,” he tells the skull on the corner of his desk.
The skull rolls off the desk and nearly gives him a heart attack.
~~~
Darren wants to do Lear, in memory of Charles Kingman.
“Darren,” whines Richard, “you know you can’t do that. Not with your duties.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Richard, but it is traditional for the artistic director to occasionally direct?”
“The board felt it would be best if you participated in the artistic side in a more general capacity, relegating equal attention to all productions. Besides, after the fuss with Lear, we can’t possibly drag up all the old bad press. And! We’ve already signed Aqua Vitae , our major sponsor, to have their name under the run of our flagship Shakespeare.”
“Charles Kingman died, Richard, a Canadian theatre legend.”
“Darren, I’m not being insensitive. It’s just good business. It’s in the contract. You can check. And what did I tell you about wearing scarves with your suits? You need to put on a professional front. Now I need to get back to work.”
“Richard!”
Darren is left looking at the closed door of his office.
“Fuck.”
He swears he hears someone mutter ‘you can say that again.’
At this rate, he’ll be crazier than Geoffrey within a month.
~~~
“Oliver?” Darren asks the theatre, tentatively, in the dark, like he’d heard Geoffrey do.
There’s no answer.
He’s not sure if he’s relieved or sorry.
~~~
He puts his foot down on the Lear.
It’s worth it, to see the look on Richard’s face.
“Charles Kingman did extraordinary things in his time, Richard, ask any actor here.”
“They all hated him.”
“But, they knew he could act. And I’ve told you Richard, in the theatre there is a loathing controlled by a thin line of respect. Besides, I knew him when I was in college, and some of his work then was absolutely groundbreaking. He single handedly redefined...”
“Darren, listen to me.”
Darren suddenly knows what Richard’s about to say. And it makes him furious.
“No, Richard, you listen to me. You may have thought you’d found yourself a figurehead for this position, but I intend to take it seriously, and it is my decision that we will produce Lear next season and it will be dedicated to Charles Kingman.”
A vase falls off a nearby filing cabinet. Richard jumps. Darren doesn’t.
“And furthermore, you will remember that I am, in fact, the artistic director and if I bring to the attention of the board your mismanagement of money this season, not to mention your summary dismissal of several of the old guard of the festival, I think you’ll find they have a few things to say about your contract, Mr Smith-Jones. Especially as it is needing the stamp of approval for renewal within the next month or two. A decision that it falls to whom, again, to make?”
Take that, spineless cur, says a voice, not his own, and he ignores it. Instead, choosing to smirk at Richard’s defeat.
“This won’t be the end of this, Darren.”
“I didn’t think so, Richard, and I don’t think I care. Good day.”
~~~
The next morning when he comes in, he finds documentation of Richard’s relationship with one Ms Holly Day on the edge of his desk, and a series of other incidents relating to attempted seizure of power from the previous artistic directors. And a letter from dear Anna in Bolivia. Apparently, they’d won some sort of strike against something or other.
Darren writes her back and tells her she should write a play about it. He’d put it on.
Still, he can’t help but wonder who gave him the papers.
~~~
He’s walking home, it’s dark, and he hears footsteps behind him. Close.
There’s no one there.
This goes on for a week. Then two. Then three. Darren calls ‘Oliver?’ over his shoulder, and doesn’t get an answer.
~~~
He’s hiring Anna’s replacement. It’s a job given to him at his own request, casually pointing out to one of the board members over coffee that isn’t Richard doing a lot of the hiring these days? And aren’t the new specifications of the power of the board a little bit vague?
He settles on an older woman, with glasses that slip down her nose and a beaded shawl and an attitude that screams ‘come to me for help, I’ve got your back in any situation. Fuck with me, and I’ll kill you.’
It’s partially the shawl. It’s mostly that when she’s settling down into his office chair, it pushes itself in for her and she says ‘thank you, dear,’ even though Darren’s four feet away.
~~~
The door to his office won’t open. It won’t. It just won’t.
He’s trying his key again when the chief executive of something or other stumbles in and says ‘Darren, are you just coming or going? We need to talk.’
“Just leaving, I’m afraid,” he says, and is able to slink out unscathed.
Thank heavens for shoddy locks.
~~~
“Hello, Ellen, darling,”
“I’m not your darling, Darren, and I’m wanted by the fucking government and if you turn me in for the bounty on my head I swear I’m telling everyone about the time you got drunk during titus and proposed to the horse.”
Charming as ever, he sees.
“Ellen, I need to talk to Geoffrey.”
He can hear the scepticism dripping in her tone.
“You can’t. About what?”
“About New Burbage, what do you think?”
“You can’t. I don’t want him thinking about New Burbage. He’s insane when he’s at New Burbage.”
He wasn’t insane all the time? This is news to Darren.
“It’s nothing like that, darling, just a little advice on dealing with the dear Mr Smith-Jones.”
“Richard? Darren, just—“
“Ellen, I need to talk to Geoffrey.”
“You can’t.”
“Ellen.”
“I mean literally, Darren. God, don’t be so small minded. You can’t, he’s at work.”
“Can you give me his work number?”
“I could. But they haven’t paid their phone bill in four months, so I think they’ve been cut off.”
“Fucking Geoffrey.”
“Tell me about it. Shall I tell him you called?”
“Best not. He’ll stop paying your home phone too, then, darling.”
“You’re probably right. Give my love to everyone.”
“I will.”
He even does, even though he knows she didn’t expect him to.
~~~
He’s trying to decide the next season, aside from the Lear. There’s a one woman show that would have been perfect for Ellen. He resolves to call her up again and do some enticing.
He’ll see if he can maybe get Domini Blythe back from Shaw. He thinks he’d like to do Othello. And Dream. He wants to do Dream. Maybe Dr Faustus would fit right in? Richard’s musical, something contemporary but light- the romantic comedy, by what’s her name.
And how many years has it been since they did a commissioned piece? Hmm.
He lifts a notebook and finds a sticky note with ‘The Caribbean’ scribbled on it.
Next morning, someone submits a script for a Caribbean-tradition version of the Odyssey. Darren says ‘yes’ before he’s even finished reading it.
~~~
“It’ll be called, ‘Changing the World,” he tells the voice on the other end of the phone, “we’re very excited about the series.”
“What plays, then, have ‘changed the world’?”
“Well,” begins Darren, and goes blank.
A copy of ‘A Doll’s House’ by Ibsen falls off his shelf. He didn’t even know he owned it.
‘Thank you,’ he mouths at the empty space. “Well, A Doll’s House arguably was at the root of feminism in Europe...”
He swears he hears ‘you’re welcome’ in his ear. He’s so startled he has to pretend there’s someone at the door so he can put the phone on hold.
~~~
He takes Richard down in front of the board, verbally quashes him into nothing, feels their support behind him and silent glee, like sharks with blood in the water.
Richard leaves, whit faced and pathetic, like some sort of grub.
Darren leaves and falls against the wall of his office.
“We did it, Oliver,” he tells the skull on his desk.
“Why you keep talking to him, I don’t know,” says Charles Kingman, who’s sitting in his chair, dressed in a pale grey shirt over white pants, looking like he did before the cancer got bad. Darren just about swallows his tongue.
“Now. Tell me what you had in mind for this Lear?”