But this show works. I now think every production of Hamlet should be staged in a broken-down hotel. This is the play where people constantly come and go—royals, courtiers, messengers, servants, students, performers—and events progress from bad to worse to terminal. All is uprooted in Hamlet, no one is sleeping in the right bed, and your stay may be much shorter than you expect. So a hotel…of course! Why not?

This Hamlet is also staged like a kind of carnival—a mad, strange circus. It’s an uneven production, overacted at points (Stephanie Damler doesn’t quite know where to pull back on Ophelia’s insanity, and Jeffery Archson’s portrayal of Horatio set my teeth on edge). But there are some true laugh-out-loud moments, mostly provided by the inspired clowning of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, played by Eric Hall and Spencer Martin, respectively. In particular, when Martin careened through the crowd on his unicycle at the start of the show and had an encounter with a closed door—I actually spit-took my drink onto my companion’s shoulder. And I’m not normally a spitter.

Like all good things, it will come to an end, so get your tickets while you can. (SHOW CLOSES AUGUST 28, TICKETS AVAILABLE THROUGH TICKETPRO OR FREE TO HOTEL GUESTS.)

Safety For The Stupid

Demo version limitation

RUE IS FOR REMEMBRANCE

After a few hours of fitful midmorning sleep, Scarlett made a second attack on the day and headed for the shower. It always took a moment for the Hopewell water pipes to figure out what temperature you wanted. The default setting was “death by ice or fire.” Scarlett didn’t care at the moment. She would take what came, and what came was cold. Bitter, impossible cold that almost felt good in the heat. She locked her teeth together and accepted it, letting it run down her back. As she reached for her shampoo, she got dangerously close to singing “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair,” a song she learned when Spencer was doing South Pacific in high school. She stopped herself just as she opened her mouth. New start or not, there was a line to be drawn, and that line was singing musicals to yourself as serious psychological motivation.

Downstairs, the lobby was empty of people. There were a few guests still staying at the Hopewell, but the numbers were coming down dramatically now that the show was closed and the novelty of the theater-hotel was over. The dining room doors were open, and her father was up on a ladder on the stage platform, unhooking a wire and a silver banner from the tired chandelier.

“I’m going to meet Dakota,” she called.

“Come here a sec.”