I have written exactly one fan letter in my life and that was to Derek Jacobi.
I wrote it, and God forgive me, sent it, sometime between my junior and senior year in high school. I blush to disclose that the correspondence also included a sonnet I had written. Not about him, about "Hamlet."
So, yes, I was that girl. Fat and unhappy, with the glasses and the zits. I was seeking a sanctuary in literature, building around me a tower of borrowed words: Salinger, Frost, Austen, Dickinson and Poe. And, of course, Shakespeare.
But I never understood Shakespeare, or poetry, or the purpose of the written word, or art in general, until I saw Derek Jacobi in the 1980 BBC production of "Hamlet."
I was not the first to experience such a revelation. Jacobi's Hamlet had, by that point, become the toast of three continents. But living in a small town in Maryland, I certainly didn't know that.
I knew who Jacobi was — "I, Claudius" had aired a couple of years previously. But I didn't watch him as Hamlet because it offered a rare opportunity to see Shakespeare performed by a true Shakespearean. I still thought of Shakespeare as something to read, to memorize, to quote, and to deconstruct cleverly.
I only watched the PBS airing because my 11th grade English teacher offered it as extra credit.
And so there I stood, one Sunday night, doing the dinner dishes with my back turned to the king's ghost stalking across the tiny black and white TV set balanced behind me on our kitchen bureau. I figured listening was good enough — it was only extra credit and we had had a pork roast that night; the pan was a mess.
Then I heard Jacobi begin, as every Hamlet does, so weirdly obsessed with his fickle mother. Though I could hear the words I already knew, I barely recognized them. Instead of pausing to note their importance, they flashed by on their way to something else.
Jacobi had, and still has, one of the most orchestral voices in use. With his classically trained and melodic sound, his Hamlet didn't enter declaiming. He entered as if he didn't know what he felt exactly. Anger and sorrow, and yes, disgust. But also bewilderment, and terrible reluctance.
Hot water spilled down my front and the silverware slid about beneath my hands as I tried to watch him over my shoulder.
Then Horatio joined the prince, who was still going on about the wedding. "My father, methinks I see my father," Hamlet said. "Where, my lord?" Horatio asked, startled and looking around, because unknown to Hamlet, Horatio had just seen the former king's ghost. "In my mind's eye, Horatio," Hamlet answered with such instantly recognizable exasperation that I turned right around.
Suddenly, Hamlet wasn't a character, he was a man. One wallowing more than a bit in his own emotions and very irritated that his friend wasn't playing along. He wasn't a platform for poetry, he wasn't High Art personified. He was a person. A kind of person I might know. "In my mind's eye, Horatio." Duh.
And that pretty much changed everything.
I remember walking away from the dishes and sitting down at our kitchen table while the water cooled in the sink and the soap suds dried on my hands. I did not take my eyes off that tiny screen until the play was over.
Watching Jacobi's Hamlet, his emotionally naked, hand-wringing, elbow-clutching, reluctantly mad Hamlet, I realized that real art did not exist on a plateau removed from ordinary life. Quite the opposite. Shakespeare or Dickinson or Beethoven or Van Gogh didn't protect you from anything. They exist and endure to connect you to everything.
When a man you do not know gives you something like that, you might be forgiven for writing him a fan letter and perhaps even enclosing a badly written sonnet.