The Globe Theater offers a one-of-a-kind theatrical experience where the line between audience and ensemble blurs. ♦
That’s the brilliant part of the Globe, and the part I desperately wanted to take part in. Groundlings have the biggest opportunity for fun. They’re closest to the stage, closest to the action, and closest to the actors. The actors take advantage of the Globe’s unusual design and often talk to members of the audience, asking questions or picking on them as they see fit.
My friends and I were recently at the Globe to watch the Summer 2023 production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the play we had just read in our study abroad's literature class. Prior to arriving at the Globe, we all agreed that we wanted to be groundlings and get as close to the stage as possible. Sure, this meant three hours of standing, but we were determined to make it work. Once we made it into the theater, our group of seven found an incredible spot at the outside corner of stage right. Even though there was a group of tweens in front of us, I could still reach my arm out and touch the stage.
The first half of the performance was amazing. It was so cool to be close enough to clearly see the actors’ faces and to hear every word, no matter the volume.
As a fashion minor, I spent the earlier section of the play marveling over the details in the costumes. The overall aesthetic was a modernization of Tudor fashion, except instead of petticoats the women wore pants or shorts. The costumes of the Atheneans were all brightly colored and created a rainbow. Even the rude mechanics had incredible costumes. My absolute favorite costume in the production was Bottom's (pardon, she prefers Bottôme) forest green ensemble that had a pair of cropped pants underneath her skirt. The fairies were breathtaking. Oberon and Titania were both in metallic jumpsuits; as the King of Shadows, Oberon’s was much darker than Titania’s. The other fairies were less vibrant and featured weathered and broken Tudor period undergarments, as if they were found in the forest by the fairies.
Once intermission began, we descended upon the gift shop like the fairies searching for dewdrops. I got myself a very necessary flower crown to match the aesthetic, as well as a quote magnet to grow my England magnet collection. Flower crown in place, we returned for the second half of the play, unaware of the surprises lurking in the final acts.
So far, we had not interacted with an actor like some other members of the audience had. This was of course a little disappointing, but the final act began, and we were content.
Then, at the beginning of the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe, Peter Quince, one of the Rude Mechanicals, worked her way down the steps and took her place at the corner of stage right — right next to where my friends and I were standing. Wide-eyed, we all looked at each other as if confirming that our wildest hopes were happening. It was far more than any of us had expected, and I can’t say I paid as much attention to what was happening on stage after that as I should have.
Quince was there to direct the play, meaning the other Rude Mechanicals would look over occasionally to “confirm” their lines. When this happened, we couldn’t help but give a big thumbs up in the background as if we were part of the performance. Every now and then, Quince would turn to us and ask how the play was, and we would react approvingly, saying things like, “Oh, they have the heart of an actor!” and “This is amazing, everyone is doing so well!”
At the tragic monologue of Pyramus (played by the one and only Bottôme), Quince dramatically took out a handkerchief and made it seem as though she were tearing up from the tragedy.
Now, after quite a few years of choir and opera, I’ve had to learn how to improvise and think quickly on stage. And sometimes, there’s a little voice in the back of your head that goes, You know what would be really funny right now?
So naturally, after first offering a travel pack of tissues to my friends, I handed them to Peter Quince, too.
To my delight, she politely declined, but showed us her little handkerchief, which had the initials PQ embroidered on it. The three of us tried our very best to not lose our minds over this detail while complimenting the craftsmanship. It was so small, so personal, almost no one would know about that detail except for the actor … and now us.
Giddy from that moment, we continued to interact with Quince through Thisbe’s rather ... operatic monologue. Quince was distressed at this and, with much aggravation, informed us that the singing was not supposed to be in the play and they did not practice it beforehand. Of course, we reassured Quince that it was all still perfectly lovely and added an element to the play that was unexpected, yet welcome.
The time came when Quince had to leave us and return to the main stage, and although we were sad to see her go, we were on cloud nine from that entire section of the production.
We had been part of the play! We got to interact with an actor!
During the final dance sequence, the actor who played Quince (now dressed as a fairy) came over to our side of the stage and gave us all a wave as if we were her new friends.
We spent most of the applause screaming with sheer joy.
I don’t think I've ever been that affected by a performance in my life, and I don’t know if I ever will be again. As our group happily half-stumbled, half-skipped away from the Globe, I remarked, “I don’t know if I’ll be this happy at my wedding.” There was a communal sense of true bliss and excitement, and I knew our faces were glowing in the fluorescent streets and on the Tube.
And if anyone ever debates if they should be a groundling (or a penny stinker) at the Globe, I say do it. You never know what will happen.
(Also, tell Peter Quince I said hi.)
