MACBETH AKA ILY (or not)

Putting on a production of a cursed show is better than nothing.

If you are a theater kid, you must have heard the myth of Macbeth at least once by now. If you are not, then allow me to clarify. The legend goes back centuries to when "The Scottish Play" was first written by humanity’s finest, William Shakespeare. They say Mr. Shakespeare used real spells for the dialogue of the witches, consequently cursing his own play, any production of it for years to come, and anyone who dared to even mention its name in a theater ever again.

Rumors began during the very first production when the actor meant to portray Lady Macbeth died, and Shakespeare took it upon himself to replace him. Many years later, in Amsterdam, one of the actors was killed in front of a live audience when he was stabbed with a very real and very sharp dagger that was supposed to be merely a stage prop. Critic Percy Hammond died only a couple of weeks after giving a bad review of Orson Welles’ “Voodoo Macbeth.” Macbeth was also the cause of the infamous Astor Place Riot in New York in 1849, which led to over 100 people being injured and 20 of them dying.

Nevertheless, Macbeth has always been—and probably always will be—a show that attracts attention and guarantees good ticket sales. Back in the day, any theater that had low income or produced a... "flop," for lack of a better word, would turn to the safe option and replace any production with Macbeth. Superstition held that if you dared to mumble the forbidden name inside the theater, your play was bound to fail and eventually be replaced as well. These are only a few examples of the “bad luck” it brought to the theater world, so it only makes sense that, to this day, actors and theater crews avoid speaking the “M” word.

By now, I’m sure you’re wondering where I’m going with all of this and if there’s a point to my rambling, so let me paint you a picture. Two people meet in a bar—a man and a woman. The man is mysterious and smart. He’s done this 100 times and then some. His lines consist of:

“You’re pretty.” “I really like you; I don’t want to hurt you.” “I’m not ready for a relationship,” followed by, “You’re mine.”

The woman lies on his bed next to him, in his arms. By now, she knows every corner of his childhood room and almost nothing about the version of him that sleeps in it. He’s kissing her forehead and whispering sweet nothings in her ear. “The last thing I wanna do is hurt you.” “I’m having so much fun with you.” “You’re one of the few people who understand me.”

Exterior. Busy street. 4 a.m. The woman sits in the passenger seat. The light is red. The car is stopped. “I’m beneath you,” he says and looks into her teary eyes. She watches him like she’s watching Hachiko for the second time. She leaves, wondering what she did wrong. The show’s over. The phone rings at exactly 4 a.m. Right on cue. He’s back, like a fresh theater production of the very same play, and she pays for a front-row ticket, sitting between the woman who has been in this theater long before her and a young girl wondering about the ending. The show’s on again.

To be fair, genders are not as important to the point I’m trying to make. The roles could easily be swapped in the show that seems to be as cursed as Macbeth has been for centuries. It’s the curse of even thinking “I love you” inside a situationship. You must have experienced it yourself. You’re seeing somebody, and everything seems to be going perfectly—until one of you sprints out of there as quickly as they can. It’s almost like people don’t ask others to stay anymore; they just beg them not to leave before they do. Before they say Macbeth and the theater sets itself on fire, only to get caught up in a slightly different production a few months later.

We’re all actors. We all set up our lives as we want them to be, hoping the budget will last for a few more shows every other week or struggling to find the right places and audiences to perform to. We invite people inside and act around them, or with them, until we want to change it up. One of my ex-situationships was a master at that. He spends every night in the same bar, around the same people, and every once in a while, he sees a girl he likes—a newcomer—and performs. I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I had experienced men like him before; to say I didn’t know the ending would be a lie.

I think I've seen this film before. And I didn't like the ending. - taylor swift

However, I found myself buying that front-row ticket as soon as it went on sale. I mentioned this in my last publication as well—my confusion around humans and pain, how we chase it, and whether running away from it is really an option. I have friends who practically beg for it when they speak about how boring their lives have been for years with no romantic interest to spice things up.

“Feeling something is better than nothing,” they say, huffing and puffing about their inner peace. And while I look at them, they transform into 50-year-old theater owners with British accents saying, “Putting on a production of a cursed show is better than nothing.” Eerie, isn’t it?

How many of us have this endless situation going on for years—a guy or a woman that we know will never work out but with whom we no longer even attempt to make it work? They are our safe option. We tell ourselves that as long as it flows, it’s right. We sleep together when we are lonely, talk about our failed dates and all the reasons we will never find our other halves, all while knowing there’s nobody who understands us as well as they do. It makes zero sense, but we can't risk it making sense. What if we ruin it forever?

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EXT. BAR – NIGHT (EXTRACT FROM A FAILED SITUATIONSHIP)

When I go up to find him, he’s with his friends. He knows there’s something wrong the minute he sees me because I was never good at hiding my expression. He approaches me. “I’ll drop ’em all for you, you wanna go?” I nod, and he smokes his last cigarette before driving me home. We stop in a park, a little farther from my house, and he looks into my eyes, half-smiling. “Don’t let anyone manipulate you,” he says, stroking my cheek. I nod again. “You’re too innocent for this world.”

“Don’t hurt me then,” I say, half-joking, half-serious, and he kisses me while I sit on his lap.

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EXT. STREET – NIGHT (EXTRACT FROM A FAILED SITUATIONSHIP)

We are parked right outside my house. He’s wasted, and he starts yelling about all the reasons I shouldn’t concern myself with him. “I’m trying to protect you!” he complains, his mannerisms and high-pitched voice reminding me of the kids I babysit when they know they’ve done something wrong. Tears sting my lips, and I just listen because he has just listed every reason he’s bad for me, and all I can think is: Why am I bad for you?

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Above are two moments in my life I’ll never forget. Written and performed by the same man. If you ask him now, he will deny any such rumors. But I was there. I remember it, and yet I fell for it repeatedly. At some point, it stopped being his fault and started being mine. How many times have I sworn him off only to run right back to him? How many times have I had the same conversation with my friends, cursing him only to defend him? And where does it end before we both lose our minds? How many productions of Macbeth before we all give it up? Is witchcraft to blame, or is it humanity’s favorite hobby—to live through pain?

As a 25-year-old, I’ve realized that people are as scared of saying “I love you” as they are of mouthing the king’s name in a theater, and I find that incredibly interesting—obviously enough to bore you with the comparison. But when you see the comparison, doesn’t it all seem incredibly stupid? We fear speaking the name inside a live theater, chasing and spitting on whoever said it first, and yet that show will always be the safest option in sales. And then we blame witches when it all goes wrong. We fear creating any emotional connection inside any relationship, but we will always seek it in emotionally unavailable environments. Riots take the form of friend groups, death isn’t permanent but psychological, and how many deaths can we inflict upon ourselves before we decide to stop?