WHAT with the weeping willows, flurries of swans and the odd tour guide in Elizabethan costume, the banks of the River Avon are not often confused with the Everglades, yet on this hot Friday afternoon the air above Stratford is swampish and crackles with threatened lightning.
The atmosphere contains electricity of a different kind too – David Tennant is starring as Hamlet in a new production by the Royal Shakespeare Company. Britain's most popular and desired actor performing in one of the greatest works by the world's mo
st famous writer has brewed a perfect storm of celebrity, talent, heritage and lust. Tickets for all 60 performances sold out fast and now change hands on the internet for hundreds of pounds.
Tennant has annexed Stratford and the signs are easy to spot. The enterprising proprietor of a chippy has placed a huge cardboard Dalek in the window, with a speech bubble ordering 'Exterminate your hunger!' In the Dirty Duck, a pub frequented by actors, someone has taped up a newspaper cartoon of David Miliband as David Tennant as Hamlet, having a square go with Gordon Brown as Claudius.
Hamlet is being performed just down the road from the Duck in the Courtyard Theatre. "It was The Taming Of The Shrew yesterday, and that was a lovely day of calm," says Margaret Jackson, who works in the box office. "The rest of the time it's completely mad. Hamlet, Hamlet, Hamlet. People start queuing for tickets at midnight; we arrive in the morning to find them all outside. And the phone calls! 'It says on your recorded message that Hamlet is completely sold out. Is that right?'" She rolls her eyes. "No, we just put that on there for a laugh."
A total of 10 seats at the bargain basement price of £5 are set aside each day for 16- to 25-year-olds, and it's for these that people are prepared to camp out all night. However, at every moment of the day, the benches outside the theatre are filled with optimists hoping for returns.
Inside the theatre shop, they are doing a roaring trade in Hamlet merchandise, the RSC having ruled that the actors will not sign any film or TV memorabilia. Aside from a foam crown, the branded goods are very tasteful. For the real kitsch, you have to head into the town centre, where you can pick up a mug in the shape of a skull, presumably for drinking Yorlicks.
Back in the foyer, two teenage girls are pressing themselves up against a wall-length photograph of David Tennant and snapping each other on their mobiles. Suddenly, they hear a familiar Scottish voice and look upwards. It's Tennant himself, leaning against the balustrade on the level above, seemingly filming an acceptance speech for an award. "Sorry I can't be there," he says. "I'm still here on stage."
It doesn't take long for a small crowd of trembling young women to gather, necks craning, hands over mouths, mobiles held like tiny Olympic torches, worshipping their god. Tennant notices eventually. "Oh, hello!" he says, peering over the rail. "I've got an audience. Listen, you can't tell anyone you saw me do that, okay? It's a secret!"
Everyone nods and rushes outside to squeal down the phone to their friends.
Joanne Cassidy, a 15-year-old from Birmingham, who wants it noted that she is one-quarter Scots, is breathless. "That was the most beautiful moment of my life!" she says, fanning herself. "More beautiful than when I held my baby sister for the first time. I met Doctor Who! I'm going to be hysterical for months."
At a nearby table, Carol Whitlock is nursing a cuppa. She's a 30-year-old Londoner who saw Tennant for the first time in Casanova and fell hard. "It has become an obsession," she admits. "My friends, for Christmas, got me a T-shirt that says 'Mrs David Tennant'." Carol is going to see Hamlet again when it opens in London. She actually met Tennant in November when he signed DVDs in HMV. "I took the day off work, saying I had a hospital appointment."
I've met Tennant a couple of times myself, and I'm struck by how skilled he is at giving nothing of himself away while remaining a charismatic personality, not at all bland. He has never given a revealing interview and yet always seems happy to make himself available to fans. There's something of this engaging shallowness in his performance of Hamlet. It's surprisingly funny, and brilliantly entertaining throughout.
Perhaps, though, it leans too heavily towards the comedy; when Tennant reaches for tragic depth, it's not quite convincing. Also, he's so famous, and at times so Doctorish in his mannerisms and intonation, that it's hard to suspend disbelief. When he says with his dying breath: "And the rest is silence", I can't help but think: "Aye, right. You'll be regenerating as Jimmy Nesbitt in a minute."
He doesn't though. He just gets up to lengthy applause and the screams and cheers that this mostly young, mostly female audience have been holding in for nearly three hours. As soon as he enters the wings, there is a stampede for the stage door. The distracted multitude press themselves against the crash barriers, waving programmes to be autographed. Tennant rushes out towards them, arms waving crazily above his head, enjoying the madness or at least faking it really well.
"Hi, guys," he yells and starts signing. A boy shouts something and Tennant zooms over. "Who's got appendicitis? You?" he gabbles. "Are you better? What age are you? Thirteen? I was 10 when I had it. I've still got the scar. Look!" He lifts his shirt and tugs at the waist of his jeans, prompting screams, then careers back into the theatre at lightning speed, his back lit by flashbulbs, the first drops of rain finally beginning to fall.
