That's one intense young man.
Karl Miller's Hamlet is so tightly wound he flinches--hell, he practically levitates--when anybody touches him. A hand on the shoulder, and the convulsion starts in his solar plexus, pulling his body in, as if around a giant knot in his stomach. He's eating the language alive, too.
I wish the production around him were as consistently watchable. The two refugees from what would appear to be a kegger at the Alpha Gamma Rosencrantz house are good fun ... that flash of unexpected levity in the Mousetrap sequence, ditto. But the Ophelia scenes (mostly) and the Claudius confessional and the graveside brawl come across like so much stagy business; the shivers aren't there.
-- the way Gertrude's over-the-top train morphs into the hangings in her bedroom, then into a shroud for you-know-who
-- what Miller does with that skull ... [shudder] Alas poor Yorick, indeed
-- the bit of staging that lets us see Ophelia's drowning
Not so much:
-- the way that drowning bit steals focus from Gertrude, who deserves the chance to show her humanity in that speech
(UPDATE, March 31: The official word is here.
Now playing on Tboy's iTunes: Baby You Belong from the album "Cry" by Faith Hill.