Macbeth Review: GONE WRONG?? (NOT CLICKBAIT)
Last Saturday, the Iowa Theater Department closed their production of Macbeth after seven performances. It was surprising that they made it to the last performance, as there is a heavy superstition around the famous Shakespearan tragedy known even to us morons here at Doily.
Because part of the play is about witchcraft, the legend says a coven of real witches back in the olden days got mad and cursed the play. The superstition has lasted to this day, and the popularity of the curse is so bad, that uppity theater people refuse to even say the name Macbeth when they are in a theater for fear of sullying their weird little jazz hands church.
But we here at the University of Iowa are not pussy babies, so the theater department made it their mission to have as many people say “Macbeth” in their theater as possible this semester by performing the show itself. And because I respect the grind, I decided to go to their final performance and give you weaklings who believe in some goofy old curse a detailed review of how nothing went wrong at all.
The closing performance was fully sold out, and I noticed how the theater full of short-attention Gen-Z kids got pretty restless as the start of the show was delayed almost 15 minutes past its scheduled time. However, when it began with witches and magic, everybody paid attention pretty quickly, even if I and most others couldn’t understand a damn thing they said. At one point they had a severed thumb? But there was a lot of cool smoke and other effects, so who cares.
Anyway, the witches left and the knights showed up, and instead of getting antsy like everyone had before, a total lull came over the theater. Heads began to nod asleep as we all realized the regular people were just as incomprehensible as the knights, and with no SparkNotes to pull up alongside the show like I would in high school when I had to read Shakespeare, it was total nonsense. I remember fighting to stay awake to give you readers a faithful review, but eventually I swore I would close my eyes for just a minute. I dreamt this guy came onstage and did a random standup routine in his knight costume, which obviously didn’t actually happen because what the hell would that be about?
When I woke up, there was a lady with cool war paint looking makeup running around on the stage and yelling about murder. I was bummed, because that meant I had missed some real action instead of talking, but I looked over at someone who seemed to be Macbeth and
S̵̡̫͇̝̃͆̇͝͠ͅĹ̴̖̖̖͍̐̔͘È̵̛̙͐͑̉̉̾Ȇ̸̪̱̝̘̞͓̹̪̎͌̋̔͊̉͘P̷̢͊͑͜͜ ̵̛̮̩̯͐̅̔̈́N̸̢̼͇͔̿̎̚Ö̴̺̘̬͖͓̬͕́̈́̾ ̴̳̺̣̇͌̎͘͝M̶̛̱̫̮̲̯̀͊͜O̶̬̜̪̮͍͕͎͑̄̑̄Ŗ̷̱̣͊̈́Ė̴̥̬̪̪̹͑̆͗̚͝ͅ
he was wearing this white shirt with red letters on it that were too far away to read. He had two guys next to him that looked the same but didn’t talk, and I remembered reading something online earlier about shadows, so I guessed that was them. All of them were wearing
O̴̩̯̺̹͖̫͍͗̍͗͘͝U̴̡̼̖̖̝͎̍̊̚ͅT̷̨̛͇͎͈͋̒͘ ̶̛̙̼͓͋̆̉̈̈̚D̴̜̝͙̞͉͙͎́̅̂̔͐̀̈͝Ą̶̰͚͈͈͈͍́́͌̀M̵̢̜̲̱̓̀̋͘͝N̷̩̝̣͇͌̿͆̊͠Ę̶̧͇̤̩͗͝͝D̷̗͔̼̣͖̦̉͜ ̵̥̻̠̀̑ͅS̷͈͛͛P̶̧̢̡̭̩̫̬̃̃̍̄̎̈́̀͝O̷̱̤͈͆̓̂T̴̤͕̏͐̈̃͋̕̚
red gloves that made their hands look bloodstained, which was admittedly very cool. But here’s where I must have fallen asleep again, because I thought I only blinked and then suddenly the stage was way darker and the three bloody guys were alone. I watched as one of the shadows
I̴̤̻̼̣͉͌͘̚ͅͅS̴̥͚̘͚̞̈́̔̀̌̑ ̴͍̩̰̲̠͎̮͎͌́͌͌̓Ţ̶̡̰̣͍͎̳͋̒̀̾̈͠Ḩ̶̣͈͉̼̭͙̀ͅI̷͎̙̜͚͂͂̑͆̏̂͝Ŝ̶̼̇̐̀̾ ̴̱̞̞̥̦̯͚̪̌̋̒͋̈́̚A̸̢͕͙̔́̾͑͑̓̽͝ ̴̡̯̹̂͛́͑̏͝D̶͓͚͌̇Á̷͇̻̟̎̓̈́̐̚̚Ğ̵̨͑̔͠G̷̹̥̻̜͂E̶̬̳͐̃R̵̩͕̤̘̣̖̆͗̒͠ ̷̢̨̤̟̫͚́͋́͋̋̌̃T̸̖̩̋́H̸̫̫̻͚͉̬̙͒̂́̄̏̉Â̵̱T̸̹̱͈͕͇̓̽͋ ̶̡̡̺̥̖̰͍͍͂̍̊̊̂͝͠İ̴̟̱̿̽́̑̏̿͝ ̵͍̮̦̭̂̓̚͠ͅS̶̡̜̩̭͖̩͛̈́̄̌͜͝Ě̵̡̡̘̙͚̺̩͕͑̀́͌͒Ȩ̴̛̤̭̺̩͍͎̘̅͂̄ ̴͔̱̤̭̀́͜B̵͉̝͈̀̾̈́̎́̓͠E̶̘̻̣͔͂̇̓̀͗͆F̷̣͖̱̦̖̫̿̀͌̈́̑͛O̵̢̲͖̜̠̲͕̞̾̅͛̚R̶̢̖̬̼͚͖͐̄͋́̒́̔Ȅ̵̪̲͇̥̗̬̞̏̑ ̷̡̞̳̘̞͔̾̅̑̕M̸̠͈͖̣̀̑̾̄E̷̛͕̺̩̜̣̹̱͌
handed Macbeth a knife — a prop knife, of course, definitely, why wouldn’t it be? Macbeth held the knife up to the light, and then dropped it suddenly to the floor. As it hit the ground, I felt a knife fall into my own lap. I looked around, and saw that every audience member had just received a knife from midair. I don’t know who set up that practical effect, but somebody should get them to Broadway. I picked up my knife and
B̸̳͖̳̘̳̻̐͆͌̀̎͛͌L̵̢̅͒̃Ǒ̵̡̥̗̱͒̅Ŏ̵͎̖́͑̽̂̒́D̵̥̞̎͊̌̽̋̅̈́̈́ ̸͈͇̱̮̥͊̑́͗͛̾͘̚W̸̙̺͉͇̾̈́͐̋̈́͛I̶̢̙͓͚̦͖͊̄̈́̋̀͠Ļ̸̺̘̗̙̉̑͜L̴̤̓̓̊̃̓ ̸̛̝̜̝̦͈͔͙̬̅̍̒͛H̶̡͎̫͔̓͒͋̓̃̑̔̓A̶̖̻̹̟͒͆V̵̢̳͚̟̳́E̴̢͖̻̥̝̞̓͊ ̸̨͈̜̩̩̿̑̅͘B̷̺̱̳͎͒̄̑L̸͔͉͓͓͋̀͆̏̈́Ö̵̥̳́͂̂̈́̉̓O̸̡͋̔̓̾͛́̈́̋D̴̘̯̊̿͛͌
held it the same way Macbeth did when he retrieved his slowly from the ground. He gripped the handle fiercely, and without speaking, turned to the left and stabbed his taller shadow, pulling the knife in and out robotically. This made sense: at least, I think it did, because that guy was a fucking asshole. Blood spilling over the black costume looked right. Macbeth turned to me, to us, to his followers, and spoke:
F̷̦͙́A̵͙̟̺̪̫̝͆̕͜I̴̥̤͆͒̐̐͊͊̎͋R̷̛̗͋͗ ̴̧̡͉͇͗͗̏̊̍̕̕I̷͍̳͓͈̱̲͙̟̊̇͊̽̾̚S̴͎̾͊̈̚͝ ̸̨̢͔̗̬͕̆͗̽̏͝F̸̝̕O̷̢̨͔̰̟͖̰̊̆͋͠U̷̜̘̐̔L̸̮͚̆ ̷̯̜̜̩͕͉̱͌̂͑̓̃͘̕Ả̶̱̓Ṋ̶̡̢̨̘͓̜̟̔̐͑̇̅̀̚͝Ḋ̷̝̗̱̠̜̫͝ ̵̛̙̤̝̘̖͆̍̂̈̾͂̉F̶̨͎̥̖̀̋̚͜Ơ̷͈͚̑̈́̊̍̔̂Ụ̶̢̥̭̘̲͓̫̑̌͊̐̃̌̚Ḽ̶͇͍͎̘͓̩͙̎̌ ̷̡̝͔͎͊̃̆̂Í̴̯͜S̸͈̳͂͠ ̷̛̛͇͎̟̈̈́͜F̶̨̧̰̘͙͙̰̮̂̈̽̏̂̏̏͠Ą̸̨̲̻͊̃̊͒̈́͘I̷̱͚͔̍Ŕ̶̨̙͚̜
I knew what must be done. I turned to my left in the same way the Scottish king had just done, and plunged my knife into the shadow of the audience member seated next to me. I felt the knife from my companion on my right enter my own side at the same moment I breached my enemy. This was how it must be. We turned back to face forward in our seats with a united sigh of relief, watching again for our mad god’s instructions. A light fell from the rafters. The background music was skipping. The curse continues.
T̵̡̛͉͚̦̺̦̺̖̈̔̈͘̚O̵͚̗̻̲̥̜̓̏̇̄́͛̉̅͗͌̌͐M̸̨̧̧̛͕̬͙͕̳͙̲̝̓́̊̓̓̋͋̀̉̅ͅO̴͕̙͚͎͌̌̕͝R̶̝͙̬͇̹̖͇̠̙͈̀̋́̒̑̅̉̐̉̔͜Ṙ̶̡̰̘̥̩̞̞̫̣̥̻̐͊̊̃̌̿͛̄́͜O̶̘̓͋̀̈́̂̓͘͝W̸̧̫̮̭̰͙͖̟̮̜̫̅ͅ ̸̠̪͌́̕A̴̡͚̝̯̯͚̱͗͗̈́̀̕Ń̵̨̘̫̦̺͈̰́̽̈̔̈́D̷̛ͅ ̵̙̼̳͈̀͊̉̔́͋̐̾̕T̵̙̘͔̅̑̊̌̀̽̒̾͛Ò̶͖̻̤̇̎͒̇͛̅͠M̴̢̠̱̯̒̌̅͋͗̽̏͋̀̀̕O̸̬͕̙̼̲͈̼͚͗̿̈́́́͗R̷̥͇̩͖̐͗̒͛̂̒R̶̢̨̘͓̳͚̒͒̀́̇͗̐́͋͋͝͝Ơ̵̙̲͕̺̫̤̩̟͓̥̓̉͛̏͊͐̌̕̚͠͝W̵̺̩̙̪̒̀̇̐̎́̆̔̓̓̈́ ̴̪̤̲̈͆͂͛͐̿́͒̋͆A̷̡̜͕͚̠̩̣̠̓Ṇ̸͕͌̀̽D̸͍͕̟̘̮̲̖͕̂̒̚̕͝ ̵̨̰͕̤̞̞̹̠̭͔̼̅̓̇͛̊̑Ţ̴̻̳̖̦̔̔͛̽̔̓̈́̓̓Ȏ̴͉̻̠̱̱͕͖̦̈̃̾Ḿ̸̡͍͖̙̗̙̼̝̀͂̇́̽̓͆̚Ợ̶̳̫̬̹͈̯̬͒̏̅̃̆̀͜͝͝ͅŘ̸̢̧̺̙̞̤̗̯͑̈́̐͐̈͝ͅŖ̷͓͑͒̽̊͝O̸̰͚͓͕͔̼̜̲̊͠W̴̻̥̜̻̅̓̿͐̔̓̈́͊̔̄̓̕ ̷̢͉̺͈̜̺̩̥̹͚̼̺̐͠Â̸̯̻͇͌̇͘Ņ̴̛̪͙̟͙̻͙̯̪͙̥̣̒̈́̔̓̂̄D̶͔̝͚̣̼͎͙͊̾̓̈ ̶̢̨͙̳̮̯͙̤͍̼̠̩͛̇̅́͐̌̂͊͗̚͝Ț̶͋̈́͛͒͐̊̃̔͒̚͠O̵̡̦͚̓̅͌̔͋͠Ḿ̶͖̣̺͎̰͉̭̥̯͎̺͆̐̅O̸̧̼̳̖̙̖̝̠͕̅̕͝ͅŖ̶̣̝̓R̶̖̂̇́̒̐̿̈Ö̸̱̺̳̭̟̼̝͓̥́͐̓̇̒́̈́͝W̶̟̦͛̐̈́͋̉̊̑̒̈́̇͘͠ ̵̞͓̟̻͂̈́̋͑͐̂̒͒ͅA̴̙͎̻͈̯̝̦̦̰̮͈͛̏̈̓͐̔̕N̸͓̘̮̲̭̻͍̮̳̉͗͋̒̈́̓̐Ď̴͇̻͎̜͂̌̈́̅̐̄̊͋̐̚͜ ̶̨͉̝͙̇͌̀͊̅̆͠ͅT̸̟͕̜̒̊́̄̾̓̊̊̑͝O̵̙̲̹̠̦̅ͅḾ̸̗͍̯͇̯̪̙̅͒̅͗̅̂͜O̶̢͚̬̙͔̬͗͂̽̌͋̈́̕R̵̢̤̺̻̋̃̍͘͝R̷̻̟̊̆Ơ̶̧̧̡͉̪̲̈́̑͗̋́̐͝͝W̵̤͓̫̑͌̊̆̋̀͊ ̵͎̻̪͔̗̗̼̯͂͗̾̌̉͝A̷̠̟̗͠Ǹ̵̲̠̮̭̲̟̈͆͌͑̍̏̐̽̐̂D̴̯͚̗̙̦̮̭̩̈̓͗͝
Editor’s Note: This draft was found in our deceased reporter’s notes app the next morning, along with the 400 bodies of the Macbeth Massacre. We hope this will shed some light on the situation.