The mere utterance of the actual name of Shakespeare’s Scottish Play written in 1606, is widely accepted as dangerous by most every theater practitioner from amateur to professional. Unless you are actively rehearsing or performing the play, mere mention of the titular character’s name inside a theater is an invitation to disaster – because of a curse. I learned this the hard way. I won’t say the name anywhere at any time. Heck, I won’t even type out the word.
Shakespeare is thought to have extensively researched witches to develop his characters, the “weird sisters.” Some believe that the “Double, double, toil and trouble,” incantation in Act IV, is a real spell.
Folklore suggests that the curse originated with a coven of witches who objected to the use of real incantations. According to legend, the play’s first performance led to several disasters due to their curse. The actor playing Lady Mac died suddenly of unknown causes. Mysteriously, a real dagger found its way on stage in place of a dull edged prop. It was the dagger used in the play to murder King Duncan and resulted in the actor’s real death. Accidents, financial troubles and calamities have plagued productions ever since. One famous incident was a stage weight falling and barely missing Sir Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in 1937.
Unaware of this history, in the early days of my career, I did not take the superstition seriously. More than once in my first semester as Associate Director of Theatre for Rice University, I recklessly spoke the name in the theater while teaching. I was the lighting designer for a production of The Scottish Play presented by the Rice Players. I also had the responsibility of renovating the theatre’s ancient lighting system.
The bad luck started with the lighting cable shipment. When the truck arrived, the cables were missing. They were still on the loading dock at the factory. They were not going to make it in time for technical rehearsal but would be there in time for installation before opening night. It would be tight, but with a little luck and overtime work, I was confident we would make it.
Two days before opening, I was working alone to program the light cues. All was going well, until about 4 a.m. I had just completed the cues to simulate lightning for a scene with the aforementioned “weird sisters.” As I reached for the mouse to click “save,” the computer crashed, accompanied by a blackout on stage. To my horror, the entire file, five hours of work, was gone. I would have to start from scratch.
I called my husband, Kevin, to let him know, through tears, that I would not be coming home anytime soon. Kevin advised that I take a break and wait for him by the stage door. He promised to bring breakfast and moral support.
By the time Kevin arrived, I was back at the computer re-programming. I confessed that I had disregarded the curse and I set out to perform the ritual that breaks it. I exited the theatre, spun around three times, spit over my shoulder, cursed profusely, knocked and requested permission to be allowed back in. Thankfully, I was able to reprogram the cues in time for the opening. I vowed never to mention The Scottish Play by its real name again, ever.
Any actor, designer or crew member who has worked with me knows that if they say the word, I will insist that they perform the cancelling ritual. It is often someone early in their career, who, like me, is unaware of the danger. They always comply and go through the ritual, just in case. I mean, really, why take the chance?
(Trish Rigdon is a director, designer and producer who has worked in London’s West End, Broadway, regional, and local theatres for the past 28 years. She served as a department administrator and instructor at Rice University and The Art Institute of Houston. She is a member of WimberleyArts.org. [email protected] )
