Yale Rep's new production of Hamlet stars textbook-sad-sack Paul Giamatti as reluctant-adult me. Some reviewers have expressed discomfort with this, noting Mr. Giamatti's advanced middle-aged-ness, general plainness, and/or physical squishiness. For the record, I feel that Mr. Giamatti is the physical embodiment of all the crap I've got inside me. Crap that other productions have encased in an Adorable Hamlet or Sexy Hamlet shell, like I'm some kinda James Dean in tights. Sometimes the truth isn't pretty, people. Get used to it.
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