Henry V (Series 2 Episode 3)

First Transmitted 23rd December 1979

David Gwillim prepares to summon up the blood

Cast: David Gwillim (Henry V), Alec McCowen (Chorus), Clifford Parish (Exeter), Bryan Pringle (Pistol), Tim Wylton (Fluellen), David Buck (Westmoreland), Thorley Walters (King of France), Keith Drinkel (Dauphin), Julian Glover (Constable of France), Trevor Baxter (Canterbury), Jocelyne Boisseau (Katherine), Brian Poyser (Gower), George Hower (Sir Thomas Erpingham), David Pinner (Williams), Brenda Bruce (Mistress Quickly), Jeffrey Holland (Nym), Gordon Gostelow (Bardolph), John Abineri (Ely), Garrick Hagon (Mountjoy), Robert Harris (Burgundy), John Saunders (Orleans). John Bryans (Bourbon), Pamela Ruddock (Queen Isabel), Anna Quayle (Alice), Rob Edwards (Bedford), Martin Smith (Gloucester), Roger Davenport (Clarence), Rob Beacham (Warwick)

Director: David Giles

 

Very few Shakespeare plays have such a filmic legacy as Henry V. The two most famous cinematic interpreters of the Bard – Laurence Olivier and Kenneth Branagh – have both acted and directed in productions of the play and it is the Shakespeare role arguably most readily associated with them. Each of the films is strikingly different, but both are imaginative productions of the play and stand up to repeated viewings as well as being excellent films in their own right. The question for any other filmed production of the play is quite simple: is there any point watching this again when you could be watching one of those productions? In the case of this film, the answer is a definite no.

 

To be fair, at the time of the making of this production, Branagh’s film was still 10 years away. Never the less, this is so old fashioned in its filming, acting and use of music (and in some scenes it is so ham-fistedly made) it may as well be 20 years when comparing the two to each other. What is a fair comparison is contrasting it with Olivier’s marvellous spectacle of high budget and imagination. And it doesn’t stand up to that either. In fact I think this production verges on the tragic, it’s such a missed opportunity.

 

For the very first time ever in this series the director goes for a non-realistic approach but, for whatever reason, it doesn’t quite work. The most effective sequence is the opening. Alec McCowen’s well-spoken chorus emerges from a blackened studio facing the camera, before lights come up in the studio to reveal an artificial court scene (a suggestion of walls) and a series of actors in freeze. Ely and Canterbury complete their plotting in a small church, and turn smoothly to walk straight into the royal throne room, created by a change of lighting in the set and the sudden reveal of other actors. It’s a high point in the production’s non-realist approach. The video below shows this sequence.

 

 

 

 

The problem is that this is a half-hearted attempt. I wanted this to stay on an obvious soundstage, with locations merging into each other and to make no attempt to persuade us we were outside. But events become a little too real. As soon as we are in France, the grass on the floor, the solid blue backdrop and the stone walls look too much like attempts to create the same realist feel as the Henry IV films. Harfleur feels like a set we are not meant to think is a set rather than a creative use of soundstage limitations.  Not only that, but the excellent movement of the Chorus between scenes is gradually dropped. McCowen may appear suddenly as a French lord at the end of A3 before walking into darkness, but by A5 it’s just become a simple cut away to his face.  It’s hugely disappointing after the quiet inventiveness of the start. Instead, by going with a more realist approach for most of A3 and A4, memories of the invention of Olivier’s film (moving from the Globe to a location and back again) come straight back to the viewer. And it’s not a flattering comparison. It makes this production look like a pale copy – as one reviewer said “the borrowed robes of Olivier”. Rather than use the budget and location limitations as a strength, they become a crippling weakness.

 

The invention returns slightly in A5 with the French court created by suggested walls and free-standing tapestries on a soundstage. The French courtroom looks great as a fleur de lis decorated room (floor and all) but it’s also got a clear outline and structure, more so than the earlier English court. The final sequence reverses the opening (the chorus walks from the still action into darkness) but it feels like something went wrong here with the plans of the director and designer (reportedly it ended up looking far more realist than either had intended). It’s a massive disappointment.

 

And Henry V is a play that needs invention: because it is so Henry-dominated, it takes a lot of work (and a very strong cast) to make any of the rest of the parts make an impact. That’s reflected in what happens here. No other actor other than David Gwillim really registers with the viewer – certainly none of the other English lords (for instance Rob Edwards, very good in Part 2, completely passed me by as a presence) who are barely characters. Clifford Parish makes a solid impression as Exeter, but David Buck continues to default to shouting as Westmoreland. For the rest, they are just interchangeable county names.

 

None of the French lords stand out either, despite actors as strong as Julian Glover, Thorley Walters, Garrick Hagon and Keith Drinkel filling the parts. Tim Wylton’s Fluellen raises the odd smile, but is far too broad for my liking. Despite Bryan Pringle’s best over acting, Pistol feels like a faded photocopy of Falstaff. Only very small moments from the support cast make impressions: Brenda Bruce gives a wonderful, emotional delivery of her eulogy to Falstaff and her sad “adieu” straight to camera is one of the few moving moments. Keith Drinkel’s terrified Dauphin during Agincourt is also a nice touch I haven’t seen before. Gordon Gostelow gives his finest performance in the series as a sweet Bardolph. But that’s really about it.

 

The lead performance though does merit some praise. Way back when watching Part 1 I thought Gwillim was doing something very different with Henry – making him a lighter, less charismatic figure, perhaps even more of a natural follower than a leader. It’s an interpretation that has carried through to here. This is easily the most softly spoken Henry V you are ever going to see. Gwillim’s Henry listens carefully to all advice when considering the invasion of France. He moves lightly and calmly with a smile through his troops, projecting calm and ease – as if there was nothing of any concern about to happen. He carefully uses emotion to win people to him – tears are in his eyes on “shall be my brother” in A4 S3 – and he is relaxed enough to encourage men to laugh at the gates of Harfleur. He only rarely shows anger (such as at Montjoy and at Williams) and is self controlled enough to play a Falstaffian game of pretence with the traitors in A2 S2.

 

The impression you get is a man who did not necessarily want to be king, who had to learn what it means to take on responsibility and duty. He had to try to wear it lightly to stop it crushing him. During his speech before Agincourt he is in genuine pain and sheds tears of regret at the simpler life he has lost. Gwillim plays Henry with more self-doubt and reluctance than I’ve seen from another actor before. It’s a logical progression from the carefree young man of the start of Henry IV Part 1. The price paid of this style of performance is that the big speeches lack the impact that they normally carry. But it’s a very interesting reinterpretation of a famous role – and allows Gwillim to put himself at the opposite end of the spectrum from Olivier’s godlike interpretation.

 

But unfortunately it is at the centre of a very flat production, hideously overlong. Of all the ‘great’ plays, Henry V is possibly one of the weakest, and the decision to remove virtually none of it here (the only really noticeable cut is the deletion of Henry’s threats to the citizens of Harfleur) makes this production a bum-numbing three hours, with too many dreadfully unfunny scenes featuring Pistol antics and leeks left in.

 

For Agincourt, Giles’ delivers his worst battle scenes so far (and the idea of a film of this play including virtually no actual fighting in it is hard to believe) and the empty green ground and blue skies end up neither suggesting a non-realist setting or providing any visual interest. Dramatically the worst of the history productions so far, with lines delivered in profile during long exchanges in scenes lacking drive or purpose. It’s a play with some of the most famous rhetoric in the English language, but it has almost no oomph, no va-va-voom. Part of this is a deliberate decision – but if a production of Henry V doesn’t push some of those buttons at least some of the time, then what is it actually for?

 

This could have been balanced out if more attempt had been made to tackle the subtle, underlying criticism of the war games that kings play which Shakespeare threads through the play. Henry’s war causes no end of death and wipes out his old friends. He threatens hideous vengeance on Harfleur (threats which are cut here) and shows no hesitation in ordering a massacre of prisoners. But these events lack impact – nothing is made of them. They don’t shed light on kingship they just merely seem to happen. Gwillim’s performance of a quieter King would have been a great opportunity to explore the cost of the king from all this death and destruction – but it just doesn’t happen.

 

Even the great scene with Williams and Henry falls flat – there isn’t the sense of a common man (unknowingly) pointing out the logic flaws and ambition of the king, or of Henry having to deal with this. Giles never really confronts Henry with the implications of his actions, or allows the drama to question the cost of Henry’s decisions or his potential selfishness or aggression. Any material of that nature comes solely from Gwillim’s more low-key interpretation.

 

This production clearly wanted to do something different within the restrictions of the series. It’s actually quite admirable that they tried something so artificial on television. But it doesn’t have the courage of its own convictions and doesn’t bring enough interpretation or interest to the play.  I thought from the opening moments I might be in for something special, but instead this is a disappointment.

 

Conclusion

The first time this series has gone for non-realism and artificiality but the production is largely a failure with mediocre direction and acting (outside David Gwillim). In a world awash with Henry V films it doesn’t offer anything new. I can’t imagine this ever being anyone’s favourite film of the play and it falls short of the high spot of Part 2 and the good work in Part 1.

 

Next time: It’s with a small sigh of relief that I move away from these history plays (five out of the first ten! I love the plays but I need a break…) and look forward to Felicity Kendal cross dressing in Twelfth Night.



Henry IV Part 2 (Series 2 Episode 2)

First transmitted 16th December 1979

David Gwillim and Jon Finch pass the burden of kingship between them

Cast: Anthony Quayle (Sir John Falstaff), David Gwillim (Prince Henry), Jon Finch (Henry IV), Robert Eddison (Justice Robert Shallow), Brenda Bruce (Mistress Quickly), Bryan Pringle (Pistol), Jack Galloway (Poins), Gordon Gostelow (Bardolph), Ralph Michael (Lord Chief Justice), Frances Cuka (Doll Tearsheet), Rod Beacham (Earl of Warwick), David Buck (Earl of Westmoreland), Bruce Purchase (Northumberland), Leslie French (Justice Silence), Rob Edwards (Prince John of Lancaster), David Neal (Archbishop of York), Michele Dotrice (Lady Percy), Michael Miller (Lord Mowbray), Richard Bebb (Lord Hastings), John Humphry (Lord Bardolph)

Director: David Giles

 

It’s been the case in the series, so far, that the lesser-known plays have excelled over the more well known ones, as if the production team felt slightly freer with the pressure off as less of the audience would be coming to the plays with expectations. It’s the case again here. Henry IV Part 2 is often one of the flatter plays in the history cycle, but this time emerges as a deeply heartfelt, melancholic and profound work.

 

Production-wise we are on very similar territory as Part 1 – the same crew, the same cast and the same design aesthetic. The merits and demerits of this design approach I think I went into in depth in my review of Part 1. The key new touch here is a garish, oversize crown that at one point dominates half the frame, its size cleverly suggesting the pressure it brings. Giles as a director seems to have engaged with this work far more. He identifies a key theme in the play and designs the entire production around it, playing each scene with a subdued, quiet tone that slowly but surely engages the audience’s emotions. As such, this is his most impressive work in the series so far.

 

Heavily cut – the most heavily so far, as pages and pages of ‘recap’ dialogue are removed – this moves with pace and purpose while still allowing itself to breathe. It’s a production about ageing and the death of innocence. All the characters go through some sort of awakening or disillusionment, and this air of impending disaster seems to hang over every frame. This makes Giles’ restrained directing style here highly effective – flash and bangs would only detract from this atmosphere. The camera lingers on faces, zeroing in on what are often intense emotions, never wavering or looking away.

 

 

Giles allows careful pauses in dialogue, most strikingly during the rejection of Falstaff, where the camera fixes on a stunned, emotional Falstaff as a crowd moves past him. This allows Quayle to play an array of emotions from shock to disbelief, acceptance and then faint hope while also allowing the audience to share these emotions with him. This is just one of several moments – from Northumberland’s heart-rendering reaction to Hotspur’s death through to Hal and Henry’s reconciliation – where the economy of the direction make the events more moving and affecting than they could otherwise be.

 

What’s particularly impressive is this is a strange play, a slightly clumsy sequel to Part 1. As the first play has a clear arc of Hal growing up and coming to an understanding with his father, it becomes necessary to ‘hit the reset button’: Hal is back in the pub, Henry IV is back to fearing the worst, Falstaff still seems sure of his position, the rebellion is still a threat. Essentially, perhaps in order to see some more Falstaff, Shakespeare went ‘back to basics’ and decided to largely forget the satisfying thematic ending he had already crafted for Part 1.

 

Shakespeare acknowledged that the characters of the two Henries had been comprehensively covered by pushing them to the margins of the play (Henry IV doesn’t appear until A3 and Hal appears only in A2 before disappearing until A4). The focus is very much on Falstaff, the character who learned the least from Part 1. His antics are motivated more and more by avarice and pride. But all his actions seem somehow small, sad and pointless – as a character he seems older, more tired, trying not to dwell on his own mortality. And it serves really well to point up the doomed nature of Falstaff’s position – we know his dream of a life as the Prince’s companion can never last.

 

It helps that the acting is sublime, some of the best so far in the series. Anthony Quayle seems the logical place to start. I’ve already mentioned his final moments which are extremely moving in their simplicity, low key pain and how he seems to age twenty years before our eyes. It works even better because Quayle’s performance carefully signposts this reaction throughout. Falstaff at several points seems to sit on the edges of scenes looking aged and less energetic. The famous “chimes at midnight” line is just one of many where Falstaff seems to quietly acknowledge that his time is coming to an end.  Falstaff seems like a geriatric Flashman – aware he is smarter than those around him, but arrogant, cowardly and entirely self-occupied – in a quiet way he’s raging against the dying of the light. With Doll Tearsheet he may growl with sexual excitement, but seems too depressed to act upon it.

 

His desperation seems to make him more grasping than before. Falstaff constantly adjusts his personality depending on who he is with. With the Chief Justice he’s proud but ingratiating. With Shallow and the characters from the Boar’s Head he’s like a visiting dignitary. With Prince John he’s an earnest rogue, cheeky but honest. With Henry he’s a jester and a willing fool. But always he’s got his eye on the main chance. Every version of himself is designed to get the most he can out of the person he is speaking to. His tragedy is that we know he can get nothing he wants, no matter what he tries – and Quayle’s quiet moments of pain suggest that, deep down, even he knows it.

 

The desperation in Falstaff is echoed in Henry IV. Finch is much better here. Henry is a broken shell, a million miles from the man of action in Richard II: wracked by illness (which unfortunately plasters his face in some cornflake-style make-up), dwelling constantly on his sins and terrified his son will destroy himself. Just as with Quayle, the camera lingers on his face, capturing every moment of his disappointment, rage and finally hope. Finch is more successful here because he is able to ally his verse speaking with emotion. Just as with Falstaff, his every moment on screen carries a constant air of sadness and regret, more overt, but informing every action the character undertakes.

 

The reconciliation scene of A4 is key. Both actors are terrific. Gwillim’s Hal seems more at peace with his father when he believes him dead than at any other point. When he takes the crown, he seems unable to remove his hands from it, as if weighted down with its power – there is real fear in his eyes at its burden. When confronted with Finch’s rage, genuine tears run down his face before a vicious verbal assault provokes a passionate defence, impressing his father despite himself. It’s a scene with the actors playing their long speeches off each other very effectively – and the camera chooses to stick with the actors’ faces with only small cut aways, which also works to pull the audience into the emotional story in a very subtle way. The oversize crown also comes into its own here – the responsibility and burden it carries really hit home when seeing this ungainly, over-decorated object move from son to father and back again.

 

Gwillim’s Hal is from the start a colder character. With Poins it’s clear the balance of power has shifted, with Hal almost cruel to Poins in his scorn. The scene plays as a foreshadowing of the later Falstaff rejection. Gwillim’s body language is now all command and confidence. Jack Galloway shows Poins knows his influence is lost. In the Falstaff rejection, Gwillim allows Henry to visibly sadden but shows no regret. He may be a colder man than before, but he is finally ready to become a leader. It’s the end of youth and innocence and from the moment he puts the crown on his head, he knows it.

 

This end of innocence is not restricted to the leading characters, but runs throughout the play. David Neal’s steely Archbishop of York is a man who lives his whole life on principle and honour and can’t begin to believe that others don’t do the same – even his enemies. Speaking to people like public meetings, he all too easily falls for Prince John’s lies. Prince John, established in Part 1 as a chivalric youth, is here a scheming liar. In his brief appearance, Bruce Purchase’s bearlike Northumberland is wracked with pain and self loathing at the death of Hotspur. Robert Eddison’s Shallow is as much a grasping, tired old man as Falstaff, obsessed with a happy past that never actually happened. Even Doll Tearsheet (a fabulous, scene-stealing performance by Frances Cuka, like something out of Coronation Street) and Mistress Quickly are preoccupied, sad figures not sure what they want. It takes real skill to run a theme so well through so many disparate plot themes and characters.

 

It’s all about the emotion here, and an atmosphere is created here more effectively than almost any other production so far. Giles may have delivered solid productions of the previous history plays, but here he elevates what is often an overwhelming play into a tragic litany of loss and death. It’s the best production so far of the cycle and I would go so far as saying the production I think I’ve enjoyed most out of the lot. Certainly I feel there is a lot here that is going to stick with me for days to come – and you can’t ask much more than that of any production of a Shakespeare play.
 

Conclusion
David Giles pulls it out of the bag on the third attempt with a heartfelt and melancholic interpretation of this play, one of the strongest productions of it I've seen and far more successful than Part 1. With some terrific performances and some nice very affecting scenes, it might be straight forward in its production but it nails the atmosphere. One of the best of the series so far.

NEXT TIME: David Gwillim takes on the whole of France in Henry V.