The Merry Wives of Windsor (Series 5 Episode 2)

First Transmitted 28th December 1982

Richard Griffiths tries his moves. Too bad they all know he's an idiot.

Cast: Richard Griffiths (Sir John Falstaff), Judy Davis (Mistress Ford), Ben Kingsley (Ford), Prunella Scales (Mistress Page), Elizabeth Spriggs (Mistress Quickly), Michael Bryant (Dr. Caius), Alan Bennett (Justice Shallow), Tenniel Evans (Sir Hugh Evans), Simon Chandler (Fenton), Richard O’Callaghan (Slender), Bryan Marshall (Page), Nigel Terry (Pistol), Michael Graham Cox (Host), Gordon Gostelow (Bardolph), Michael Robbins (Nym), Ron Cook (Simple)

Director: David Jones

Oh dear. If ever there was a production to be shown to people to convince them that, y’know, this series is not for them it would be this one. As so often in this series, when the comedy comes calling, the series is reduced to looking dull, stretched and old fashioned, here with gurning actors and much forced jollity pulling us towards a seemingly long distant conclusion. I’ve tackled the problems of bringing Shakespeare comedy from stage to screen earlier when discussing Twelfth Night.  Here all the problems of this genre on screen come together with a brutal force.

First and foremost this is a painfully long production of what is a very slight and let’s be honest, a rather tedious play. Did something as slight as Merry Wives deserve an almost three hour run time? Can a production in which nearly all the actors seem to be keen to stress how stupid their characters are, hold our attention for so long? What we get here is something so old fashioned it could have been around since the 19^th century, and so dull that you’ll actually want to stop it and paint your walls so that you have something more entertaining to watch afterwards.

Of course a lot of the problems here lie with the play itself. Legend has it that Elizabeth I herself requested a play to see “Sir John” in love. If true, then this must be one of the first surviving examples of a play written for commission rather than the author himself actually wanting to write it. Crammed with feeble jokes, lame set pieces and obvious humour, Merry Wives doesn’t even feel like a “Falstaff” play – certainly not the Falstaff seen in Henry IV. As Harold Bloom put it, it’s almost like Shakespeare was ashamed of what he was doing and wanted to keep his creation away from this train wreck.

However, with the BBC committed to giving us the full text, there is no tightening of the production, no cutting of unnecessary fat from the bones, no trimming for pace to keep the slight plot moving forward. Instead scenes stretch on almost to the crack of doom. There is some mild rearrangement of the text, but the listlessness of the construction of the production and the strange lack of urgency throughout the film (despite so much furious mugging, it never feels like there is any rush to get anywhere) mean it just doesn’t grip the audience at all. I caved on this one. Sorry – I want to watch them all the way through, really I do. But man oh man this was so flipping, head bashingly dull and turgidly unfunny I had to watch some in fast forward. I cycled to work the other day and my bicycle fell apart, including the wheel falling off. Cost a fortune to fix and I walked to work. That was four times funnier than this crap.

Part of the problem of this listlessness can be found in the central performance of Richard Griffiths. His Falstaff is a childish idiot. No other way of really putting it. Of course it’s part of the play’s problem that Falstaff is a terminally stupid character who seems to believe virtually everything he is told, no matter how outlandish. What Griffiths is not is witty or charismatic or – strangely – energised. At key moments it feels like his performance is going to let rip into posturing, boasting, rage or frustration: but it never does. He always returns to a level, cool delivery of the lines, a low-key, gentle rendition of the knight as almost a worldly innocent. It’s a legitimate interpretation, but for a play that borders on a farce, having a central character who seems so slow and underpowered makes Falstaff quite a tedious figure, who seems to diminish in importance in the play. Griffiths as a performer seems more like a natural Bottom (and lord knows he would have done better than Brian Glover in the role) or a Sir Andrew Aguecheek  - a dreamer rather than the scheming rogue Falstaff tries to be in this play.

But then perhaps Griffiths brings it down because Ben Kingsley is determined to leave nothing in the changing room as Ford. Kingsley was a highly praised Ford on stage a few years before this was filmed with the RSC. Now, coming to the production a few months before he was to hoist aloft an Oscar for Gandhi, he clearly decided to repeat the performance, with no alteration, for the camera – letting rip as if the back of the stalls still needed to be reached. On stage I can imagine it was gripping, but on camera it’s simply overwhelming as every oversized gesture and vocal tic is practically forced down the eyeball of the viewer. In fact, the impression that is created is that Kingsley is keen to let us the viewer know that he far smarter than his stupid character – as if Ford was someone he was holding at arm’s length like an exhibit, rather than as a living, breathing person.

This is pretty much the case for every other male performance in the play: aim big, aim high, aim dumb. Let’s laugh at each character in turn, as if this was a Shakespearean Hi-de-Hi. When even seasoned actors like Michael Bryant get in on the act then you know you are in trouble. Alan Bennett can count his lucky stars that a bizarre wig and beard render him almost completely unrecognisable (bar the famous voice) as Shallow (in fact it feels like he just wants to get the whole thing over and done with). Can you even begin to relate to any of these idiots? With no straight man or sense of reality hanging over anything, how can you care about what happens? Where is the intelligence of a Feste or the depth of a Benedick?

So the people who come out of this well are the women. Prunella Scales and Judy Davis make a good fist of the scheming wives, revelling in their deceptions. Davis in particular has a minxy glee that is very alluring and what energy this production has is almost completely down to her. The stand out performance though is Elizabeth Spriggs – mainly because she is practically the only performer in the play that seems to want to treat her character with some measure of respect, and who seems to suggest some intelligence exists in her. Her selfishness and sharpness as she cons virtually every other character in the play, makes her actually interesting and one of the few performers the audience can root for.

This parade of grotesques are  led through their paces in a series of duff comedic set pieces, nearly all of which go on far too long to be either impressive, amusing or really watchable. David Jones seems to have little natural flair for comedy, confusing loud for funny and dumb for charming. Where he does seem comfortable is throwing money up onto the screen with an impressive interior set and location that recreates the look and feel of Shakespeare’s Stratford, each house taking on an elaborate interior that reflects different elements of Shakespeare’s birthplace. The exterior locations – big fields and village squares – are much less convincing, but that’s about par for the course for the series. So it is impressive to look at, and the camerawork to explore this set is well done.

But the actual scenes themselves aren’t. Throw on top of that a terribly slow and mis-shaped staging of the final deception scene. Why in the name of all that is holy the costume designer decided to go for a Ku Klux Klan look for the child fairies is a complete mystery. In fact, the final sequence plays like a rather sinister build-up to a lynching, as if Wicker Man style, these villagers were preparing to sacrifice the poor fat knight in some pagan rite rather than have a bit of fun at his expense. Needless to say, the scene is about as funny and engaging as getting your hand slammed in a door.

So there you go. A director with little eye for comedy lets a lot of actors rip with barely any control with a script that is not very good in a production that reverentially stretches out over nearly three hours. The one or two moments that are amusing are totally lost within this morass of tedium. Why this really doesn’t work in the end is that there is no warmth here, no sense of affection for the characters. They are merely jokes and punchlines, not human beings. There is no sense of respect for them in the actors or the directors. Baldrick may be an idiot, but Tony Robinson has both respect and affection for him in his performance: the actors here just think these characters are almost beneath their interest.

And I don’t just blame David Jones and the cast. I put one of the largest fingers at you Shakespeare. This is crappy hackwork at best, as if Salman Rushdie tried to write a farce, but still wanted to us to know he was the smartest man in the room, rather than caring whether we enjoyed it or not. So welcome then to one of the worst films in the series, married to one of the worst scripts Shakespeare ever wrote. Poor, poor, poor stuff.

Conclusion

Another total duffer of a comedy though you can’t polish a turd if you are going to treat it as if it has literally dropped on your head from heaven. Elizabeth Spriggs alone probably emerges with reputation fully intact. Everyone else just looks happy to have got out of a contractual obligation – kinda like the Bard himself. Not good.

NEXT TIME: Back on the history treadmill with the first part of the Henry VI trilogy.

Antony and Cleopatra (Series 3 Episode 6)

First Transmitted 8 May 1981

Colin Blakely and Jane Lapotaire's love shatters world peace

Cast: Jane Lapotaire (Cleopatra), Colin Blakely (Mark Antony), Ian Charleson (Octavius Caesar), Emrys James (Enobarbus), Esmond Knight (Lepidus), Donald Sumpter (Pompey), Lynn Farleigh (Octavia), Janet Key (Charmian), Darien Angadi (Alexas), Cassie McFarlane (Iras), Simon Chandler (Eros), Anthony Pedley (Agrippa), David Neal (Proculeius), Harry Waters (Thyreus), George Innes (Menas), Geoffrey Collins (Dolabella), Mohammed Shamsi (Mardian), John Paul (Canidius), Howard Goorney (Soothsayer)
Director: Jonathan Miller

The first season of Miller’s custodianship ends with an intimate, low-key production of one of Shakespeare’s grandest classics. And this production perhaps shows how far the series has come when compared to the earlier historical epics, such as Richard II, The Henries and, most obviously of all, Julius Caesar. Unlike the earlier plays, this takes paintings – specifically the work of Veronese – as its principle inspiration and leaves behind the literalism of historical accuracy.

Miller also of course develops his own interpretation of events, rooted right back into the casting. Miller saw the play as a drama about two former greats who have passed the peak of their powers, and are struggling to deal with and accept a world that has left them behind. Lapotaire and Blakely appear plainer and smaller than many actors cast as the characters – particularly Blakely who looks like a dwarfish faded sports star. Lapotaire is far less glamorous than previous incarnations of the character, and here is a woman aware that her position is now the key part of her allure.

While pulling the glamour out of the central couple, Miller also brings the scale of the play down to fit the small screen. With its vast number of scenes and grand continent-crossing sweep, the play is an epic, often played on the widest of stages. However Miller sets the majority of the action in a series of small, almost claustrophobic locations, with the camera zooming in on conversations. Miller also makes extensive use again of long takes, with the camera moving between parts of the scene and around characters and events. Performances in turn are defiantly real and grounded, with the characters made into flesh and blood human beings rather than heroes from history.

This atmosphere of faded grandeur matches up well with the visuals of the play. Taking Veronese’s The Family of Darius Before Alexander (see above) here as the main inspiration, Miller creates a romantic, renaissance-era style and design that bears no resemblance to actual Roman culture. Interiors are skilfully disguised utility locations, with black set construction decorated by painterly cloths and drapings that add an imperialistic luxury and style to the sets. Backdrops for the outside sequences are an almost blinding white that makes no attempt to present a realistic exterior. The painterly style of grandness – particularly embraced by the Egyptian characters as opposed to the plainer styles of Octavius and his followers – also shows how the characters themselves are reaching for a grander past just out of reach of memory. When Antony dresses in an elaborate army uniform or Cleopatra reclines in a cloth-strewn luxury tent, they seem like ageing film stars harking back to past glories of large budget film sets and costumes now a few sizes too small.

Miller uses a few nifty camera tricks to point up the differences between Rome and Egypt, particularly in visual cuts. The first transition uses a wipe that slowly pushes Egypt out of shot in favour of Rome. When Enobarbus speaks of Cleopatra’s beauty, the film jump-cuts to a close up of Octavia, as if stressing she cannot compare. Audio bridges are used throughout to move from scene to scene. Light (and the lack of it) is also used effectively. At the film’s start Antony and Cleopatra enter through a large white entranceway into a dark, cloth decorated court – an area they will not leave again until their disaster against Octavius. After his attempted suicide, the camera lowers to Antony’s perspective and a flood of light from the corner of the screen obscures the vision of the viewer just as Antony’s vision is obscured by approaching death. Cleopatra’s death sees her sitting facing the only point of light in the monument, with her back to the camera. The aim always is to show the reality just behind the illusion the central characters are trying to sustain.

Colin Blakely’s Antony is a key part of this. A short, stocky actor with a working class hardness just beneath the surface, he is a wonderfully off the wall choice to play one half of the greatest lovers of all time. He is, it seems, constantly out of his depth – from his entrance he is enraptured by Cleopatra and constantly, even in the aftermath of fits of rage, finds himself deferring to her and her moods. He is, above all, a rather unsophisticated soldier, at his most comfortable with his men before battle or when drinking on Pompey’s boat. At times he comes across like a whining child – complaining to Octavia or bitterly sulking in A3 S11 when Cleopatra loses him the battle, almost in tears at her lack of faith in him. When asking Eros to take his life, he even bitterly complains “you promised” when Eros demurs. Low and high camera angles at crucial points constantly stress his lack of stature, making him seem even more impotent and weak. At points, he takes control of himself and seems the man of legends, but he is a man on a downward slope, unable to check – or even fully recognise – the pace of his descent. It’s a lack of awareness that makes him sympathetic – as well as frustrating.

Lack of awareness cannot be levelled against Jane Lapotaire’s Cleopatra. She is a woman constantly performing, aware of the effect that every one of her actions has on those around her. She controls and manipulates Antony’s tempestuous moods with ease, and her influence over him is demonstrated well in A3 S7 as she prowls behind him in the back of the shot while he rejects the advice of those around him. A1 S3 shows she is willing to appear girlish and innocent, fondly playing cat’s cradle with Charmian while waiting for Antony – similar to the light playful attitude she is happy to show in A2 S5 while awaiting news from the messenger and in A1 S5 where she allows an illusion of equality with her servant (an attitude she is quick to drop when they say the wrong thing).

Lapotaire also brings a continual sense of vulnerability to her performance. Her reaction to news of Antony’s departure is part staged, but there is real fear and desperation in her at the thought of losing him. It’s moments like this that show the real love she holds for Antony, beneath her appreciation of the benefits of having him around. News of his marriage reduces her to an emotional breakdown and floods of genuine tears. Bu there is still a sense of realpolitik behind her actions, that makes her such an intriguing character.When all seems lost in A3 S13 she is open to hear Caesar’s version of her relationship – letting out an understanding “oh” when told she has been bewitched. Mortified, horrified and pained beyond words by Antony’s death, she still mixes this with a willingness to hear Caesar out and plan for her own possible future.

The constant beats and changes in the relationship between these two characters are skilfully played by both actors and well directed. The underlying sense of need that lies between the two characters is constantly seen, and their physical ease and naturalness stresses the intimacy between them. Though there are flashes of anger, these are short intense bursts from each of them – and the tenderness and relief of moments of reconciliation – such as in A3 S12 – are moving and above all feel real. The loyalty between them is demonstrated time and time again – and the despair when the one fears the other lost is raw and all consuming. As a depiction of a grand passion it is a like a wildfire that has consumed all the materials feeding it.

For the other parts, in another fine example of Miller’s invention, Enobarbus – often played as a plain and honest soldier – is here seen as a sleazy freeloader, constantly taking advantage of the perks of his ill-deserved position. At every instance, he eats and drinks to excess, bellows and makes loud and inappropriate comments. His presence as Antony’s chief advisor casts as much a reflection over Antony’s lack of judgement as it does over his own unsuitability. What James’ Enbarbus does well is to make his many personality flaws appear to others as disguised virtues. The real man emerges when getting drunk on Pompey’s yacht or deciding to flee Antony. The contempt with which he is met after his defection demonstrates his true standing amongst his contemporaries. Moments of genuine feeling emerge – taking advantage of Antony as he is, he clearly cares for him deeply – and when talking of Cleopatra’s beauty he finds himself drawn into reverie despite himself. But it is still a striking re-examination of the character as mildly unpleasant chancer.

Ian Charleson adds another excellent performance as a patrician and moralistic Octavius, saddened by Antony’s descent, rather than consumed by ambition. He seems determined to do what is required of him as a leader and looks scornfully at the perceived lack of worth of the other contenders for leadership – he is notably uncomfortable and eager to depart at Pompey’s party. His mixed emotions over Antony are clearly expressed when he weeps at the news of Antony’s death – he may be angered at the man for the ill-treatment of his sister (with whom he is clearly close) but there is a clear regard still for who he was (an attitude that is also clear when he bemoans Antony’s fall in A1 S4). This sense of duty and stern moralism also explains his clear lack of interest in Cleopatra’s charms.

Donald Sumpter brings  a lot of swagger to Pompey; Janet Key is a loyal and touching Charmian; Esmond Knight’s Lepidus is a well meaning man out of his depth; and David Neal is a stand out amongst Octavius’ coterie of advisors. Many regular players from the BBC series crop up in key parts and give their expected quality performances. But unlike other Miller productions, the focus is overwhelmingly on the central characters to the detriment of the supporting parts – this is one of the few productions where a minor character fails to emerge as a particular point of interest.

Miller’s main issue with the play is to resolve some of the central issues of its construction, created by Shakespeare himself. These are not completely successful. It is still an overlong production and Act 4, as always, with its yo-yoing of fortune between Octavius and Antony in battle, overextends and overplays some of the same points a few too many times. There are some key cuts – and the battle of Antioch is replaced altogether with an onscreen picture and some text from Plutarch. The downside of the smaller-scale approach is that the importance of the events of Act 4 to the future of the world is lost slightly in the crush. Some characters also fail to come really into focus – Octavius’ advisors seem to have interchangeable personalities and some characters, such as Menas, shift and change attitudes according to the demands of the plot.

By stressing a low-key, less glamourous approach to its lead characters, this production perhaps challenges expectations more than any other production so far with the exception of Miller’s own Taming of the Shrew. It finds constant new lights to shine on characters throughout. It won’t perhaps please viewers who want the epic feeling of Shakespeare’s history, but this is a striking reimagining of Shakespeare’s play.

Conclusion

With some excellent performances, a consistent visual imagery throughout and strong, imaginative direction, this is a very well done version of Shakespeare’s play. It doesn’t resolve all the issues of Shakespeare’s original – the vast number of scenes and occasional lapses of pace in the action – and in working so heavily on the interpretation of the principal characters, the supporting roles get a little lost. However there are plenty of fascinating ideas and interpretative energy here as always, and the lead performances hold the play together extremely well.

Next time: OK the controversial one. Anthony Hopkins blacks up as the Moor and Bob Hoskins plays his dark angel in Othello.

The Taming of the Shrew (Series 3 Episode 1)

First Transmitted 23rd October 1980

John Cleese knows how to throw a wedding party in The Taming of the Shrew

Cast: John Cleese (Petruchio), Sarah Badel (Katherine), John Franklyn-Robbins (Baptista), Susan Penhaligan (Bianca), Anthony Pedley (Tranio), Simon Chandler (Lucentio), Jonathan Cecil (Hortensio), Frank Thornton (Gremio), Joan Hickson (Widow), John Bird (Pedant), John Barron (Vincentio), Harry Waters (Biondello), David Kincald (Grumio)
Director: Jonathan Miller

The third series of the BBC Shakespeare saw a new man take on the role of Producer: Jonathan Miller. A qualified doctor, experienced theatre director, member of Beyond the Fringe, documentarian and probably one of the UK’s best known polymaths, Miller is a genuine intellectual and no respecter of conventions. It’s no surprise then that Taming of the Shrew totally overhauls the playbook of the earlier films of the series, presenting a version that is thematically different and also bases many of its decisions around textual interpretation rather than faithful reproduction.

This attitude is clear throughout: from casting and filming choices to setting and interpretation. The three key elements of television Shakespeare are all addressed in a far more radical manner than previously under the Messina years. Although the production itself is not perfect, as an attempt to really bring a theatrical experience to television, this actually feels like watching something interesting at the National Theatre, rather than something stuffy in BBC studios.

The obvious place to start (and probably the main reason why curious viewers are pulled in to watch this drama) is the casting of John Cleese as Petruchio. Cleese was extremely cautious about taking on the role, having no experience of playing Shakespeare and with a low opinion of the first two series of the project. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he feared that a BBC production would be “about a lot of furniture being knocked over, a lot of wine being spilled, a lot of thighs being slapped and a lot of unmotivated laughter”. In other words, your straight forward romp. And under Messina, let’s be honest, that’s probably what it would have become. However, Miller saw Shrew as a more interesting work than that, and Petruchio as a more complex character than a berserk Basil Fawlty (which Cleese must have anticipated was being expected of him). What he gets Cleese to do is in fact play wildly against type.

Cleese’s Petruchio is a cold and aloof intellectual, a man of puritanical views who – rather than swaggeringly bullying Kate into submission – sees his duty with Kate to reflect back her own behaviour to her, to show her the sort of person she appears to others. Rather than the big shouting scenes, the key moments in the performance are the quiet reflective ones, particularly the speech in A3 S3, in which Cleese quietly and softly outlines his intentions, devoid of bombast. In his interactions with the other characters, he is calm and collected – the outbursts of energy are clearly him playing the role of the bombastic husband. The effect of this is to demonstrate his genuine feeling for Kate and, perversely, his respect for her as a person – he acts the way he does because her behaviour is unsustainable and (the drama suggests) comes from a bitter resentment towards a world and family that has never valued her. There are two Petruchios (much as you feel there are two Cleeses): the serious and thoughtful intellectual and the manic comedian – with the latter being the performance put on to obtain a specific effect. Cleese’s performance is very good indeed in a production that has, you feel, been shaped around him (I can’t really imagine him playing any other part in the cannon as successfully as he does this one).

Sarah Badel is similarly excellent as Kate. In a way, her casting is similarly inventive. Older than many Kates, Badel manages to make Kate very vulnerable from the start, meaning her aggressiveness feels forced and overdone. Again, it’s in the quiet moments where we get a feeling for the vulnerability she is hiding below the surface. She plays the intelligence of the role a great deal, bringing out the depths to her – the speech opening A4 S1 demonstrates a lot of this smartness. After being confronted with her own behaviour from Petruchio it’s clear she gets the point quickly – by A4 S3 (a triumphant interpretation) she is in fits of giggles at Petruchio’s changed moods and views which she is required to parrot – it’s clear that the whole thing has become a charming private joke for the two of them. Just as Cleese does, she re-interprets the part – a hurt, vulnerable woman with a great deal of warmth who has never had interest or regard paid to her by anyone else. There are enough hints from the start that she is interested in Petruchio from the start and she is more than happy by the end of the play as they kiss tenderly to settle into a loving – and puritan – household.

The suggestions of puritanism – Petruchio’s house is notably Spartan, his clothing is subdued – culminate in the decision to end the production with a communal singing of a Psalm, after a well-meaning piece of family banter. It’s hard to imagine a world further away from the ribaldry normally associated with this production, and is a mark of Miller’s interpretive work here. Petruchio’s intention is to get Kate to accept not just her place in society, but also to open her heart to other people – a decision she decides to take, and which clearly makes her a more contented person at the end. The clear and unambiguous affection shown between them at several points in the final scenes indicates the success that Petruchio has had, not so much in taming Kate, but in getting her to realise that her own behaviour was as damaging to herself as to others.

This is the sort of interpretative energy that is missing from so many other productions so far. Miller doesn’t just present the play as expected – he has analysed it, interrogated its themes and come up with a truly unique vision. It still has moments of comedy, but the core of the production is getting at the psychology: a damaged woman, clearly a black sheep of her family and friends, responds with mindless and continual aggression, far beyond the bounds of what is expected. A man uses reverse psychology to encourage her natural warmth and desire for love to emerge. Now, some people are not going to be convinced by this – and Miller makes it clear in the production that this is still a period piece (I doubt such tough love would be worn today) – but you can’t deny that this is a logical and consistent version of the play, something sorely missing from earlier versions.

Miller swiftly dispenses with the opening Christopher Sly vignette, to throw us straight into the action and keeps the play on a low-key, even sombre tone. This does sometimes mean that the comedy is sidelined in favour of the serious reflections on relationships (although there are some notably fine background jokes, including the infamous shoving over of a dwarf), but this is largely a price worth paying. Badel and Cleese have a clear and natural chemistry, and Miller focuses on the warmth in the relationship and the clear interest they have in each other from the beginning (despite protestations otherwise). Miller makes this a play about adult relationships and genuine feeling, with Kate a victim of depression and familial disregard rather than a naturally aggressive person.

In terms of filming, Miller also seems to have been determined to bring some of the elements of theatre into television. In particular, many of the scenes (the notable exceptions are those in Petruchio’s home) are shot in one take, or a series of takes. The average shot length (the amount of time between cuts or changes of shot) must be well over a minute (some shots, with roaming cameras, cover an entire scene) – for comparison the average shot length in The Dark Knight is 2.6 seconds. It makes great demands of the actors – the need to hit marks and avoid errors – and requires controlled conditions and rehearsal. It’s a merit of the BBC shooting scheme that both of these elements exist in abundance. The long takes not only make the experience theatrical but also add a fluid smoothness to the scene. It also means the scenes where cuts, reaction shots and different camera set-ups are used (all the scenes in Petruchio’s home) feel wilder and more disjointed than the other scenes – editing brings a greater energy to them.

Design wise, the production is also a big break. Miller intended to use artists as a visual inspiration. The locations are based around the architecture of Andrea Palladio and Sebastiano Serlio, the leading architects of the 16^th century. Interiors of Baptista’s home are clearly reminiscent of Vermeer’s paintings. The clothing fits in with perfectly with similar paintings of the period. This is far from a gimmick – it adds depth and invention to the frame and also sets the plays in a world that has a recognisable context.

There are good performances from the rest of the cast as well. Anthony Pedley makes an excellent wide-boy Tranio. Susan Penhaligan is able to suggest subtly from the start Bianca’s contrary nature. John Franklyn-Robbins brings an excellent befuddled quality to Baptista combined with a sly suggestion of greed and naked ambition. John Bird is hilarious as the Pedant.

This production is a major advance from previous productions in the series. It uses the rules of the series to make a number of interesting visual decisions. It places the primary focus of the production on reinterpretation and textual analysis rather than straight story-telling. And it makes brave casting decisions that pay off. It’s an excellent calling card for Miller. As a production of Shrew it’s not as funny as others, but it has more than enough moments, treats the story and characters with a respectful seriousness rather than as cartoon cut-outs and stands out amongst the rest of the films made so far. And it certainly has no slapped thighs or spilled wine.

Conclusion
Cleese and Baker are excellent in Miller’s bright new start to the series, far more daring in terms of filming and interpretation than anything else that has been produced so far. For the first time, this is a version of one of the plays that actually has something new and unique to say rather than being a faithful, traditional retelling. And, despite the comedy being side tracked, this is the funniest production so far by far. A refreshing and ambitious start for a new era in the films - and also one of the best productions.

Next time: Warren Mitchell must have his pound of flesh and only Gemma Jones can stop him in The Merchant of Venice.