The Merchant of Venice (Series 3 Episode 2)

First Transmitted 17th December 1980

Warren Mitchell must have a pound of John Franklyn-Robbins' flesh

 Cast: Warren Mitchell (Shylock), Gemma Jones (Portia), John Franklyn-Robbins (Antonio), John Nettles (Bassanio), Susan Jameson (Nerissa), Leslee Udwin (Jessica), Richard Morant (Lorenzo), Kenneth Cranham (Gratiano), John Rhys-Davies (Salerio), Alun David (Solario), Douglas Wilmer (Duke of Venice), Enn Reitel (Laucelot Gobbo), Marc Zubar (Prince of Morocco), Peter Gale (Prince of Arragon), Arnold Diamond (Tubal)

Director: Jack Gold

 

The second production of the Jonathan Miller years is a cold and forensic production of The Merchant of Venice, full of muted colours and distant characters. It’s also a clear continuation of style from Taming of the Shrew – theatrical in design and style and with a clear interpretation of the play at its heart. What it also does well, however, is not to force that interpretation on the viewer.

 

This is despite the fact that it seems fairly clear to me that Jack Gold pretty much dislikes nearly all the characters in the play. All the Christian characters are presented throughout as cold, rather empty individuals, imperious and slightly distant – to the extent that some of them barely exhibit clear characteristics at all. In fact what is striking is what little sense of their personalities you get here. It seems very much a directorial decision to accentuate this part of Shakespeare’s writing.

 

Shylock is such a vibrant, colourful character, capable of both feeling and villainy, that it often seems (particularly today) the Christian characters are comparatively trivial. Certainly the final act of the play, revolving around the exchange of rings and various comic schemes, seems anticlimatic and a dramatic switch in tone from what has come before. Now I think there is complexity behind these characters, but to me this production decides to accentuate this comparative blankness.

 

Shylock is a character who dominates the play and is the one character in the play truly unique to the cannon. It is impossible to imagine Shylock being dropped into any other play without changing the nature of the play itself – it is hard to imagine any other character having that impact. He is so unique – and historical attitudes to Judaism are such a controversial issue – that every production runs the risk of being accused of anti-Semitism if any of Shylock’s many negative elements are portrayed. This production was nearly banned in America – despite the fact that Gold, Miller and Mitchell are all Jewish. Productions can bend over backwards to reposition Shylock as a hero (or anti-hero), a man “more sinned against than sinning”, who only wants to demonstrate the injustice of Venetian society.

 

Such contorted thinking takes us away from what the play is trying to do. Shylock is, really, the villain of the play. Now he’s no Jew of Malta – he’s a regular Joe, trying to keep his head above water, fed up with being treated like filth, who responds to taunts and humiliation with a desire to return it with interest. That’s understandable, but many of the actions are inherently negative – there is a reason why his daughter is so eager to flee him. His driving intention throughout the final acts of the play is essentially to murder Antonio. Pained by the loss of his daughter he takes the (surprise) opportunity of Antonio defaulting on the loan to take revenge on everyone who has wronged him. It’s understandable why he does it – but such murderous glee is hard to sympathise with.

 

Having directed Merchant of Venice in the past, I could go on (at length) about the fascinating nature of this character. But this is about Gold and Mitchell! Warren Mitchell’s performance is most striking in its lack of judgement on this character. His Shylock is more comic than any other performance I’ve seen. Grubby, short and a little unclean Mitchell performance is also intensely Jewish in voice, manner and gesture. Throughout the other characters surround and tower over him. It’s a performance that I think of as being “line-by-line” – Mitchell plays every line as it is and avoids stamping a clear interpretive intention on Shylock – unlike other productions, where every line and action is twisted in order to present a particular idea (usually positive) of the character. There is also a wonderful sense that Shylock plays up his Jewish characteristics when in conversation with the other Venetians in order to unsettle, unnerve or even annoy them – when addressing the camera directly he is notably calmer, stiller and more relaxed.

 

This is also a Shylock who laughs – and a fair bit. The laughter is often artificial – in A1 S3 it’s clearly used as a wheedling, even ingratiating tool – a defence to Antonio to demonstrate that his abuse does not hurt him. The jovial manner is also used as a cover to get pointed sharpness towards the people he is speaking to (he does this in A1 S3 when pointing out Antonio’s hypocrisy in asking for a loan). Laughter is a tool to allow Shylock to convince himself he is in control and, as is clear in A2 S5, to dominate those around him like Gobbo and Jessica (who, despite his concern for her, he is notably distant and self-preoccupied when talking to). Laughter is used again when confronting Salerio and Solanio in A3 S1, where their aggressive (and openly racist) bullying is met with Shylock laughing along in an almost manic way before flinging his famous “Hath not a Jew” speech with an increasingly pained, revengeful fury back at them.

 

Which brings us to the trial scene – always destined to be the centre of attention for any production of Merchant. Mitchell’s Shylock here actively enjoys the position of power he has over the Christians but still with a touch of the comic about him. There are moments of gentleness and a tinge of sadness when remembering his lost daughter, but Shylock’s potential nobility is continuously undercut throughout by his scuttling glee, his obvious delight at the prospect of the act of murder. The court may clearly be rigged – and Douglas Wilmer’ excellent performance of the Duke carries all the weight of a system that won’t allow itself to be seen as fixed even when it so clearly is – but Shylock himself is hardly either completely sympathetic or in any way  particularly noble. He’s a trodden down, trampish man who is given the chance of cocking a snook at his betters.

 

It’s a largely underplayed scene surprisingly – it’s kept low and quiet, perhaps matching Gemma Jones’ cold Portia – and it would be better if there was more sense of community or crowd reaction from the many onlookers of the trial. But its focus on the lead does mean that Shylock’s eventual breaking – his quiet “let me go” is the voice of the eternal victim returned to his victim status – carries a neat emotional force that is reflected later in the play in Antonio’s own isolation. It would be hard to take a sense away of a good man, even while being possible to feel sorry for Shylock. The violence of his forced conversion – and the sudden switch in character to a small man eager to escape as quickly and easily as he can – makes Shylock a tragic figure, even if the victim of self-inflicted wounds.

 

This review has placed a lot of the focus on Shylock, but then I feel this is the intention of the production as well. Shylock’s vibrancy is accentuated by the coolness of everything else. With the set largely made of blues and greys, reflected in the largely muted colours of the costumes and even the paleness of the actors. The artificial setting and backdrop makes Venice seem even more constructed and controlled, with the backsheets used (and so undisguised) keeping the world disconnected and unreal. It’s telling that the Shylock scenes occur in the most ‘realistic’ locations while Portia’s house (the centre of the Christian characters’ world) is the most stylised. Gold’s stylised use of imagery also yields some results through the framing of the Christian characters – particularly in a striking image of the three happy couples at the end, all embracing as if to hammer home their essential uniformity.

 

This distance is seen in the performances as well. Gemma Jones’ Portia is a cold, rather distant figure. She may relax slightly with Susan Jameson’s engaging Nerissa but she is still an unknowable figure, her sharp intelligence and manipulative ability suggesting that she is bound for disappointment in John Nettles’ handsome but empty Bassanio, a man here almost devoid of imagination and wit. Jones’ grand tone works well for the trial scene – and Portia has rarely seemed as cold and unfeeling as she does in parts of this trial scene (although Gold handles the comedic asides with Nerissa during this scene with an assured touch and allows the comedy).

 

John Franklyn-Robbins’ Antonio is a tortured, lonely figure unable to truly relax or relate to people – martyrism at the end is a tempting opportunity to lend his life meaning. Gold plays the homosexual subtext of the relationship between him and Bassanio very openly – though it is suggested that Bassanio is very much aware that affection for Antonio can yield prizes. Franklyn-Robbins brings the age of Antonio out very well, and Gold’s decision to leave him isolated and alone in Portia’s house at the end – lost between two worlds – brings out the bittersweet nature of the ending, also echoed in Jessica’s unease at Shylock’s loss of his land. The final image of Antonio is also striking for the replication it makes of his pose from the very start – the futility of Antonio’s journey and the lack of progression for the character (still in the same place emotionally as he was at the start) has rarely been so well expressed.

 

For the other performances, John Rhys-Davies is a stand out as an energetic Salerio, but others – especially Enn Reitel’s Gobbo – are less successful. Leslee Udwin has her moments as Jessica but the relationship between her and Richard Morant’s Lorenzo is played fairly straight and without complexity.  Kenneth Cranham misses a trick as a slightly under played Gratiano.

 

Gold’s production in a stylised and artificial Venice is an interesting mixture. While in Shylock it is happy to present a nuanced and fairly open view of a character so often twisted into positivity, it then weights the dice slightly by making the other prominent characters considerably colder and less interesting both in contrast to Shylock and to the writing of the original play. While it’s great that this production is confident enough to present its lead as a very shabby figure, it seems a shame that it couldn’t do the same with the others. Gold does use the budget constraints very effectively, and his embracing of a clearly artificial world reminiscent of cool late-Renaissance painting (Titian springs to mind) is a striking continuation of the style Miller had introduced.  But the contrast between the life of the Shylock scenes and the coldness of the Christian scenes is finally too great to keep the audience really engaged in the storylines of a significant number of the cast.

 

Conclusion

Some very good scenes and a fine performance by Warren Mitchell, but the rest of the cast selflessly sacrifice themselves to the conceit of the production. The development of the rest of the characters, except perhaps Antonio, is not revelatory but does draw a clear parallel between Shylock and the rest. It’s not the greatest production of the play that you will ever see but it’s a very intelligent production by a very experienced TV director that uses the constraints of the media to excellent effect. I enjoyed and liked its embracing of stylisation – but it’s too cold a production for it to be anyone’s favourite.



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.

Hamlet (Series 2 Episode 6)

First Transmitted 25th May 1980

Derek Jacobi climbs one of the literary summits of the world in Hamlet

Cast: Derek Jacobi (Hamlet), Patrick Stewart (Claudius), Claire Bloom (Gertrude), Eric Porter (Polonius), Lalla Ward (Ophelia), David Robb (Laertes), Patrick Allen (Ghost), Robert Swann (Horatio), Jonathan Hyde (Rosencrantz), Geoffrey Bateman (Guildenstern), Emrys James (Player King), Ian Charleson (Fortinbras), Tim Wylton (First Gravedigger), Peter Benson (Second Gravedigger), Paul Humpoletz (Marcellus), Jason Kemp (Player Queen), Geoffrey Beevers (Player/Lucianus), Peter Gale (Osric)

Director: Rodney Bennett

 

For his final production, producer Cedric Messina presented the most famous play of all time: Hamlet. His vision of Shakespeare was always sharply traditional with a focus on clarity, clearness and faithfulness with an aversion for invention and interpretative daring. So the real tragedy of Hamlet is that this most deep, complex and searching of works is strait jacketed here, with little real aim beyond capturing a ‘complete’ version of the play on screen.

 

Which is what you get: an almost complete reading of the play (there are no more than a dozen small cuts at most) with the characters and events interpreted more-or-less as you might expect. Characters circle around each other, communicating but not truly interacting. The play rolls gently from set-piece to set-piece, with Jacobi’s soliloquies hammered into the ground like milestones for the viewer to pace themselves to (however wonderfully they are performed). There is nothing unique or truly interesting here – if you’ve seen a couple of Hamlets you’ve probably seen every idea there is in this film. Combine this with the play’s bum-numbing length (I had to watch it in about four shifts) and there isn’t much here to tempt a viewer back for repeated viewings.

 

The focus here is firmly on the language of each scene, to the detriment of action, emotion and (of course) interpretation. This is not always a bad thing: if you want a chance to simply listen and think about the play, this might well be the production for you. I certainly enjoyed reflecting on the depths of Shakespeare’s writing – the six pages of thoughts and reflections I made about this production are a tribute to the intelligence of Jacobi and his fellow actors. But without drama there is a lack of engagement. If the production places the whole play on screen as an act of intellectual taxidermy what is there for me to invest in? Put it another way: would you rather see the stuffed animals in Natural History Museum or real ones at London Zoo?

 

Director Bennett originally wanted to film on location – an option vetoed after As You Like It. Instead the first truly impressionistic set we’ve seen so far in the series is created. The basic location is a sort of cyclorama, a bare blue oval into which are dropped various walls, perspective tricks, tables, graves and thrones to create different locations. It’s an attempt to bring theatricality to television once again, but much more successfully and consistently than in Henry V. And it pretty much works. It’s also the first production to use incidental music to develop mood. What music can do, when it’s used well, is to add texture and depth to film – and it’s used very well here, unobtrusively placed and used to particular effect at the end of Act 1 to underscore Hamlet’s encounter with the Ghost.

 

But the filming here is largely safe and straight forward. There is some neat editing in A3 S4 where different angles are used to show the different perspectives of Hamlet and Gertrude during the Ghost’s second visit (making it clear that Gertrude sees nothing). There has been a bit of ribbing of the Ghost’s appearance, like a fluorescent Jacob Marley, but it does give him an unworldly feeling. Typically, any interesting interpretative questioning of the Ghost’s faithfulness (or Hamlet’s relationship with what must have been a distant and imposing father) is ignored, although an interesting comparison is made between his overbearing browbeating of Hamlet and Polonius’ bullying of Ophelia one scene earlier, with similar angles and shots used.

 

But to really talk about a production of Hamlet you need to get down to the actor playing him. Messina went all out to get the biggest name he could get and secured the man who seemed to have spent most of the 1970s playing Hamlet all over the world. So, if nothing else, this film should be noted for recording one of the great Hamlets of the twentieth century for posterity. I feel (and this is a personal thing here) that this production allows you to see what a brilliantly cerebral actor Derek Jacobi is. Jacobi successfully plays Hamlet as an exceptional, deep thinking genius in a performance that is notable for its low-key, softly-spoken nature.

 

From his first lines the sharpness of his intelligence are clear, as he addresses Claudius in A1 S2 with a scruffy, hands-in-pockets contempt. His introspection has only been heightened by great sadness at his father’s death (crucially not despair), and you can feel a bookish gentleness to him. He’s a reserved man, close to only a few. He’s not an avenging angel. Like all performances, certain lines ring out, and when hearing of the Ghost the key phrase Jacobi embraces is “it troubles me” – his unease at the implications for him of the Ghost are plain. He may suspect Claudius – and his reaction to the Ghost’s story makes clear he does – but he’s not comfortable with the obligation of revenge.

 

Throughout, Jacobi explores the impact of this news on him, specifically the idea of how far Hamlet’s madness trickles over from pretence into reality. As an actor, Jacobi is willing to go quite far – after the departure of the Ghost, he howls and literally beats himself in fury, a frantic disposition quite alien from the opening scenes. His feigning has a gentle, open-mouthed simplicity to it but there is a hint under the surface of a wildness that has been activated in him. During his “rogue and peasant slave” speech he deliberately takes on the character of a man raging for revenge, either side of a more reflective nature – Jacobi even points up the ‘acting‘ Hamlet is doing, by stopping the speech and looking quizzically at his sword, as if unaware of what it is for.

 

But this is still a Hamlet energetic enough to do what it needs to get the truth. Jacobi takes over the play performance in A3 S2, pushing aside the players to act out the tragedy himself, Hamlet challenging Claudius directly – making it clear to the man he knows the truth and challenging him t make the next move. His maniac laughter and nonsense singing after the performance however suggest a looser grip on sanity – a feeling that continues throughout A3 S4 where it seems ambiguous as to whether his callous disregard for Polonius’ death and savage physical assault (including miming sex) on his mother stem from controlled rage or mania.

 

But Jacobi, like Shakespeare, is smarter than that – he knows madness is not only about running around shouting. From A3 S2 Hamlet is oddly disconnected (other than with Horatio). In A4 S1 he confronts Claudius with an eerie calmness. His “to be or not to be” speech may be a sharp intellectual meditation (and Jacobi does it very well) but it also has unsettling notes of suicidal peace and playful joy. By A4 S3 he seems almost psychotic, calmly talking about plans of murder. It’s a clear the Ghost has turned Hamlet from a reserved intellectual to a suicidal depressive with bouts of mania who, by the end of the play, has disconnected himself from all joy and lightness in the world and seems engaged only by death. And if that’s not a type of madness, I don’t know what is.

 

That’s a lot on one performance – but there is a lot there to analyse. Jacobi does a terrific job of bringing it to life, exploring the myriad ideas and debates behind him. If there is one thing missing, though, it’s heart. Ophelia is worthy of a few tears – at both her betrayal and death – and his closeness with Horatio has an almost homoerotic frisson, but neither really moved me as a viewer. I didn’t get the sense of emotion – and this is part of what I was saying earlier. It’s a production where ideas are triumphant over emotions, where characters talk but don’t interact. It’s brilliant (more accomplished than other filmed Hamlets), but it’s harder to love.

 

Many of the supporting performances are mixed. For me, Lalla Ward just doesn’t have the range for Ophelia. It’s a difficult part, but her performance is too weak and simpering, lacking in depth – it’s never clear why Hamlet is interested in her; it’s easy for a viewer to tune her out. I was also disappointed by David Robb’s Laertes. His Laertes doesn’t quite work – he has a patrician charisma, he’d make a very good Orsino but not a great Laertes. It’s hard not to see an actor as exciting as Ian Charleson wasted as Fortinbras and wishing they had swopped roles. Robert Swann makes very little of Horatio (though to be fair I’ve seen very few actors manage to make much of what must be the dullest role in all the great tragedies).

 

Eric Porter’s Polonius seems trapped between interpretative stools. There is a clear jump between A1 and A2 in how his character is portrayed, moving from an overbearing and controlling father to a more muddled old man, struggling to keep up with Hamlet. It’s a switch I found a little jarring, as if there had been a tug-of-war over interpretation and we had been left with a compromise performance as a result. Honourable mentions must go to Emrys James’ excellent Player King and Tim Wylton’s gravedigger (Wylton makes more impact in five minutes here than he did in three hours of Henry V).

 

Claire Bloom is the only cast member (including Jacobi) who speaks to the heart. She clearly has a genuine love for her son – though is not averse to slapping him in A3 S4 – and her breakdown into guilt and regret in A3 S4 is one of the best I’ve seen done. It’s a scene that clearly hangs over her and affects all her actions from that point on – you can see it in her growing distance from Claudius but also in the living death Bloom manages to show behind her eyes from that point on. It’s as good as her work on Henry VIII.

 

Patrick Stewart’s Claudius I found interesting, largely because it is very similar in tone and interpretation to the performance he would go on to give to almost universal acclaim in the David Tennant production 30 years later. Stewart’s Claudius is a cold politician, smiling and smiling but always a villain. He’s clearly a competent ruler but is playing the honest Joe to everyone while being deeply corrupt. Stewart throws in an interesting ending with Claudius, stressing at several points the character’s hatred and contempt for Hamlet – the tension between them in A3 S2 sizzles. Stewart plays him as a man obsessed with destroying Hamlet – even laughing when Hamlet murders him, as if overjoyed to have trapped him into committing open treason. But it’s a safe performance, helped by his undeniable charisma. Watch the Tennant Hamlet and you will see a great Claudius, one of the best on film.

 

Reading back through this review, Hamlet-like, I cannot decide if I have been either too harsh or too easy-going on this production. It’s trying its best, but it has no heart and it falls between too many stools. It feels like a mixture of intellectual exercise and faithful Xeroxing of the text. There is stuff here to admire and, whatever its flaws, Derek Jacobi’s performance simply has to be seen for anyone interested in this play. But I’m not sure there is enough here to come back to – certainly nothing in the bits he isn’t in. And in a world where we have so many filmed Hamlets it’s hard to see anyone rushing back to this one when they have a choice of Olivier’s, Branagh’s, Gibson’s, Tennant’s, Hawkes’, Kozintsev’s or Williamson’s.

 

Conclusion

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. That probably sums up what’s missing from a production that I looked upon if anything with a countenance more in sorrow than in anger. You won’t find your tongue full of praise for it. Jacobi is brilliant, but the rest just doesn’t quite cut it.

NEXT TIME: We move into the reign of Jonathan Miller with John Cleese casting his mission statement in The Taming of the Shrew.