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Showing posts from May, 2013

My arrogance, sir, extends just as far as my conscience demands.

This is where I belong. As a giant girl’s baby doll.

The play's the thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Macbeth (1948)
Scores of Orson Welles biographies have been published, dutifully documenting the difficulties his directorial career endured following his stratospheric debut. Studio interference marred efforts from his sophomore outing onwards, and financing problems often prevented him from satisfactorily rendering his visions – or sabotaged them before he had even begun. Welles had famously staged a “voodoo” version of Macbeth for the Mercury Theatre and here he returned to the play for his first feature adaptation of Shakespeare.  The finished film is a curiosity rather than a daring success. The highly stylised presentation is never less than interesting, but the speedy production lends it a ramshackle quality further emphasised by some variable performances (the approximation of Scottish accents is atrocious at best).

There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.