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).
Evidently, elements of this are intentional
on the part of Welles. But it’s questionable whether they actually benefit the whole.
Arguably, he uses the Spartan sets advantageously, shrouding them in fog, isolating
his performers on random outcrops or transitioning them, theatrically, from a
room to cliff-like.
Welles made the picture for Republic, known
for their cheap serials and B movies. The low budget dictated his approach,
which included a pre-recorded soundtrack to which his players lip-synched. The
costuming reflects threadbare necessity, made up of random tat ranging from
Viking helmets to Mongol attire. Dodgy wigs are de rigueur. At one point
Macbeth comes on wearing a square cake tin crown that seems purely designed to
elicit mirth.
But he shoots the picture in such a manner
as to forgive a multitude of sins. His trademark deep focus is prevalent, accentuating
his performers through use of wide-angle lenses and placing the camera at low
(or high) angles. His use of chiaroscuro lighting is highly effective; darkness
permeates the sets (leftovers from Republic westerns), leaving Welles to pick
out his players. This starkness lends the production a heightened,
hallucinatory tone.
Particular shots etch themselves in the
mind; the shadow of Macbeth’s pointing finger consuming a wall as it singles
out the apparition of Banquo, Macbeth’s crowned head (like an iron crown of
thorns) foregrounded against strange obelisks retreating into the distance, the
faceless witches perched like vultures upon a shallow hilltop, Birnam wood oncoming
in slow motion as if it were an unspeakable science fiction monstrosity (from
John Wyndham or Nigel Kneale). There is a gothic quality to the imagery, and
one is frequently put in mind of Universal’s 1930s horror movies.
This approach fits with how the director
envisaged his adaptation, arranging it as a struggle between Christianity and
paganism. As such, he created a new character (Alan Napier’s bizarrely
pig-tailed Holy Father) to reinforce the point. Arguably, this thematic
opposition is only partly successful. The witches appear as wholly
Machiavellian forces, manipulating a man to his doom with the aid of a
nightmarish clay figurine (an echo of the voodoo stage production); yet the
intended subtext of their actions as response to the suppression of their
beliefs is difficult to discern. Nevertheless, this is arguably one of the most
striking depictions of the trio; they haunt the screen, just out of reach,
their visages left to the imagination. But the Holy Father is insufficiently
strong in presence, announcing himself more as a dirty old tramp than an
esteemed vassal of God. In general it is the primal landscape that remains with
the viewer, rather than the characters it holds.
As such, the main issues with the film are
those of performance. Welles is as commanding as you’d expect in the lead. Yet
he hits the requisite notes professionally, rather than showing any great
insight into the inner process of the Thane come King. Occasionally, he also
bears an unfortunate resemblance to a beardy incarnation Jonathan Frakes.
Jeanette Nolan makes her film debut as Lady Macbeth, and its unfortunate that
her stiff, theatrical performance bleeds all life from the character and the
central dynamic between the couple. Their conspiratorial relationship beckons
any adaptor to embrace the claustrophobia of their pact and the incipient
madness that grows from it, but in Welles version these elements are present
largely through the visual language if they are explored at all. The visceral terror of the scene in which Macduff's wife and children are slain tells us all we need to know about Macbeth, which is fortunate as Welles' performance offers no insights into his psychology.
Dan O’Herlihy makes a worthy Macduff, and
Roddy McDowall a suitably feckless Malcolm, but Edgar Barrier is painfully
inert as Banquo. The decision to render asides, be they from Macbeth or his
lady, as internal monologues largely works, and few of Welles’ adjustments and
excisions are glaringly out of place or woefully misjudged. Rather, it is the
task he sets himself that ensures the film comes up short; the brief 23-day
shooting schedule and a hit-and-miss cast who are unable to sound convincingly
Scottish.
Welles was only 33 when the film came out,
and it became just the latest in a series of botched releases. The negative
reaction to his tampering with the text and the “Scots” tones induced the
director to reedit the film (shorn of much of the brogue). It was this version
that remained in circulation until the restored original was released in 1980. Laurence
Olivier had been planning his own film of Macbeth,
but faced with a first-out-of-the-gate competitor he turned his attention to Hamlet. Welles takes a very different
approach to Olivier, whose more literal rendition Henry V had been a big success and improved the prospects for any
would-be adaptor of the Bard. So too, Hamlet
would be rewarded with a Best Picture gong while Macbeth slouched into semi-obscurity. As a further Olivier connection, Welles had considered going after Vivien Leigh for Lady Macbeth; there are differing accounts of whether Olivier turned him down or Welles assumed hubby would nix the idea so he didn't even ask.
The genius of Welles at his best has no
doubt encouraged reappraisals of some of his less distinguished works,
festooning the status of neglected classic on productions that cannot bear such
weight. Macbeth was certainly greeted appreciatively when its original
version once again saw the light of day, but it’s more of a beautifully shot oddity
than one that has any claim as a great rendition of the Scottish Play.
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