Hamlet
(1990)
Hamlet was no vanity project for a movie star itching to be taken
seriously. Mel was taken seriously anyway, even if he had a penchant for broad
action cinema (a Mad Max trilogy, two
Lethal Weapons and counting). It was
Franco Zeffirelli who seized on the idea of casting him, having been impressed
by his mentalist (under Alan Partridge’s definition of the word) posturing as
Martin Riggs. Gibson’s only previous access to Shakespeare was an all-male
stage performance of Romeo and Juliet
(as Juliet) so it’s unlikely he would ever have reached later life with an
Uncle Montyesque pang of unfulfilled dreams; that he had “never played the Dane”. All of which makes the accomplishment of
his performance more impressive. I’d go as far to say he is the only aspect of
the film that really stands out;
Zeffirelli’s film is a well-crafted but almost entirely pedestrian
interpretation of the Bard’s (possibly) greatest work.
The blame for which must come down to the
director. A penchant for opera, and well-received versions of The Taming of the Shrew and
(particularly) Romeo and Juliet
during the 1960s, do not necessarily imply the rigour and insight necessary for
interpreting Hamlet. Which is not to
suggest Zeffirelli doesn’t understand the play; the clearly does. But he has
absolutely nothing fresh to say about it. This is a handsome period piece
populated by a cast of well-respected thesps; it has no real reason to exist
other than the director had the clout to mount it.
Honestly, I wish I liked Hamlet more. Occasionally, Zeffirelli happens upon a scene and it rises above his measured approach, assuming an energy all of its own. And throughout, Gibson is a force to be reckoned with. The actor does not embody a fiercely cerebral Hamlet, but he is most definitely a fierce, vital one.
Honestly, I wish I liked Hamlet more. Occasionally, Zeffirelli happens upon a scene and it rises above his measured approach, assuming an energy all of its own. And throughout, Gibson is a force to be reckoned with. The actor does not embody a fiercely cerebral Hamlet, but he is most definitely a fierce, vital one.
He’s the only “unsafe” choice here, which
probably explains why the pay-off is so great. He handles the verse with
aplomb, and brings physicality to every scene, reminding you that he is an
actor and star with the gift of remaining completely in the moment. Thoughts do
not come to him from intense mental exertion, rather they occur at the moment
he utters each line of a soliloquy (something Zeffirelli often underlines by
having the object of his deliberations within sight).
One might argue that the downside of casting
Gibson is that you’re sitting there waiting for “Hamlet Unleashed”; like Jack
Nicholson, it’s a matter of when, not if, he will do the crazy. There’s also a danger that, even softened by
a blond-rinse, Mel’s age (34) and bearing stack against the indecisive observer
that Hamlet embodies for much of the play; with Gibson at the gears, it’s
essential to excise material on the level Zeffirelli has because he’s not the
type to sit and dawdle while the malignant Claudius is enthroned. The balance
to this is that he rouses his scenes from the slightly dull worthiness of his
director’s (lack of) vision. You can see Gibson coming into his own in certain
scenes; the arrival of the players, and the putting on of the spectacle for the
king, is a highlight. The final duel is a combination of good staging (even if
the director doggedly cuts back to the poisoned chalice like there’s no
tomorrow) and the actor’s zest and exuberance.
The fake trips and lunges are pure slapstick Mel; many a more respected
thesp would make heavy weather of the humour he milks so naturally from the
scene.
It’s probably fair to say that Hamlet’s
soliloquies are not the most resonant aspect of Mel’s performance. Yet Gibson
is a passion unto himself; his turmoil and rage do not have to be directed at
another to be conveyed, far from it. Curiously, this is emphasised by the
slightly damp interactions with the women in his life. More sparks fly between
Gibson and Alan Bates (playing Claudius; Bates himself is a veteran of the lead)
than the crucial role of Gertrude.
It’s difficult to put a finger on why Glenn
Close doesn’t quite work as the mother (albeit, her performance is generally
held in high esteem). If anything, the meager nine-year age gap between Gibson
and Close ought to feed the oedipal undertones of their relationship. There is
the intention of intensity (physical embraces, kissing on the lips) but it
doesn’t signify very much emotionally. Perhaps because you never buy into Close
as anything but a strong lead; Hamlet
overwhelming her and persuading her of Claudius’ guilt never carries
convincingly. This is ironic, as the early sight of Close, running about
friskily, suggests she might be attempting a more sensual version of Gertrude.
It could be the flipside of Gibson’s inexperience; this was Close’s first
Shakespeare, and she is competent but (in contrast to her fantastic turn in Dangerous Liasions a few years
previously) rather swallowed by the part and the period. Still, the moment
where she slaps Hamlet, and Gibson lets out a cry of anguish like he’s turning
into a werewolf, is priceless.
Helena Bonham-Carter is cast as Ophelia
with the same kind of weary predictability that saw Kate Winslet play the part
in Kenneth Branagh’s version six years later. If there a period role were up
for grabs at that time, Helena would be cast. See every Laura Ashley/Merchant
Ivory production in the three or four years either side of Hamlet. HBC is quite compelling when called upon to give a crazed
Ophelia, which figures as the last decade or so has seen her embrace her more
overtly theatrical side (going the “full Burton” for her hubby). Prior to that,
she makes an insipid and mousey figure; you don’t really buy into the idea that
he ever loved her, as there is no chemistry between the two of them.
Bates is as solid and dependable as one
would expect but, as mentioned, it is ironically only in his scenes with Gibson
that he becomes a memorable Claudius. Part of the problem is that Zeffirelli
has cut away much that would allow more depth to him. The rest of the cast,
from Stephen Dillane as Horatio to Michael Maloney as Guildenstern, are
agreeable, but there’s no danger of any of them being indelible. Aside from Ian
Holm, that is. His Polonious is fantastic creation, running the gamut from
pompous to verbose to shrewd to foolish to hilarious. Whether he’s continually
not getting to the point with the King and Queen, being fuddled by an
obfuscating Hamlet in the library or announcing the players with a flourish
that confirms his own courting of attention and plaudits, Holm is a delight.
He’s the only performer besides Gibson who can stir scenes out of the stolid
ceremony that Zeffirelli instills.
That’s the main problem. The film is well
designed, shot and edited. The script, adapted by Zeffirelli and Christopher De
Vore, is pruned sufficiently to ensure it doesn’t drag, and only occasionally is
it exposed as deficient through that process. But there’s no atmosphere, no
point of view. The director’s inspiration appears to have given out after “cast
Mad Mel” sprang into his head (I suppose one could credit also him with the
choice of naturalistic delivery). Elsinore is, for all Dante Ferretti’s design,
a drab over-lit expanse (location work included Dover, Dunnottar and Blackness
Castles). There is no atmosphere to the place, no attitude. Even Ennio
Morricone’s score hangs uncertainly in the background, with not real impetus to
try harder. Just look at how half-heartedly Zeffirelli depicts his ghost (Paul
Scofield). He’s almost apologetic about including the supernatural at all, but
is clearly far too literal to think up another means of depicting such an
apparition (be it real or mental aberration).
Apparently the Zeffirelli didn’t wish his
direction to be intrusive, thereby encouraging a sense of intimacy and
claustrophobia. Unfortunately, this aloof approach ends up distancing us,
rather than pulling us in. It ensures a version of Hamlet that it is worthy but uninspired. For Gibson, at least, it restored some cachet after a year that had seen critical drubbings (Bird on a Wire) and commercial failures (Air America).
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