Starring Kevin Kline, Michelle Pfeiffer, Rupert Everett, David Strathairn, Stanley Fucci, Calista Flockhart, Anna Friel, Christian Bale, Sam Rockwell, John Sessions, and Sophie Marceau
reviewed by Debra & John Murphy
Debra Murphy:
Michael Hoffman’s film depicts a universe freely inhabited by faeries and dwarves, satyrs and all sorts of benign if mischievous forest folk, who weave in and out of our mortal world, fiddling merrily with our destinies and sprinkling all with a touch of magic.
The film’s opening, a scene of bustling preparations for the upcoming wedding feast of Theseus {David Strathairn} and Hippolyta {Sophie Marceau}, looks very much like an hommage to the opening scene of Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing. {It is 
fitting, after all, since we owe much of the recent resurgence in filmed Shakespeare to Branagh.) But thereafter Hoffman goes his own way, and finds his own voice in a fetching synergy of ancient and modern, Christian and pagan, Shakespearean and operatic.
The setting is a turn-of-the-century Tuscan village called “Monte Athena”, standing in place of Shakespeare’s “Athens”. (Much Ado was also filmed in Tuscay, but then Shakespeare was nothing if not an Italophile.) Just outside the prosperous little village 
lies a numinous forest world ruled by those warring (and married) faerie-deities, Oberon {Rupert Everett} and Titania {Michelle Pfeiffer}, whose classically outsized jealousies and carryings-on sew first disorder — “the course of true love never did run smooth” — then ultimately an Edenic harmony in the love lives of a foolish pair of mortal duos, Hermia and Lysander, and Helena and Demetrius.
The Production
“Operatic” is the word that jumps to mind when watching this film, produced by Michael Hoffman and Leslie Urdang, with production design by Lucianna Arrighi, and costumes by Gabriella Pescucci. The cinematographer was Oliver Stapleton, who did such notable work on Hoffman’s Restoration. But this is, after all, supposed to be turn-of-the-century Tuscany, and the film is anchored by Simon Boswell’s lovely score, which thieves shamelessly from Italian opera. The music, along with Stapleton’s lush, warm photography, sweeps the 
audience into an appropriately light-hearted and romantic mood, and induced this viewer, at least, to indulge, as soon as the film was over, in a fantasy pilgrimage to bella Italia — did only the familial finances allow.
Despite the over-the-top production values, Hoffman stays true to the Bard’s marvelous language. Besides directing a stage Midsummer while a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, Hoffman was one of the founders of the Idaho Shakespeare Festival. By the sounds of it he directed his actors to emphasize clarity in their speech, which slows the pace a little for those familiar with the play, but makes listening a good deal more pleasurable, I dare say, for audience members not as familiar with Elizabethan English.
The Players
The cast is solid, with special kudos going to the Garbo-esque Michelle Pfeiffer and the scene-stealing Kevin Kline, one of the finest comic {and Shakespearean} actors in the States. After the foresty faery-doings, the final scene’s antic comedy might well have come off woefully anti-climactic. Instead, Kline as the ridiculous but sweet Nick Bottom-the-Weaver conquers his audience, on screen and off, with what amounts to a spot-on parody of every high school English student’s worst nightmare of a hanky-waving, sword-swishing, Bad-Shakespearean-Actor.
John Murphy’s take:
“Lord, what fools these mortals be…”
Thus opines Shakespeare in the guise of Puck, the woodland fairy. Midsummer is the Bard’s commentary on humanity’s fickle, thoroughly unpredictable nature. This, the latest film adaptation of the oft-produced play, understands Shakespeare’s intentions and, in turn, glorifies these self-same failings, which are the very root of human existence. The director, Michael Hoffman, chooses to create an atmosphere of magical realism as opposed to a vaudevillian slapstick-happy approach. In this respect Midsummer both shines and fails, for the lush, opulent decor and golden-hued lighting schematic supplement Shakespeare’s soaring verse, but also distract occasionally, preventing the scenes from taking full comic flight — a mistake not made, for example, in Kenneth Branagh’s similarly lush and Italianate Much Ado About Nothing.
If the director is more concerned with veneer than vibrant physicality and wordy banter, however, the actors, at least, manage to pick up some of the slack. Kevin Kline as Bottom the Weaver is, expectedly, a perpetual scene-stealer, coming up with a characterization which is something of a hybrid of Chaplinesque pathos and Gilbert & Sullivan’s posturing but charming Pirate King, which Kline also played to great effect on the stage and screen. Kline’s “on-stage” finale as Bottom-enacting-Pyramus ranks among the most side-splittingly send-ups of hammy Shakespearean acting ever to hit celluloid.
Supporting Kline is a strong cast of actors, consistently accessible in their mouthing of Shakespeare’s occasionally tongue-twisting rhymes. I was especially impressed by Calista Flockhart as poor love-spited Helena, and Christian Bale as the object of her undying affections, Demetrius. Their scenes have a notable vim, vigor and vitality which I found a bit lacking in those between the bland Lysander and Hermia. Rupert Everett as Oberon, King of the Fairies (methinks I nose an inside joke here somewhere) has an appropriately god-like presence, ever-sneering, ever above-it-all. Michelle Pfeiffer, that paragon of beauty, is ravishing as Titania, and her speech is eloquently suited to a role requiring very little acting, but a good deal of smoldering.
Given the 19th-century Italian setting, comparisons to Branagh’s Much Ado must naturally abound, and I have to say that this Midsummer does not quite stand up under the scrutiny. Though Much Ado had its weaknesses (Robert Sean Leonard, Keanu Reeves…need I say more?) the comedic peaks that Branagh and Emma Thompson achieved as bickering Beatrice and Benedick far outmeasure the more consistent but also (with the exception of Kline) shallower Midsummer. Still, Midsummer stands as a thoroughly enjoyable and weightless summer frolic, providing as pleasant a way to pass a midsummer’s evening as any.
Here’s the movie trailer:
And for the Baleheads among us:
The great thing about Branagh is that he is aiming at the same audience who’d enjoy an episode of Friends or the comic misadventures of Bill & Ted. His version of Shakespeare is for everyone, not dusty academics or film snobs. To this end, he rounds out Shakespeare’s script with imaginative bits of physical comedy and some inspired casting. The action clips along nicely, breezing through Shakespeare’s Wodehousian comedy of errors with a welcome sparkle. Drama depends on mistaken identity, double-crosses, and Shakespeare can’t help but throw in a near-tragedy twist on the broad plot, but things arrange themselves neatly by the end, and all get their just desserts.
Okay, so Branagh’s stunt casting isn’t an across-the-board success. Keanu Reeves as a villainous bastard (in both the old and new sense) shows some limitation with the language, but fortunately for us he’s “Not of many words” and does look good grimacing while sporting a “Hello, I’m obviously the Bad Guy” black beard. Denzel Washington, another movie star not typically associated with a classical repertoire, acquits himself with grace and confidence as regal Don Pedro. Why hasn’t he done more Shakespeare since this movie?
Probably the most divisive bit of casting is Michael Keaton as Dogberry, that beloved master of malapropisms. For some, he’s grating and over-the-top. I agree, but that’s why he’s hilarious. His performance seems inspired less by Shakespeare than by the Monty Python troupe, but when the issue is comedy, who’s complaining? Keaton’s Dogberry is an off-kilter lowbrow foil to the witty repartee of Benedick and Beatrice, and the result is some side-splittingly funny moments.
Speaking of Benedick and Beatrice, played by Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson, respectively, they are the two main reasons to see this show. When they go toe-to-toe, the electricity between them could light up several city blocks. The verbal sparring in the scenes with B. and B. is classic: a merry war of wit in the vein of 1940s screwball comedies, but with better dialogue. Shakespeare’s humor is wise and witty, pithily summarizing topics as universal as Love, Pride, and the like, with a playful nudge & wink. Ken and Em deliver their lines with veterans’ ease and new-kid-on-the-block energy. What a joy to see them here, young and ravishing and perfectly matched. They have the potent chemistry of a timeless on-screen couple, making their initial disdain and eventual love look effortless. I don’t go in much for Hollywood gossip or behind-the-scenes drama, but I have to admit that I was truly saddened by their split as a couple. Whatever the reality, their professional relationship was one for the record books.
Oh well, at least we’ve got this movie for the time capsule. Here Branagh hits just the right tone. “Suit the action to the words, the words to the action,” as Hamlet puts it, and Branagh takes that advice to heart much more in this production than he did, ironically, in his 
Shakespeare was of his time, no question, but his genius transcended time. It’s almost as though Shylock was originally conceived as a one-dimensional villain bellowing blood-thirstily for his bond, only to become something more in the process of writing. I can picture Shakespeare scribbling away with his feathered quill, the ghost of Marlowe’s Jew of Malta over his shoulder, and happening upon the line, “Hath not a Jew eyes?” and Eureka! One of the most breathtaking, heartbreaking, and humane passages in the canon of world literature emerges…but maybe that’s romanticizing the old Bard just a bit.
Perhaps the proof is in the pudding. The Merchant of Venice is discomfiting to watch, shifting incongruously from sunny broad comedy (the various misguided courtships of Portia) to dark and brooding tragedy (the scenes with Shylock). Audience discomfort is not a mark of a bad production, however. Far from it. Radford’s film is a resounding success because it is a relatively straightforward adaptation of the play. Radford avoids a strictly polemical interpretation and thereby refuses to let his audience off the hook. He takes the Bard on his own problematic terms and we, the groundlings, are left to decide what to take away from the experience.
Shaggy-bearded Pacino, his lined face a time-worn monument, makes for an intensely compelling Shylock. He doesn’t cater to PC trends and bend-over-backwards to soften Shylock or make him more “likable.” This is a fierce, irascible, angry, and resentful individual. He has plenty of reasons to be. Title cards at the film’s beginning create a historical context for the plot. In Venice circa 1596, Jews were prohibited by law to own property and lived under Christian lock-and-key in the city’s ghetto. Thus, lending money at interest provided one of their few means of self-support, since “usury” was against Christian law. Shylock is one of these much maligned money-lenders. A prologue shows Shylock spit on by Antonio, the play’s Christian counterpart, the titular Merchant of Venice.
Though Shylock is the source of the play’s controversy, and its most memorable character, Radford’s film brings the other characters into clear relief. Joseph Fiennes acquits himself well as Bassanio, the one-time playboy, now smitten suitor to Portia and catalyst for the play’s events. Fiennes smolders well; recalling his earthy and passionate Will from
And, as a 20-something male, I confess she’s not hard to look at.
Apart from the performances, the movie looks great. Of course, Venice, a crumbling dream city, just has to be to look great. The costumes are worn, lived-in. The actors’ pasty faces and unkempt hair suggest the absence of indoor plumbing. Scenes have the dramatic chiaroscuro appropriate to a dim, candle-lit world. Jocelyn Pook’s score is atmospheric and as effectively time-bound as the material itself.
For that reason alone this movie is worth seeing. If you’re a Shakespeare fan, see it. If you’re a Pacino fan, see it. But be prepared to leave unsatisfied, rankled, and scratching your head. I think that’s a compliment to the production.
