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Othello (1995) “And when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.” The year was 1995. A movie about a rich and respected black man murdering his white wife took on a weird cultural relevancy in the wake of the infamous O.J. Simpson trial. Very few reviews of this movie, released in the same year, failed to mention this curious “life imitating art” scenario, or the resonance of Shakespeare’s timeless words. Ten years later, with that trial a distant memory of white Ford Broncos, dancing Judge Itos, and “If the glove don’t fit, then you must acquit,” this adaptation has to stand on its own two legs. I’m sorry to say it doesn’t manage so well. Basically, the cover says it all: “Yes, I know it’s Shakespeare…but don’t worry, there’s SEX in this movie!!” Oliver Parker’s Othello lacks the conviction necessary to be timeless, lacks faith that the audience will be carried along on the strength of Shakespeare’s words. The text is tattered and replaced by a whole lot of window dressing, like the aforementioned sex scene promised by the poster. Parker leans on lots of visual crutches to “explain” what’s going on. In lieu, I suppose, of footnotes. This was a criticism leveled at Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet a year later, but Luhrmann could pull off this hat trick because a) his intended audience was the 12-18 yr. old set, weaned on MTV, and b) his images kept rapid pace with Shakespeare’s wild and whirling words. Here the reins are pulled. This is Shakespeare for adults (ooh…an R-rating for a 400 year old play, how edgy!), but apparently Parker doesn’t trust his audience to get it, so he slows the proceedings to a snail pace, and expresses his ideas with all the subtlety of a hammer to the head. A wordless prologue shows the marriage of Othello and Desdemona. Outside the chapel, two spurned would-be lovers wallow in their misery. Roderigo pines for Desdemona. Iago pines for Othello. Iago, watery-eyed, bluntly states, “I am not what I am” with all the ill-humor of a kid home sick from trick-or-treating. This introduction sets the tone for Branagh’s performance. His actions can’t be explained away as “motiveless malignity,” a joy in mischief for its own sake. Rather, there is something deep-seeded, something with a history that compels Iago to do what he does. This all well and good, but Branagh’s homoerotic interpretation neuters Iago’s lust for self-serving entertainment. I’m sorry, but who wants a dour Iago? So far as those go, I think Michael MacLiammoir fared better in Welles’ 1952 Othello. That being said, Branagh’s facility with the language and incomparable gift for poetic accessibility allow him to coast by, even if he doesn’t seem as engaged as in other productions (namely, his own). It’s a consistent performance that has grown on me after repeat viewings, but I can’t help but wonder what might have been had Branagh really cut loose. I don’t know if Branagh’s subdued interpretation was his idea or the director’s, but some of Oliver Parker’s impositions are thudding. For example, as Iago devises Othello’s downfall, he sets a pair of chess pieces, one black, one white, on a chessboard as lighting flashes outside the window. I guess this is for the benefit of anyone in the audience who hadn’t figured out Iago is the bad guy. Elsewhere, after Iago has preyed on Othello a little more, Othello observes Cassio and Iago conversing (orchestrated by Iago to make it seem as though the woman Cassio bawdily speaks of is Desdemona). Othello listens, behind bars, caged. Hmm…let’s see…imprisoned by his own jealousy? Trapped by the fallacies of his mind? Come on, Parker, give the audience a little credit! I’m just an ignorant college boy, but even I could figure out the subtext. The only really gripping scenes are those between Othello and Iago. Of course, the dialogue’s so dynamite it’s hard to image how it could be done badly (but believe me it has: witness Olivier’s groan-inducing Othello for the ocular proof). Fishburne and Branagh really sink their teeth into these mano-a-mano exchanges. Fishburne brings a command and gravity, a natural ease and confidence, to a thorny role already thrashed by such acting giants as Lord Laurence Olivier (don’t get me started) and Sir Anthony Hopkins. Fishburne manages to carry the audience along on an improbable journey from the heights of love, to gnawing doubt, then jealous wrath, epileptic fury, and finally murderous love/hate. He’s convincing at every step and effectively suggests Othello’s fury by degrees. Irene Jacob isn’t as successful as Desdemona. Here is a character that defies her father and her society by marrying Othello, a Muslim general, and then rolls over and plays dead. She’s Purity made manifest, the epitome of Wifely Devotion. It’s a tough part, no doubt, but Jacob doesn’t manage to convey any depth. Not even any spark. Line for line she treads water. Her competent performance doesn’t leave an impression, and her accent is a distraction. Supporting actors fare better, though their parts are truncated to the point of oblivion. Nathaniel Parker (brother to the director) is a convincing Cassio, proud and sensitive. Some productions play his “My reputation, Iago, my reputation!” for laughs, but here the scene’s played straight and it works. Michael Maloney offers some welcome comic relief as Roderigo. I especially liked Anna Patrick as a tough-as-flint Emilia. Though virtually a cameo part, Patrick effectively conveys Emilia’s street smart attitude and touching loyalty to her mistress in the little screen time she’s given. In the end, Parker’s obtuse attempts to make the text legible backfire. Actors don’t speak their lines so much as intone them, giving each word the weight Great Art ostensibly merits, but which deprives the play of propulsive energy. Cinema’s potential is not exploited. Parker’s devices are obvious, second-hand. Sure, there are some explanatory flashbacks, montages to convey Othello’s growing misgivings, and a few by-now obligatory voiceovers, but nothing revelatory. The scenery is pretty. The costumes are cool-looking. But this has all been done before, and better, by Branagh himself (right down to the Patrick Doyle-lite soundtrack). Unfortunately, there aren’t too many alternative cinematic adaptations of this play to recommend. My personal favorite is Orson Welles’ visionary version from the early-fifties, but his infamous financial woes during production do have a distracting tendency to be evident on screen (for starters, there are three different Desdemonas!). And under no circumstances whatsoever should anyone ever ever be prevailed upon to watch Laurence Olivier’s Othello. His performance in the title part is the worst of his career, one of the most botched Shakespeare acting jobs I’ve seen, and virtually unwatchable. So although my recommendation is tepid, this is probably the best introduction to the play available. For those already familiar with the play (unless you’re a big-time Branagh or Fishburne fan), I’d check out Welles’ version. |
