Shakespeare, naturally, and nearly as naturally, Branagh. As always with Shakespeare, even without Branagh, there is a period of adjustment. The opening recital of the "Hey Nonny, Nonny" lyric, with the widely spaced and overarticulated words spelled out on screen in almost a follow-the-bouncing-ball fashion, is meant to make the transition easy, but it's more apt to raise concerns about the envisioned audience: Shakespeare for the groundlings of the Nineties? Shakespeare for schoolchildren only? Shakespeare for the hearing impaired? Very soon thereafter, the thrilling sight of a row of riders charging in slow-motion toward the camera as the credits come up (or thrilling sound of the fanfare composed by Patrick Doyle to accompany it) stirs the vain wish that this could turn out to be a completely different type of movie, a real movie. However, the post-credits parade of undifferentiated bare bottoms reminds us forcefully and soberingly that this is to be, in addition to and in spite of Shakespeare, a frolic, a gambol, a (God help us) romp. And presently, inevitably, no longer postponably, come the battalions of Talking Heads. The comic mood, the rompish mood, would appear to have brought out the ham in Branagh the actor, and in Branagh the director it has brought out a glut of reaction shots: sly faces, pert faces, chortling faces, delighted faces, faces that function as How-To Lessons for the viewer when listening to Shakespearean wit. These expressions are hard enough to match in response to even the most sparkling wordplay, and they are well-nigh impossible in response to the facile turns and about-faces of the plot, with its heavy dependence on convenient overhearing. Emma Thompson, Denzel Washington, Robert Sean Leonard, Keanu Reeves, Michael Keaton, Richard Briers. (1993) — Duncan Shepherd
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