The Problem With 'Hamnet'

For those of us who love the works of William Shakespeare, his reputation is both a blessing and a curse. Yes, there are abundant fellow travelers along the lifelong road of understanding his plays, and you rarely have to justify your passion for him, even to our anti-human tech overlords. And yet, it can be nearly impossible to see his plays clearly underneath the thick crust of received wisdom that covers them, and his work has become synonymous with the most deadly quality for art: prestige. In Shakespeare films, which have existed since the beginning of the medium, we can trace two traditions that reckon with prestige. The first—let’s call it the Olivierian tradition, after Sir Laurence—is impressive, elegant, and bloodless. Olivier’s Hamlet, which won Best Picture in 1949, is a tasteful but inert series of poses, constructed out of conventional notions of what makes for “good” Shakespeare. It feels as invested in impressing us as it is in exploring an essential truth about the human condition. The other line—let’s call it the Wellesian line, after Orson—is far less dutiful to the Bard and thus paradoxically far closer to what makes his plays great. Welles’ Shakespeare films (the best is Chimes at Midnight, his Falstaff-centric take on Henry IV) are as chaotic, bawdy, and alive as Welles himself.