Shamefully overlooked and unavailable on DVD in the United States (though viewers can order the region 2 disc from Britain), this is one of the best Shakespearean films--no one will ever call it "stagy"! Inspired by Peter Brook's legendary 1962 stage production, this version of Lear is absurdist and Beckettian, unfolding in a cruel universe devoid of meaning. Filmed in stark black-and-white in the most barren regions of Denmark, the setting is almost post-apocalyptic; the barbaric costumes, assembled from masses of fur and leather, make the cast look truly "like monsters of the deep."
Brooks directs and edits in a rough-edged style that will confuse those who mistake innovation for incompetence. Lines are often addressed toward the camera, characters melt in and out of focus during moments of crisis, negative space abounds along with inserts of complete blackness, zooms are timed to the endings of lines, and the finale features brutal shock cuts. These effects are not intended as mere flashiness--they convey the alienation and disorientation at work in Shakespeare's cruelest play. Brook's handling of the storm scene exemplifies this. It's hard to imagine anyone doing a better job--the screen flashes black one minute and is scorched white the next, thunder seems to converse with Lear, whose initially blurry image (thanks to rain streaking down the camera lens) is replaced by low angle shots of him raging at the void of the sky.
The casting is often perfect, with Tom Fleming's rough-edged but jovial Kent; Jack Macgowran's low-key, sharp Fool; Alan Webb's Gloucester, initially fussy before turning into the film's most moving performance; Robert Lloyd's vigorous Edgar; Irene Worth's Goneril, with her lizard smile and she-wolf's eyes; and Patrick Magee's Cornwall, the epitome of banal, soft-spoken evil.
The only disappointment is Paul Scofield's Lear, which like the film itself diminishes during the last third. Scofield is the impressively imposing and monolithic Lear on film (when he says "Unnatural hags!" the cameraman shakes), speaking in a tone somewhere between a grumble and growl. But the voice grows monotonous; his Lear seems stolid. Neither madness not compassion seem to really touch him. Scofield occasionally breaks free in moments of extreme distress, like the storm scene, where he hints how magnificent his voice can be, but not often enough. Brook's emphasis on bleakness limits the range of a play that is meant to be emotionally wrenching. A scene like the wounding of Cornwall is almost comically rushed, as if Brook was embarrassed by a scene involving genuine decency (the old man who aids the wounded Gloucester is cut of course).
As noted, the final third of this adaptation feels rushed, almost like a digest, though Brook ingeniously improves on Shakespeare when handling the comeuppance of Regan and Goneril. Regardless of its flaws, Brook's King Lear perhaps the most daring and experimental film made from one of Shakespeare's plays. Wintry, brutal, and thrilling, its images will stay with you for years to come.
Brooks directs and edits in a rough-edged style that will confuse those who mistake innovation for incompetence. Lines are often addressed toward the camera, characters melt in and out of focus during moments of crisis, negative space abounds along with inserts of complete blackness, zooms are timed to the endings of lines, and the finale features brutal shock cuts. These effects are not intended as mere flashiness--they convey the alienation and disorientation at work in Shakespeare's cruelest play. Brook's handling of the storm scene exemplifies this. It's hard to imagine anyone doing a better job--the screen flashes black one minute and is scorched white the next, thunder seems to converse with Lear, whose initially blurry image (thanks to rain streaking down the camera lens) is replaced by low angle shots of him raging at the void of the sky.
The casting is often perfect, with Tom Fleming's rough-edged but jovial Kent; Jack Macgowran's low-key, sharp Fool; Alan Webb's Gloucester, initially fussy before turning into the film's most moving performance; Robert Lloyd's vigorous Edgar; Irene Worth's Goneril, with her lizard smile and she-wolf's eyes; and Patrick Magee's Cornwall, the epitome of banal, soft-spoken evil.
The only disappointment is Paul Scofield's Lear, which like the film itself diminishes during the last third. Scofield is the impressively imposing and monolithic Lear on film (when he says "Unnatural hags!" the cameraman shakes), speaking in a tone somewhere between a grumble and growl. But the voice grows monotonous; his Lear seems stolid. Neither madness not compassion seem to really touch him. Scofield occasionally breaks free in moments of extreme distress, like the storm scene, where he hints how magnificent his voice can be, but not often enough. Brook's emphasis on bleakness limits the range of a play that is meant to be emotionally wrenching. A scene like the wounding of Cornwall is almost comically rushed, as if Brook was embarrassed by a scene involving genuine decency (the old man who aids the wounded Gloucester is cut of course).
As noted, the final third of this adaptation feels rushed, almost like a digest, though Brook ingeniously improves on Shakespeare when handling the comeuppance of Regan and Goneril. Regardless of its flaws, Brook's King Lear perhaps the most daring and experimental film made from one of Shakespeare's plays. Wintry, brutal, and thrilling, its images will stay with you for years to come.