This self-indulgent mess may have put the kibosh on Mr. Branagh's career as an adapter of Shakespeare for the cinema. (Released 4 years ago; not a peep of an adaptation since.) I just finished watching this on cable -- holy God, it's terrible.
I agree with the sentiment of a reviewer below who said that reviewing something so obviously and sadly awful is an ungenerous act that comes across as shrill. That being said, I'll take the risk, if only because *Love's Labour's Lost* is the perfect reward for those who overrated Mr. Branagh's directorial abilities in the past. Branagh has always been a pretty lousy director: grindingly literal-minded; star-struck; unforgivably ungenerous to his fellow actors (he loves his American stars, but loves himself more, making damn sure that he gets all the good lines).
Along those lines, the sad fact remains that *Love's Labour's Lost* is scarcely worse than the interminable, ghastly, bloated *Hamlet* from 1996. In fact, this film may be preferable, if only because it's about 1/3 the length. Branagh decided it would be a good idea to update this bad early work of Shakespeare's to the milieu of Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Fred Astaire, yada yada. So he sets the thing in 1939, leaves about an eighth of the text intact in favor of egregious interpretations of Thirties' standards (wait till you see the actors heaved up on wires toward the ceiling during "I'm In Heaven"), and casts actors not known for their dancing or singing (himself included). The result is a disaster so surreal that one is left dumbfounded that they just didn't call a horrified stop to the whole thing after looking at the first dailies. I don't even blame the cast. To paraphrase Hamlet, "The screenplay's the thing!" NO ONE could possibly come off well in this hodge-podge: the illustrious RSC alumni fare no better than Alicia Silverstone. Who could possibly act in this thing?
Branagh's first mistake was in thinking that *Love's Labour's Lost* was a play worth filming. Trust me, it isn't. It's an anomaly in the Bard's canon, written expressly for an educated coterie of courtiers -- NOT the usual audience for which he wrote. Hence, there's a lot of precious (and TEDIOUS!) word-play, references to contemporary scholastic nonsense, parodies of Lyly's *Euphues* . . . in other words, hardly the sort of material to appeal to a broad audience. Hell, it doesn't appeal to an audience already predisposed to Shakespearean comedy. The play cannot be staged without drastically cutting the text and desperately "updating" it with any gimmick that comes to hand. Which begs the question, Why bother?
Branagh's second mistake was in thinking that Shakespeare's cream-pie of a play could be served with a side-order of Gershwin's marmalade. Clearly the idea, or hope, was to make an unintelligible Elizabethan exercise palatable for modern audiences by administering nostalgic American pop culture down their throats at the same time. But again, this begs the question, Why bother?
I agree with the sentiment of a reviewer below who said that reviewing something so obviously and sadly awful is an ungenerous act that comes across as shrill. That being said, I'll take the risk, if only because *Love's Labour's Lost* is the perfect reward for those who overrated Mr. Branagh's directorial abilities in the past. Branagh has always been a pretty lousy director: grindingly literal-minded; star-struck; unforgivably ungenerous to his fellow actors (he loves his American stars, but loves himself more, making damn sure that he gets all the good lines).
Along those lines, the sad fact remains that *Love's Labour's Lost* is scarcely worse than the interminable, ghastly, bloated *Hamlet* from 1996. In fact, this film may be preferable, if only because it's about 1/3 the length. Branagh decided it would be a good idea to update this bad early work of Shakespeare's to the milieu of Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Fred Astaire, yada yada. So he sets the thing in 1939, leaves about an eighth of the text intact in favor of egregious interpretations of Thirties' standards (wait till you see the actors heaved up on wires toward the ceiling during "I'm In Heaven"), and casts actors not known for their dancing or singing (himself included). The result is a disaster so surreal that one is left dumbfounded that they just didn't call a horrified stop to the whole thing after looking at the first dailies. I don't even blame the cast. To paraphrase Hamlet, "The screenplay's the thing!" NO ONE could possibly come off well in this hodge-podge: the illustrious RSC alumni fare no better than Alicia Silverstone. Who could possibly act in this thing?
Branagh's first mistake was in thinking that *Love's Labour's Lost* was a play worth filming. Trust me, it isn't. It's an anomaly in the Bard's canon, written expressly for an educated coterie of courtiers -- NOT the usual audience for which he wrote. Hence, there's a lot of precious (and TEDIOUS!) word-play, references to contemporary scholastic nonsense, parodies of Lyly's *Euphues* . . . in other words, hardly the sort of material to appeal to a broad audience. Hell, it doesn't appeal to an audience already predisposed to Shakespearean comedy. The play cannot be staged without drastically cutting the text and desperately "updating" it with any gimmick that comes to hand. Which begs the question, Why bother?
Branagh's second mistake was in thinking that Shakespeare's cream-pie of a play could be served with a side-order of Gershwin's marmalade. Clearly the idea, or hope, was to make an unintelligible Elizabethan exercise palatable for modern audiences by administering nostalgic American pop culture down their throats at the same time. But again, this begs the question, Why bother?