The Film's The Thing
Independent, February 1997
by Beverley d'Silva
**thanks to Virginia Leong
Kenneth Branagh's four-hour
Hamlet, released in Australia this month, has a cast list
that reads like a rollcall on Oscar night. It's already a hit
in the States -- but a year ago, up to his ankles in fake snow,
the star and director was wondering how the hell he ever got
himself into this.
16 February 1996, Blenheim
A drift of sugar-white snow has
settled on Blenheim Palace. It sparkles on the window sills.
It glistens on the giant pudding shapes in the topiary. In the
foreground stand a couple in historical costume, a carriage and
two black horses. This is the stuff of National Trust greeting
cards -- though today there's not a tourist or a Pacamac in sight.
Just cameras, cranes and a tangle of cables, as Kenneth Branagh's
film of Hamlet enters week two of production.
Today, Laertes (Michael Maloney)
is scheduled to give sexual counselling to Ophelia (Kate Winslet).
But there's some holdup, a hiatus, which the actors fill by joking
and smoking. Winslet, whose sweetheart face is framed by marmalade
kiss-curls, has a Marlboro dangling from her lip, truck-driver
style. She drops it onto the snow, where it leaves a large brown
singe-mark. The snow's fake, of course. Two-hundred tons of white
paper and chemicals, stretching as far as the eye can see. Possibly
the biggest fake-snow contract since Doctor Zhivago.
Now a figure in black appears.
Masculine, commanding, militaristic, with a touch of Count Vronsky,
and, oddly, a soupçon of Gazza [Paul Gascoigne, the English
footballer]. It's the peroxide crop and sunbed tan that does
it. Kenneth Branagh has been shredded and reconstituted along
matinée-idol lines. He waves his arms around in agitation.
The fake snow tends to fly around in huge squalls when the wind's
up, as it is today, so he cancels filming for the morning and
we go to a palace anteroom to talk. Anteroom it may be, but it's
magnificent by anyone's standards. "Doesn't this house make
you wonder why there was never a proper revolution in England?"
says Ken, who is remarkably cheerful.
The obvious question is: why
film the 400-year-old revenge tragedy now, when there are already
59 versions, including at least five important Hamlets,
from Olivier's Oscar-scooping, gloomy post-war noir to
Zeffirelli's 1991 Mel Gibson vehicle, in the can. Branagh says
he has planned and mulched his Hamlet in his mind for
at least 10 years. He had mentally cast Derek Jacobi and Richard
Briers as Claudius and Polonius long ago. His Hamlet would
be the first film of the complete text. And Branagh's age --
he turned 36 last December -- was a factor.
If it is "the play the world
could least do without" (as Anthony Burgess observed), Hamlet
also boasts the Shakespearian character Branagh identifies with
most. He finds the play's themes -- betrayal, revenge, hubris
-- as resonant as ever. This may be Hamlet number 60,
he continues, but if each new production is infected by its time,
this version will be stained by our lust for celebrity and royal
gossip. If Branagh's Hamlet were alive today, Hello! magazine
would run a 30-page exclusive on the Prince of Denmark in the
splendour of his sumptuous 18th-century family home.
"It's natural to be fascinated
by people who have power over millions of people's lives,"
says Branagh. "You want to know what Stalin got up to in
private, who Churchill slept with." He gestures to Blenheim's
main wings, where Winston was born. "But we could just as
easily be talking about Bill Clinton."
Before taking on the role, Branagh
followed a punishing two-year fitness regime and morphed to a
leaner, meaner shape with weights and diet: agony for a man who
likes food, drink and "the crack". But it left him
confident enough to show off his biceps, wearing little more
than a vest, on television. Quite a transformation from the podgy
days of Peter's Friends, when he called himself "the
short-assed, fat-faced Irishman".
Ken prefers not to dwell on his
new image -- or biceps. "Hamlet is a charismatic guy. The
part rubs off on you. If you get into a nice tight pair of trews
and have someone do your hair, apply half a ton of Max Factor...
One acquires a certain charisma just by getting the job."
So far, his talk has been seamless,
but something's amiss. It's as if his mouth is reading off an
autocue and his brain is engaged elsewhere. Now he grows silent.
A shadow crosses his profile and shuts down the light in his
eyes. He says, without warning: "Fucking snow. It's so fucking
awful ... It would blow in the opposite direction, wouldn't it?
I walk on and see all that snow. I no longer know why I want
to do this. I can't believe I am doing this. I just don't know
whether it will work. What's that Woody Allen line? In filmmaking,
the van of compromise comes 20 times a day. This morning, there
was a whole fucking fleet on my doorstep." He crushes a
cigarette into a mountain of butts, and lights another. Then
another. The shadow darkens.
Hamlet, it seems, is driving
Kenneth Branagh mad. The role has a habit of it. Daniel Day Lewis
had a breakdown mid-run at the National Theatre in 1989; Peter
O'Toole found the role to be "one long pain in the butt".
Yet every actor must try it.
It is the ultimate proving ground -- "a hoop through which
every actor must jump," says Ken. He has already done it
in the theatre 300 times. But because this time Branagh is director
and actor, he must now jump the hoop and hold it out simultaneously.
"It's hideously difficult. So difficult as to be mad. Mad!
This is the last time I will direct and act at the same time.
Quote me on that, and throw it back in my face if I ever put
myself in this position again. The last fucking time..."
In a more lucid moment pre-production,
Branagh chose to shoot his film in 70mm, to achieve the panoramic
sweep of Ryan's Daughter (the last British film made in
the format), and to use the full text from the 1623 Folio. This,
he says, permitted the fleshing out of previously "underwritten
characters", such as the Norwegian general Fortinbras, and
allows time for grieving in a play piled up with corpses. So
Branagh's Hamlet would be epic in breadth and length:
a nerve-crunching four hours, in fact.
Sensing that a four-hour trip
needed some stars to light the way, Ken got out his black book
and personally called half of Hollywood. "That can be terrifying
to do," he says. "But I've learnt that people are just
as scared of me, expecting to meet a Shakespearian swot."
The resulting crack-squad of classical actors, comics and celebrities
reads like an Oscar-night rollcall: Charlton Heston, Robin Williams,
Jack Lemmon, Gérard Depardieu, Billy Crystal, the Sir
Johns Gielgud and Mills, Julie Christie, Judi Dench. A blink-and-you'll
miss-him Ken Dodd as Yorick. Plus the youngsters: Rufus Sewell,
who is a satanically beautiful Fortinbras, and Ophelia, played
by Kate Winslet.
Ophelia is resting in a marquee
between takes, with her hair wound round green squashy curlers
under a pink nylon scarf, and her legs, laced into 18-hole Doc
Martens, up. Even thus, Winslet is gorgeous. Men lean towards
her. (It transpires later that she had a brief, secret love affair
with Sewell during filming, but the couple had split by last
She says this is a part she's
wanted since she was 13, and had long determined not to play
it as the traditional wilting weed. "Stuff that for a game
of soldiers," she says. Her Ophelia goes mad, of course,
but she's not the virgin of tradition, and enjoys some beautifully
sensual sex in flashback. Nudity is still difficult for Winslet
(who, despite the Bafta award, the Golden Globe and an Oscar
nomination for her Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility,
is still only 21), but Ken turned it into a glorious joke. "We'd
be lying there naked, and he'd say, "I'll just check the
monitor. Oh no! We'll have to do it again. You can see my todger!"
She adds: "He's generous, and supportive. And I just trust
By working on both Sense
and Hamlet, Winslet connected Emma Thompson and Branagh's
worlds in a way she could not have predicted. (A year ago, the
couple announced their marital separation; it was a time Branagh
described as "awful. Deeply sad and difficult.") "Ken
and Em are friends of mine, and I'm close to them both,"
says Kate. "But Em was my main concern. When I started on
Hamlet, I had to tell myself: okay, Ken's not a baddie.
And, of course, he's not."
Bad, no. Mad, occasionally, yes.
If Branagh suffers from frequent mad spells, it's because he
attempts to do too many things at once. "One's brain sort
of short-circuits," he admits. His constantly racing mind
holds him to ransom when he should be enjoying life. "I
find myself analysing something before I've had a chance to experience
it." So he relaxes with "a pint or two. We don't get
back from location until the early hours sometimes, but I have
to unwind before bed. So I stay at the Feathers. Trick myself
into thinking I'm on holiday. Nice snuggy bar. Old farty ale."
The next morning, Jack Lemmon
is holed up in the study of said hotel, a mile from Blenheim.
He has a roaring log fire, a plump Chesterfield and his preferred
poison, coffee thick as treacle, for comfort. Life would be perfect
-- if not for his lines, which he pores over like a schoolboy
in detention. "No one can convince me Shakespeare didn't
make up words just to upset the actors," he chuckles. He
says he's modelled his role, Marcellus, "on the doorman
at the Dorchester. I look exactly like him."
All the American stars brought
a buzz to the set. Robin Williams (Osric) has the film crew in
hysterics. Neither, he, Charlton Heston nor Lemmon came for the
pay, not on Branagh's modest $18m budget. They came for the job,
says Ken. "I don't think they get directed much. They all
want to improve as artists. They know that with me they'll get
jiggled a bit." Lemmon, 70 and a little deaf, was "jiggled"
the previous night, as he and Horatio and Bernardo (Nick Farrell
and Ian McElhinney) crouched in the snow, their shadows stretched
Giacometti-like across the moonlit courtyard. When Jack jumped
at the ghost, his hat tipped forward over his eyes like the leaning
tower of Pisa. It was the fag-end of a 12-hour day. Branagh,
wrapped up in his director's special puffa, directed them through
a megaphone to: "Stay on guard, lads. Physically alert,
but keep the pikes down."
Lemmon was surprised by the levity
on the set. "Last night we must have shot a thousand feet
of actors just laughing -- me most of all." The same humour
is obvious in Branagh's scripted stage directions, such as these
for the gravediggers:
First gravedigger: What is he that builds stronger than
either the mason, the shipwright or the carpenter? (Very pleased
Second gravedigger: The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives
a thousand tenants.
First gravedigger: I like thy wit well, in good faith.
(Yes, I like your wit about as much as I like eating turds)
7 March 1997, Shepperton Film
The back of Ken's neck is smooth
and tanned. I get to see it frequently, seated close behind him
as we stare at the film monitors. Shepperton Studios, the site
of filming Hamlet's interior sequences, is a second home
to him. He is more at ease here, and is able to get a perspective
on his paranoia at Blenheim.
"I didn't know what I was
talking about that day. I was so tired. I mean, I started sentences
which I had no idea where they'd finish. I felt pressurised to
fill in some sort of colour on the film, but I hate setting up
the dynamic, I hate doing those dinners where you must engage
with people." He did those dinners for Much Ado About
Nothing in Tuscany, when he, Emma, Keanu Reeves and Denzel
Washington entertained the press under the almond blossom, one
actor to a table. "If it was my money on the line, I'd
demand that sort of thing. But it's not. Ha ha."
Ken sketches out actors positions
and camera angles for the next scene. He's in civvies today:
Levi's and Redwing boots. Among the monitor-room regulars is
Hugh Cruttwell, the former principal of RADA, who auditioned
Ken for the drama school. Now he endures equal parts adoration
and teasing from his former student. "Why do I pay him?"
Ken asks, rhetorically. "That's easy: He doesn't bullshit
Set designer Tim Harvey has done
a great job with Elsinore's glittering interior, achieving a
rich look (gilt-kissed columns, eagles and cupids, chessboard
floor and 30 mirrored doors) on little money. Ken strides through
the hall mapping out his vision. "I want to convey the grandness
of a president sweeping through the White House. The idea that
these people are at the heart of the nation." He spots Derek
Jacobi and points out his new flat-top haircut. "Don't you
think he looks like Ed Harris in Apollo 13?" Then
it's back to business: "I want the film to be as sex- and
violence-ridden as the play, yet as naturalistically spoken as
possible...with movement...action so that it is totally absorbing."
To this end, the cameras are set up to float around the actors
in a delicate loop, a dance which must be precision-timed if
heads are not to chop off other heads. This is a trademark of
Branagh's that can convey a wonderful fluidity, or feel like
a nauseous rollercoaster -- Frankenstein had critics reaching
for the sickbag. Ken is determined that this time it will be
an enjoyable ride.
Earlier, Julie Christie had been
pacing nervously in the distance, lip-synching Gertrude's lines,
turning corners with sharp little kicks of her red silk dress.
Suddenly, she stopped and stared across the hall, her eyes ablaze.
I realised she was staring at me -- and this is a woman who has
long suffered journo-phobia. She hissed into her assistant's
ear. He smoothed her. She had apparently done the same thing
the previous week: bristled, pointed, said: "Ha! That woman
is a journalist." She could, apparently, tell by my posture.
Now, seated in the queen's chintzy
boudoir, all is forgotten. Christie's own posture has little
changed since The Go-Between, 25 years ago. Her waist
is as waspish, her skin every bit as velvety. She says she considered
playing Gertrude as a lush; dypsomania might have been a new
take on the queen's outrageous behaviour. "I think Ken would
have let me. I think he'd have let any of the actors do anything
they wanted to," she says. Worried about coming across as
a "klutz" amonst such eminently experienced Shakespearians,
she was pleasantly surprised. Sir Derek Jacobi, in particular,
she found "kind, supportive. So fluid."
Jacobi is not a willing self-publicist
either, though he eventually wades dutifully through a sea of
soldiers to file his (guarded) opinion. "Ken wants to make
you the best," he says. "He has a genius for generating
a sense of theatre..." An internal alarm goes off. "That
is, he is theatrical in the best sense of the word. Let it be
said that Ken is never, ever, for an instant, luvvie.
He is not luvviedom for a second."
The luvvie, that air-kissing
harpy of peculiarly British heritage, haunted both Ken and Em.
Thompson eventually transcended the brick-bats, especially after
her Oscar for the screenplay of Sense and Sensibility,
but Ken-baiting has remained a national sport. A hatchet-job
in the magazine Modern Review opened with the line: "Like
most people I know, I have always hated Kenneth Branagh."
Sara Keene, his long-suffering publicist, describes it as "pure
vitriol. It's so unfair, because 80 per cent of it is untrue."
Branagh's very "ordinariness"
may account for some of it. He is not moody or difficult, qualities
we've come to expect from our movie stars. "Why should I
be that way? I'll respond as I respond, you'll ask as you ask,"
he says. "People have said to me, don't be so available.
I'm not that available, it has to be said."
"Some actors must be angst-ridden
and solitary, because that unlocks their talent," says Jacobi.
"Ken's not the difficult type. His way is to be funny, light
and keep everyone on their toes."
His actors and technicians certainly
seem to adore him. They are like members of a secret society
which closes ranks to protect its leader. Why? Kens' fitness
trainer, Josh Salzmann, has a telling anecdote. "We had
been working in the gym, and I had been calling him Kevin for
two weeks, as I believed that was his name. It wasn't until I
saw a poster at Shepperton that I realised my mistake. But he
hadn't corrected me once."
Does he ever put a foot wrong?
Sometimes. Near the end of the film, Branagh and Michael Maloney
have a fiendishly difficult swordfight, a balletic piece of choreography
with many precise movements. During filming, Branagh forgot some
of his moves; meanwhile, 100 extras in uniforms and ballgowns
had to wait till he got it right. The scene should have taken
four days. It took 12.
"It was hugely embarrassing.
Deeply embarrassing... That's when you really think 'I don't
know what I'm doing'. Carol Reed [director of The Third Man]
said there's no happiness in directing, only a weird kind of
agony. I hate myself for doing it. And when I'm not doing it,
I miss it. Perverse. Perverse. Perverse."
Self-loathing is a perfect Hamletian
quality: is Ken piling it on now because he's about to film "To
be or not to be"? The tension on set is certainly palpable.
Ken is treated like a bomb about to blast: run for cover, leave
him to it. I find an empty room. A moment later, the door opens,
and he walks in. He is looking for a space, too. But he stays.
He asks, am I getting a good story? How is business? Am I happy?
He seems genuinely interested. I can't believe his cool, though
he admits he's nervous, in need of direction. But no one else
can help him now.
A little later, the cameras roll.
Poised before a mirror, Hamlet touches the dagger to his cheek.
His eyes are bright with the prospect of death. "For in
that sleep of death what dreams may come." He rolls on,
to: "Who would fardels bear?" It's a perfect first
take. Ken has only two lines to go. Then someone, somewhere,
waves some paper. It catches his eye. He falters. He stops. He
turns to the paper-waver. Directors have ripped the heads of
crew for lesser crimes. But this..."Would you mind not doing
that," he says, absurdly gently. "It puts me off."
("Losing your rag simply means losing piles of energy,"
he says later. "I can't afford that.")
"What the hell is a fardel?"
asks the producer, David Barron, as people breathe again.
"A carbuncle, a boil,"
says Cruttwell. Barron looks relieved, as if expecting something
Take eight is "excellent".
He's jumped the hoop.
20 May 1996, Shepperton Studios
Three months on, Ken's still
at Shepperton, up to his armpits in post-production. His baby's
so big that there were bound to be complications, and there's
no final delivery date. Possibly late summer. "Have you
got a month to spare for the screening?"
(It transpires later that he
delivered what he promised: blood-quickening action, delicate
drama and rib-tickling wit. And within budget. Early reviews
ranged from "captivating" to "clunky", but
most have been glowing.)
Yet in a sense he's already moved
on. In the autumn of 1996 Branagh knows he'll be playing a priest
in the 1930s-set Hollywood thriller Shakespeare's Sister,
a leading role which he admits is a "significant departure"
for him. After that he's down to star in the John Grisham-scripted
Gingerbread Man, directed by Robert Altman, who plans
a Night of the Hunter-type thriller.
How much does Ken want to be
a big (or bigger) Hollywood star? He's evasive. "Maybe audiences
will look at me and say 'bring back Tom Cruise'. I don't know.
I may not be acceptable. Perhaps my image is confined to Shakespeare.
We must see."
He claims he would miss his freedom,
that fame is not the spur. "The money appeals, because of
the films I could make with it. But the massive exposure...no,
that doesn't appeal."
American was always nicer to
him than nit-picking England. James B. Meigs, of Premiere
magazine, says Branagh's status in Hollywood is as "a genius
whose commercial viability is marginal after Frankenstein,
but who is regarded with enormous affection. He could be a big
star here. He hasn't tapped his comic potential, which could
For now, Ken glances back at
his earlier career, and finds that 35 was a turning point for
him. "One's own mortality becomes clear. I call it the Hamlet
syndrome." The film had been above all a spiritual journey.
"That was more important to me than its commercial success.
And yet, it is only a play. It is only a film. And it's only
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