Cleopatra. (U.)
1963. Directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz.
Starring Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, Rex Harrison, Martin Landau, Roddy McDowell and Hume Cronym. 243 mins
In Cleopatra strange, exotic creatures from a distant age, whose rituals and beliefs seem almost incomprehensible to our 21st Century sensibilities, go about shaping the world in their images. Taylor, and Burton, what were they like?
Cleopatra is not cinema’s greatest folly because it took two years to make, cost $44 million 50 years ago, nearly bankrupted 20th Century Fox and runs over four hours, but because this epic cinematic spectacle is totally beholden to the tinny little traditions of British classical theatre. You expect a visual extravaganza and though you get little burst of exterior action, most of the film is talking heads, long unbroken dialogue scenes often over five minutes long, between two or three people in rooms. Very nicely done up rooms mind.
Director Mankiewicz rattled out the script in his room every evening after shooting and it sounds like the studio suits had instructed him to “write it classy, like that Shakespeare guy, but, you know, in modern.” It is full of put downs and epigrams that bear a close resemblance to wit and insight but come across as arch and empty when enounced perfectly in these great halls.
It is like watching a minor Noel Coward play in which every half or so the entire audience is ushered outside to watch a brief snippet of a passing procession. Even the lavish spectacle is oddly stiff and British. Cleopatra’s grand entry to Rome resembles the Rio carnival as regulated by Westminster Council.
It’s all fiercely undramatic. They talk and talk but overlook important plot points, many of which happen off screen. All of this should make for a turgid four hours but the films retains its allure largely because these old stars really knew how to hold a stage. Like the film of Grease everybody seems at least a decade too old for their roles especially Harrison as Caesar. Harrison is the master of let-the-role-come-to-you school of acting and his delivery is exactly the same whether he is addressing Roman legions or talking to the animals, and talking through the songs, in Doctor Doolittle, but his Julius Caesar electrifies the first half.
You dread mention of the Ides of March because you fear what the second half will be like without him but after the intermission Burton’s Marc Anthony takes up his reign very effectively. Prophetically he plays him as a sweaty, boozehound, roaring boy, forever swigging from his chalice, brought low by a woman. Caked in garish blue eye shadow, Taylor looks more Queen of the Vic than the Nile but even she comes through strong. After four and half hours I stumbled out into the night glad to be free, certain that I’d never do it again but cherishing the experience.
1963. Directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz.
Starring Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, Rex Harrison, Martin Landau, Roddy McDowell and Hume Cronym. 243 mins
In Cleopatra strange, exotic creatures from a distant age, whose rituals and beliefs seem almost incomprehensible to our 21st Century sensibilities, go about shaping the world in their images. Taylor, and Burton, what were they like?
Cleopatra is not cinema’s greatest folly because it took two years to make, cost $44 million 50 years ago, nearly bankrupted 20th Century Fox and runs over four hours, but because this epic cinematic spectacle is totally beholden to the tinny little traditions of British classical theatre. You expect a visual extravaganza and though you get little burst of exterior action, most of the film is talking heads, long unbroken dialogue scenes often over five minutes long, between two or three people in rooms. Very nicely done up rooms mind.
Director Mankiewicz rattled out the script in his room every evening after shooting and it sounds like the studio suits had instructed him to “write it classy, like that Shakespeare guy, but, you know, in modern.” It is full of put downs and epigrams that bear a close resemblance to wit and insight but come across as arch and empty when enounced perfectly in these great halls.
It is like watching a minor Noel Coward play in which every half or so the entire audience is ushered outside to watch a brief snippet of a passing procession. Even the lavish spectacle is oddly stiff and British. Cleopatra’s grand entry to Rome resembles the Rio carnival as regulated by Westminster Council.
It’s all fiercely undramatic. They talk and talk but overlook important plot points, many of which happen off screen. All of this should make for a turgid four hours but the films retains its allure largely because these old stars really knew how to hold a stage. Like the film of Grease everybody seems at least a decade too old for their roles especially Harrison as Caesar. Harrison is the master of let-the-role-come-to-you school of acting and his delivery is exactly the same whether he is addressing Roman legions or talking to the animals, and talking through the songs, in Doctor Doolittle, but his Julius Caesar electrifies the first half.
You dread mention of the Ides of March because you fear what the second half will be like without him but after the intermission Burton’s Marc Anthony takes up his reign very effectively. Prophetically he plays him as a sweaty, boozehound, roaring boy, forever swigging from his chalice, brought low by a woman. Caked in garish blue eye shadow, Taylor looks more Queen of the Vic than the Nile but even she comes through strong. After four and half hours I stumbled out into the night glad to be free, certain that I’d never do it again but cherishing the experience.
