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Having taken Shakespeare at his word on
Hamlet (i.e., not cutting a single syllable out of a very long play), Kenneth Branagh selects a more radical approach with
Love's Labour's Lost. Here the prolific director-star weeds out much of the play's dialogue and adds songs and dances of a decidedly modern bent. The King of Navarre (Alessandro Nivola, Nicolas Cage's wacko brother in
Face/Off) and his three comrades (Branagh, Matthew Lillard, Adrian Lester) take a vow: no womanly distractions while they pursue their studies. Ah, but at that very moment, floating down a magical studio-built river, is the queen of France (Alicia Silverstone), accompanied by three ladies-in-waiting. You do the math. Branagh has set the tale on the eve of the Second World War, which allows for the inclusion of vintage pop songs, including "Cheek to Cheek," "The Way You Look Tonight," and a rousing chorus of "There's No Business Like Show Business," led by--who else?--Nathan Lane. The fact that most of the cast members are not accomplished song-and-dance folk is clearly meant to charm, but the results are spotty at best. Perhaps the most dynamic performer is Natascha McElhone (memorable from
Ronin), whose aristocratic bearing and bottomless eyes lend a gravity to the material that is otherwise absent from Branagh's twinkly staging. The play contains some of Shakespeare's loveliest paeans to the language of love, yet Branagh seems to be in a hurry to juice everything up lest the audience lose interest. The labor shows.
--Robert Horton
Kenneth Branagh, who appears to be working his way through the "Collected Works of Shakespeare," has landed on the most buoyant of the early comedies. This tale of two camps-scholarly guys and demure dolls-meeting in a sylvan setting has been shifted to the nineteen-thirties, where a young king (Alessandro Nivola) goes clubbing with his flannel-suited friends (one of them played by Branagh himself) in order to enjoy a little peace before the onset of war. The historical conceit feels glumly theatrical; the film somehow sinks under the weight of a single idea, and the flat dun lighting is no help. The text has been chopped back and interspersed with musical interludes, during which the actors sing and dance to standards of the period ("Let's Face the Music and Dance," "Fancy Free," and so on). Apart from invoking the charm of the amateurish, there is not much to be said about these moments; at any rate, the ghost of Fred Astaire need have no fear. With Matthew Lillard, Adrian Lester, Natascha McElhone, and Alicia Silverstone, who bravely tackles the Shakespearean pentameter as if she were being asked to eat cactus. Pray you, do not laugh. -Anthony Lane
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker