The words of Shakespeare from the medieval to the antique // Sounded natural in the mouth of Sir Lawrence // His delivery devoid of method or technique // Made the verb his own and among peers the difference...
Embracing every syllabus of the divine prose // Enrobing it with flesh and hypnotic eyes // Capturing the light with a grand gesture or a silent pose // That could find in sight and sound the most precious allies.
For even the thespian knew how limited the stage // And so was the attention of the common eye // To perceive the hidden treasures of Shakespeare's language // Such a challenge that the magic lantern could defy.
And proof it was, if proof was ever needed // That after his embodiment of Henry, Sir Lawrence // Again adapted and again succeeded // In making a second one that shone for its difference.
In dazzling colors and flamboyance, his "Henry the Fifth" // Raising the British flag over Agincourt's muddy glory // Had lifted in its darkest hours the British spirit // But his "Hamlet' was a whole other story...
The war over, the conscience examination of humanity // Torn between doubtful silences and existential hysterias // Pushed Olivier within human torments' vicinity // Plunging the audience in black, white and grayish areas...
Leaving with celluloid as indelible a mark // As the chef d'oeuvre left by Sir William Shakespeare // Through the tale of "Hamlet", Prince of Denmark // His rock-bottom became the peak of his career
And taking us back to the darkest corridors of Elsinore // Reviving Hamlet, Horatio, Ophelia, Polonius // In the year that predicted Nineteen Eighty-Four // Olivier pleaded guilty (again) of cinematic genius
His retelling of the most iconic of all vendettas // In noir tones and thousands shades of grey // Dwarfed every previous version to the size of operetta // A little closer to "Citizen Kane" than the original play
How could a man hold such a firm grip // On a lost soul in a constant drift? // Or on seasick ships in a tortuous guilt trip? // Govern the camera like his army The Fifth?
Hamlet was the study of a tragedy in the making // And the plot to confound the traitor that designed // The treacherous murder of the one and only king // And his lost son who couldn't make up his mind
Devoured by vengeance, his soul would know no rest // But suffering the Oedipal hatred invasion // Blamed the Queen who surrendered to incest // And made Frailty the name of female persuasion
As the man who wondered to be or to be not, // It was the true essence of acting into equation // And in all logic the psychological knot // Acting could outdo, then start the escalation
The tale was preceded by its gigantic popularity // And even the viewer loaded with the highest respect // Being most aware of its quotability // Wouldn't grant the lines their intended effect.
Even I was expecting a chuckle from a line, // About a certain rot in a certain state // But when deliveries with the flash of spontaneity shine // Even the smallest roles give words their weight
And so could I pinpoint with the camera obtrusion // In Patrick Throughton the devilish sparkle // Who's good enough an actor to channel the regal illusion // Of the treacherous king, Hamlet's uncle
Eileen Herlie who was to Hamlet's torture the maternal spine // A soul of guilty denial and maternal love blind // Through the look at the glass of poisoned wine // Conveyed redemption in the book I hadn't find
And with the wisdom of a soul tester // As bearded as overly ceremonious // With the comicality of a court jester // Felix Aylmer played the zealous Polonius
Father of Laertes incarnated by Terence Howard // Not the least of all these items of memorabilia // The young lad raised in the same place where flowered // The play's unsung heroine, the poor Ophelia
The girl whose madness inspired Millais and Rimbaud // To broken hearts and lost reasons the most vivid allegory // Letting her body carried by the river flow // To join the eternal dormitory
Jean Simmons diluted herself in every single breath // As the poor tormented soul who lost all controls // Her eyes at the instant between life and death // Foreshadowing the Yorick scene, became black little holes
Alas poor Rosencrantz and Guilderstein, the iconic duo // That must viewers knew and raised in anticipation // To viewers than purists having less to owe, // Olivier cut them out, of practical consideration
And so he did with Fortinbras, actors and tiny subplots // Bur Olivier, voice of God, ghost and the true Master // For the life Elsenore he had already brought // Knew it had to be played if not better a little faster
The play had no dullness in it but for the sake of spectacularity // Transcended the ghostly encounter and the iconic soliloquy // To the magic sword fight as the film's posterity // Depended on his acting, directing and cinematic ventriloquy
So, from the large royal court to the most confined room // From the long and gloomy corridors to the turbulent scenery // The Gothic mood conveying its anagram doom // And the whole psychological machinery
And even within the atmosphere of noir depression // Where you'd expect Olivier to play it gloomy and dark // His Hamlet in passion and joy he was capble to freshen // And swiftly tracing his own character's arc.
And so there were and would be many other Hamlets // But it was that unfairly forgotten creation // That took home a few golden statuettes // And its first best Picture from Shakespeare's nation
Now, brevity is the soul of the wit // And if you hold length in total abhorrence // To be the least witty reviewer I may admit // "Versatility, thy name is Laurence"
Embracing every syllabus of the divine prose // Enrobing it with flesh and hypnotic eyes // Capturing the light with a grand gesture or a silent pose // That could find in sight and sound the most precious allies.
For even the thespian knew how limited the stage // And so was the attention of the common eye // To perceive the hidden treasures of Shakespeare's language // Such a challenge that the magic lantern could defy.
And proof it was, if proof was ever needed // That after his embodiment of Henry, Sir Lawrence // Again adapted and again succeeded // In making a second one that shone for its difference.
In dazzling colors and flamboyance, his "Henry the Fifth" // Raising the British flag over Agincourt's muddy glory // Had lifted in its darkest hours the British spirit // But his "Hamlet' was a whole other story...
The war over, the conscience examination of humanity // Torn between doubtful silences and existential hysterias // Pushed Olivier within human torments' vicinity // Plunging the audience in black, white and grayish areas...
Leaving with celluloid as indelible a mark // As the chef d'oeuvre left by Sir William Shakespeare // Through the tale of "Hamlet", Prince of Denmark // His rock-bottom became the peak of his career
And taking us back to the darkest corridors of Elsinore // Reviving Hamlet, Horatio, Ophelia, Polonius // In the year that predicted Nineteen Eighty-Four // Olivier pleaded guilty (again) of cinematic genius
His retelling of the most iconic of all vendettas // In noir tones and thousands shades of grey // Dwarfed every previous version to the size of operetta // A little closer to "Citizen Kane" than the original play
How could a man hold such a firm grip // On a lost soul in a constant drift? // Or on seasick ships in a tortuous guilt trip? // Govern the camera like his army The Fifth?
Hamlet was the study of a tragedy in the making // And the plot to confound the traitor that designed // The treacherous murder of the one and only king // And his lost son who couldn't make up his mind
Devoured by vengeance, his soul would know no rest // But suffering the Oedipal hatred invasion // Blamed the Queen who surrendered to incest // And made Frailty the name of female persuasion
As the man who wondered to be or to be not, // It was the true essence of acting into equation // And in all logic the psychological knot // Acting could outdo, then start the escalation
The tale was preceded by its gigantic popularity // And even the viewer loaded with the highest respect // Being most aware of its quotability // Wouldn't grant the lines their intended effect.
Even I was expecting a chuckle from a line, // About a certain rot in a certain state // But when deliveries with the flash of spontaneity shine // Even the smallest roles give words their weight
And so could I pinpoint with the camera obtrusion // In Patrick Throughton the devilish sparkle // Who's good enough an actor to channel the regal illusion // Of the treacherous king, Hamlet's uncle
Eileen Herlie who was to Hamlet's torture the maternal spine // A soul of guilty denial and maternal love blind // Through the look at the glass of poisoned wine // Conveyed redemption in the book I hadn't find
And with the wisdom of a soul tester // As bearded as overly ceremonious // With the comicality of a court jester // Felix Aylmer played the zealous Polonius
Father of Laertes incarnated by Terence Howard // Not the least of all these items of memorabilia // The young lad raised in the same place where flowered // The play's unsung heroine, the poor Ophelia
The girl whose madness inspired Millais and Rimbaud // To broken hearts and lost reasons the most vivid allegory // Letting her body carried by the river flow // To join the eternal dormitory
Jean Simmons diluted herself in every single breath // As the poor tormented soul who lost all controls // Her eyes at the instant between life and death // Foreshadowing the Yorick scene, became black little holes
Alas poor Rosencrantz and Guilderstein, the iconic duo // That must viewers knew and raised in anticipation // To viewers than purists having less to owe, // Olivier cut them out, of practical consideration
And so he did with Fortinbras, actors and tiny subplots // Bur Olivier, voice of God, ghost and the true Master // For the life Elsenore he had already brought // Knew it had to be played if not better a little faster
The play had no dullness in it but for the sake of spectacularity // Transcended the ghostly encounter and the iconic soliloquy // To the magic sword fight as the film's posterity // Depended on his acting, directing and cinematic ventriloquy
So, from the large royal court to the most confined room // From the long and gloomy corridors to the turbulent scenery // The Gothic mood conveying its anagram doom // And the whole psychological machinery
And even within the atmosphere of noir depression // Where you'd expect Olivier to play it gloomy and dark // His Hamlet in passion and joy he was capble to freshen // And swiftly tracing his own character's arc.
And so there were and would be many other Hamlets // But it was that unfairly forgotten creation // That took home a few golden statuettes // And its first best Picture from Shakespeare's nation
Now, brevity is the soul of the wit // And if you hold length in total abhorrence // To be the least witty reviewer I may admit // "Versatility, thy name is Laurence"