- but there's one glaring fail which undermines the entire film, and that is the casting of the critical role of Orson Welles.
Secondary is the tempo of the film, but I'll get to that.
Welles at 20 was audacious. He was fearless. He was also already six feet tall but bore the self-assured mien of a man of TEN feet of height, towering over all those around him and possessing that quality and presence which sparked electricity wherever he went.
This was a man who had been exposed to all the best the world had to offer from early childhood, who had journeyed through the Caribbean and Far East before pubescence, who - orphaned, took off for Europe on his own, lying his way into the Gate Theatre in Dublin at 16 as a "star" of Broadway and taking to that stage, and then performing at the legendary Abbey Theatre at 17 - in his teens, was already confident, seasoned and far larger than life. As is born out in the writings of, among others - Micheál Mac Liammóir - his jousting Irish friend and sometimes hired hand who knew Welles from age 16 to the end.
And from recordings of the time: Welles already had THAT voice. That cultured, deep baritone and possessed of the fine articulation which was so distinctive there was no mistaking it, even then.
Unfortunately, Jewell Wilson Bridges' performance is so distractingly wrong for those who know the corpus, mind and character of Welles, that the film fails on this basis alone. It's not that Bridges isn't a fine actor; like nearly the entire cast, he is. But with the exception of Daniel Kuhlman's excellent John Houseman, Inger Tudor, Wrekless Watson and precious few others, this cast lacks connection, electricity or true presence. The acting is always a reminder of theoretical, academic technique, and rarely of actors inhabiting the very lives of those they play, of cutting through to the very heart of the human beings the characters ARE, whether playing the famed or the unknown.
It's a seemingly noble effort and perhaps even a labor of love, but one very difficult to become engaged in - Bridges' tenor and lack of resonance constantly remove the viewer from the story. And this IS an incredibly important story to tell. The script is cliché where Welles was always an intellectual surprise; it could have used quite a few more rewrites and a fresh pair of eyes, as well as a more novel approach to telling the tale. The direction is limp, with mind-numbing pauses rather than natural responses constantly calling to mind soap opera presentation. Stylistically, the film had no idea what it was - it felt very much like the proverbial camel created by a committee.
But - ENERGY. DRIVE. TEMPO. The story and film both cried out for more. Some. ANY. The production of the play itself - in the brief recreations - needed DANGER - and had none.
I kept wishing "Voodoo Macbeth" had been TIGHTENED up - the direction could and should have done so. The tension is so absent you CAN'T cut it with a feather. The film drags, lolls - and the apex, the CLIMAX of the story is so little distinguished from that which precedes and follows it that it feels as though we haven't been on any sort of journey, nor have been engaged in any experience. This 1936 WPA production WAS a triumph of theatre, of invention - and of genius. It summed up the greatness of the VERY young Welles' mind to date, and of his experience in, and clear-cut brilliance in CREATING theatre.
Unfortunately, Voodoo Macbeth does no justice to this historic event. As such, I found that it's of little to no interest even to the niche of theatre historians and Wellesians who - sadly, will still yearn for this tale to be told.
When Bridges' blackface Macbeth intones that great speech with no connection to the portentousness of the content, the effect was unfortunately laughable.
And for anyone who's seen Welles' actual Macbeth - the film he created only 12 years after the "Voodoo Macbeth" for the WPA, well - let's just be kind and say that Bridges' reading of THAT speech in this film, face corked up and mind disconnected - doesn't compare favorably to Welles' own memorable, moving one.
The terrible irony is that my mind could NOT expunge THAT speech - which hit me full force at about the 20 minute point and then eventually appeared in the film itself 45 minutes later. A simple yet ironically appropriate speech from the play which summed up this film itself for me:
"...a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
