Prospero's Books

Stars: Sir John Gielgud (Arthur, Brideshead Revisited, Gandhi), Isabelle Pasco . Although Peter Greenaway has directed some of the most interesting films of recent years (A Zed and Two Noughts, Belly of an Architect, and The Cook, The Thief, Her Wife, and His Lover), he misses the boat entirely in this bloated version of Shakespeare's final play "The Tempest." Cast adrift on a deserted isle, deposed duke Prospero has practiced his magic, raised his daughter Miranda, and bided his time. When the brother who usurped his throne sails nearby, Prospero works his magic to capsize the vessel, and make the principals wash ashore (this is communicated in the movie by a young boy urinating onto a model ship). While fairly faithful to the text of the play, Greenaway has totally trashed it in most other respects--including some that make no sense. For example, although there are several speaking parts in the play, Gielgud intones (solo or with another actor) almost all of the dialogue, both men and women's parts. If you think this might cause a little confusion, you're absolutely correct (we re-read the entire play just prior to watching the film, and still got lost in parts). Other than this, the film has attracted a lot of attention because of its extensive nudity (apparently, the dozens of naked people--some of whom certainly appear to be under age--who walk on and off the stage carrying things are "sprites"). While Bruce Williamson of Playboy lauded this as "erotic," there's nothing remotely erotic about a bunch of naked people walking around--it's just boring. Prospero's Books, to its credit (its only credit), features some remarkable cinematography. Greenaway's use of digital picture-in-picture shots, as well as multi-layered shots are often quite striking. And the animations for the actual books (accompanied by pretentious dialogue not found in Shakespeare) are by turns, gorgeous, grotesque, and mystifying. Often visually brilliant, Prospero's Books is, nevertheless, a dramatic dud of egotistical proportions, which doesn't reflect badly on the Bard--since the actual play is the least of Greenaway's concerns. Audience: Artsy-fartsy types who may even convince themselves they've actually seen something here, when behind the smoke and mirrors, Prospero's Books is more insubstantial than Ariel, himself.