There’s a little bit of Hammer horror in Julie Taymor’s messy but thrilling adaptation of Shakespeare’s last play, and there’s more than a little turning-of-the-tables, all of which brings a new perspective on the play, and a new appreciation for it, which is the best we can ask for the umpteenth adaptation of a centuries-old work.
In response to something I posted recently about “the female gaze,” I got an email from a male reader who appeared to believe that “the female gaze” refers to “movies women like to watch.” It doesn’t. Not even close. But his email got my thinking that perhaps I need to explain what “the female gaze” … more…
John Keats is the intruder into the story of Fanny Brawne, and if you didn’t already know that he turned out to be the renowed poet and she turned out to be ‘merely’ the young woman who loved him, and was loved by him, and inspired some of his greatest poetry, you might be forgiven for assuming that she’s the one who surely washed up legendary years later, for how the film defies the convention of lavishing its focus not on him as the de facto presumptive natural center of attention, but on her.
I wanted to like this, because it’s British and costume-y and 1920s and 30s and I’m a complete sucker for all that jazz. And I just can’t.