Maybe, maybe a smart move, but don’t forget that the “maybe” is in capitals.

McCarthy is not around, let’s say, the best circle. Which also isn’t an excuse for the director Claire McCarthy to print something so sloppy as this version. The version has the source William Shakespeare, the endless mine that everyone digs gleefully. How rich has his world to be, that a fortune is spent every time in every good or bad possible way and yet not a dime rusts by. The literature belittles the feature more, since it comes with a guarantee card of working for nine out of ten times. And oh! to walk over that one line. The film takes part as much as the titled character does in this tale.

For the most part of it, it is fabricated as a point of view of a spectator and so there is another wall between us and the real drama including the screen. And then when it takes part, the narrative shifts from third person storytelling to first person. Now, the makers ask us to be moved or touched by the gesture or actions that merits only in that very frame but wishes to carry the weight of all the characters and all their tracks and all the elements gifted to us, by then.

It is bound to break its backbone, as the sheer pressure extracts the malleability from the posture, and as a result you won’t be able to stand this debacle. In fact, I would blame the performance too. Yes, Naomi Watts has to cloak in for a blaming game, but the fingers are pointed to no one and the real tears, dry. Clive Owen feels like a tourist and cries to rule the home, while Ophelia played by Daisy Ridley, the heart of the politics, remains more like meant-to-be the heart of the politics.

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