“The play’s the thing.”

Indeed, it is, for ultimately it’s the tale itself that shines here. Stating the obvious, William Shakespeare sure knew how to tell stories. They endure, because of his remarkable insight into human nature—the triumphs and pitfalls of mankind. This film has merit, but I’ll wager it doesn’t feel half as exciting or relevant as it did to moviegoers in 1948. It was the first cinematic adaptation of Hamlet to incorporate sound and feature the iconic English verse, more or less, as the Bard had written it. Perhaps less, according to criticisms of the day. The severely truncated dialogue was controversial for many, including the likes of Ethel Barrymore, who wore her disdain out in the open, for all to see. She presented the Best Picture Oscar at the Academy’s ceremony that following year, and she was visibly shaken by the result. On stage, her brother John had delivered the definitive Hamlet for a generation. His legacy was being challenged by Laurence Olivier, heralded at the time as the greatest of all living actors.

I’ll admit this film is a bit of a slog for me, especially during the first half and compared to the thrilling Kenneth Branagh adaptation a half-century later, where great liberties were taken with period and setting, but at least the material was far more intact. In Olivier’s rendition, whole characters are excised, most notably Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Fortinbras. It’s dark and mysterious in tone, but somewhat lacking in energy overall. Despite a $2 million price tag, it feels at times like a low-budget Universal horror film, with its foggy castle, minimal sets, creepy lighting, and blaring music score.

Laurence Olivier as Hamlet and Eileen Herlie as Gertrude.

Things pick up considerably after the play within a play, when our Danish prince begins his outward descent into madness. Sir Laurence is at his best diving deep into the twisted humor and macabre playfulness of the role, rather than the brooding self-pity of a son mortally ruined and wronged by his own family. In addition to Olivier, a quartet of fine actors keeps me going. The lovely and touching, 19-year-old Jean Simmons as Ophelia, Eileen Herlie as Hamlet’s mother Gertrude, Basil Sydney as Claudius, and Felix Aylmer as Polonius each deliver solid, memorable characterizations. Upon its release, Herlie was a mere 30 years old while Olivier, playing her son, was 41—a bold move on his part when often it shows in closeups. He brings out the Oedipal aspects of their relationship as well by kissing his mother lovingly on her lips, more than once, while lingering a little too long for anyone’s comfort.

Another questionable interpretation of intent has to do with Osric, as played for laughs by a young Peter Cushing. Instead of an aristocratic courtier, his over-the-top performance is just shy of a sashaying drag queen. While Osric’s wealthier class represents everything Hamlet despises, their smug, cat-and-mouse interaction takes on a rather spiteful and ugly homophobic undercurrent as a result.

In the end, this is an effective film even if it comes off on occasion like a Reader’s Digest introduction to Hamlet. I have little doubt it was the much-needed escape that post-war audiences were craving back in 1948.

Hamlet