Kenneth Branagh's four hour Hamlet is, I'm fairly confident, the longest film I've seen. It's that long because Branagh has made the interesting choice to film Shakespeare's entire text... every damn word. There's an element of bloody mindedness here on Branagh's part that's hard to deny, and it's easy to think that maybe Branagh was just hoping to claim a place for his film as the definitive interpretation. At the end of the day, though, I can't really complain. This is an extremely fine film, and the time (mostly) flies by.

I have to start with the visuals. Faced with the English language's linguistic highpoint, Branagh has clearly decided to pull out all stops to create a fitting on-screen counterpart. This version is updated to an approximately 19th century date, and the lavishly evocative sets have been photographed in crisp 70mm. The result is gorgeous, with the centrepiece being the huge mirrored hall at the centre of the royal court. This set must have been fiendishly difficult to shoot on, and there are numerous tricky moments in which Branagh turns his camera round without catching reflections. The result is a decidedly non-Gothic feel; you don't get the idea that Hamlet would have been okay if he'd just spent less time skulking in shadows. Branagh's direction is florid without being overly so: some visual pyrotechnics are needed to keep our attention, but Branagh doesn't fall into the trap of distraction.

It is the language that is at the centre, here, after all: it must be, in any version using full text. Branagh is perhaps not the strongest of the three filmed Hamlets I've seen, but then his job was more difficult. After all, without cutting the play it's impossible to smooth over the character's rough edges and make him more explicable - if Branagh falters, it's because of the extremely difficult contradictions inherent in the part. All the other major parts are perfectly done, with Derek Jacobi's dignified Claudius outdone only by Richard Brier's finely judged Polonius. Julie Christie and Kate Winslett get the difficult job of making Gertrude and Ophelia forces in the play, and both succeed. For once we even have a decent Horatio (Nicholas Farrell).

My only criticisms are relatively minor. The intermission is poorly placed, coming well into the play's fourth act: while some recess is necessary, at that point you'd almost rather just press on. The overblown emphasis given to the "What is a man" speech immediately before hand is one of the film's few embarrasing lapses: it's as if Branagh was afraid we wouldn't come back after the break. The other discordant note is the use of celebrity guests in minor parts. Charlton Heston makes a good Player King, and Billy Crystal - though somewhat incongruous - is a fair choice for the gravedigger. Jack Lemmon and Robin Williams, however, simply distract as Marcellus and Osric. I suppose these appearances helped to sell the film to financiers, though, so I won't complain too much. We don't get films this good often enough to risk any harsh words.

Also in small parts: Sir John Gielgud, Sir John Mills, Dame Judi Dench, Sir Richard Attenborough, and a few people without titles.

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For my review of the Laurence Oliver 1948 version click here.