Three witches prophesy nobler futures for a thane. The thane and his wife, covetous of that future, plot to murder their king to accelerate the royal destiny promised to them. They get their wish, and they also get their demise. This happens early on in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” the play, and in Joel Coen’s adaptation “The Tragedy of Macbeth”. King Duncan – the ill-fated monarch – never registers as a figure of any dramatic import. The real tensions in Macbeth are metaphysical and move beyond the initial regicide. We first hear of Macbeth, reportedly valiant and noble, before we see him; but that nobility is soon cast in doubt. Rather than tracing the rise and fall of a man, this story is really hyper-focused on the fall. And what a fall. Macbeth, by the end, is rendered pathetically ignoble; soliloquising for ghosts and emotionally checked out from reality. It’s a dramatic arc for the ages – a shift that depends on establishing how quickly things become unspooled. Done well, a good “Macbeth” finds its power in the swift sharpness of that unspooling. So why does Joel Coen’s film feel so stately and sedate?
Very early in “The Tragedy of Macbeth”, Macbeth and Banquo (both noblemen, and soldiers) meet three witches that predict glorious futures for the pair. The two men have recently fought valiantly for Scotland. Macbeth will be King one day, and Banquo will be the father of kings to come. The seeds of knowledge from the equivocating soothsayers will fascinate and then disrupt the lives of these two men, and those around them. Yet, despite an unnerving interpretation of the Witches (played to jarring effect by Kathryn Hunter) the film doesn’t treat this moment as anything striking or marvellous or unusual. We see Denzel Washington and Bertie Carvel emerge from the mist and stop in their tracks as they observe the supernatural beings before them. But the fact of that supernaturality, or the spectacular import of their words, seems muted and normal. It is as if their weirdness is expected rather than peculiar. Another day in the life of this barren Scotland.
The visual language of the moment reveals the aesthetic mood of Coen – everything here is suffused in bleakness, misty shadows and a foreboding sense of inevitability. The air is rife with desolation. A ditch separates the witches from the men. As the witches, clad in black robes, stand before them Bruno Delbonnel’s camera frames the moment with an eeriness that all but shrieks “beware”, although Banquo and Macbeth receive them in stride. A few moments after their prophecy, the witches disappear in mist and then re-emerge as squawking crows flying above. The men recoil from the birds, in the first moment of recognisable emotion on display in the movie. Yes, finally: a sense of these mystical creatures as something unsettling within this world. The moment is an outlier, though. It is the rare moment in “The Tragedy of Macbeth” where characters seem truly surprised by any occurrence. Everywhere else, each movement and utterance feels punctuated by the celebrated reputation of its source and each visual moment is communicated with a hallowed sanctity of something vaunted and valued. But the energy of the events in this “Macbeth” rarely feels shocking or challenging.
To be fair, Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” is more than 400 years old. How many of the people who are likely to see it when it begins streaming on Apple TV+ in early January would be ignorant of its plot? An audience’s familiarity is not a demerit for a story like this, though. Much of the spectators’ delight at any Macbeth is in its inevitability; we recognise the foreshadowing of doom long before the characters. The shock we feel at the machinations, which we know, is not that they happen but that the characters are so energetically committed to them. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth are certain that their murderous intentions are new, and original and wise. They do not consider those decisions inevitable and they do not see their downfall as likely either. Their decisions are meant to be ruptures in their imaginings of their fates. The characters might surrender to their gleeful lust for power. Even if we can see clearly how their aspirations are doomed, they must hope and believe the opposite. But, if character interpretations feel dictated by awareness of that inevitability, then their aspirations are punctured. And what kind of tragedy would any “Macbeth” be if the heinous acts that mark its propulsive descent into tragedy feel expectant and stale in that world?
As interpreted by Joel Coen, this “Macbeth” operates at an emotional remove from the internal lives of these characters, the implications of the world they live in, or the effects of their decisions on each other beyond the things already writ large. There is promise in seeing something familiar rendered again, particularly if that rendering explicates some particular point-of-view that establishes some opinion about this story, or this world, or these people. And it’s here where “The Tragedy of Macbeth” falters. Adaptations of literature work best as interpretative arguments for a position. Each new adapter, in taking an existing work and reinterpreting it in a new medium or a new way, is delivering their argument to us – their perception of the story. But any kind of thesis to clarify what relationship Joel Coen has with this material is too hazy. The most consistent strain of clarity is in the midst of Bruno Delbonnel’s photography which establishes itself as the element which best establishes a consistent point-of-view.
Like in “Inside Llewyn Davis”, where Delbonnel worked with both Joel and Ethan Coen, his explorations of the relationship between mist and dissolves affirm clear ideas of how a story can be shaped. Visually, this “Macbeth” is communicating specific things about the interplay between shadow and light and the bleakness of its Scotland that is positioned as empty even before the characters realise. The editing by Lucian Johnston and Reginald Jaynes emphasises that inevitability. And I understand and appreciate that visual acuity to tragedy. Delbonnel’s work, on its own, is marvellous and stirring. Sometimes it feels out of sync with everything else, but on its own it is consistently rewarding. But when it all comes together, with Coen’s emotional remove and actors that feel too noble and stoic for the muddy emotions of these characters, “The Tragedy of Macbeth” begins to feel too handsome for its own good.
As directed by Coen, the actors perform the heightened verse of the play in a whispery cadence that robs most of what they say of any urgency or propulsion or gravitas. Instead, they elocute with a pedigree that reminds us of their laurels, as if walking off the stage of the best elocution class at the best theatrical school somewhere. It feels important, but it does not feel real. It is only in rare moments that their speeches to (rather than with) each other suggest the mean, petty and ugly emotions underneath. Why does Macbeth want to be King? Do Lord and Lady Macbeth like each other? Does Banquo ever trust Macbeth? Does Malcolm mourn his father? Why does Macduff trust Malcolm? Things happen and then other things happen and then more things. And it’s presented in stately fashion, intimating a sanctity and prestige that reflect the commitment and production values but elides any nerve or emotion. Perhaps the point is that these characters are incredibly stoic about murder? But that doesn’t make for an engaging viewpoint into this story, at least not in this version.
In a world of stateliness, this “Macbeth” is best when focused on Alex Hassell as the enigmatic Ross or Kathryn Hunter as the unnerving Witches. In their eyes I can see characters who exist with thoughts about their actions that run beyond the excellent verses of Shakespeare (and credit to Coen here for reimagining both characters in clever ways). Whenever they appear, I recognise an excitement that was missing elsewhere: what would they do? How would they do it? Only in those moments does this tragedy feel surprising, or dangerous or nervy. Unsurprisingly, the best scene in the film is a moment they share. But that moment is reflective of the film’s own disconnect from itself, the scene itself does not serve to move anything forward. So, in the wake of the automated march to the inevitable elsewhere, everything feels weightless. Perhaps the anti-visceral approach could mean something beyond the staid. But then this seems too disconnected for these characters in this plot in this play.
Frances McDormand appears fifteen minutes into “The Tragedy of Macbeth” as Lady Macbeth. It’s our first scene indoors in the film; she stalks through an empty hallway reading a letter from her husband. In an intriguing design concept, the inside of all the buildings looks empty and barren. Pristine and immaculate and well-mounted but empty, which sums up “The Tragedy of Macbeth”: It looks great, but to what end?
