Hoy tengo un ataque Shakespeariano.
Si quieren ver la peli, un "must" es la de Sir Lawrence Olivier.
Si les interesa algo más nuevo: la de Kenneth Branagh no se la pueden perder. Sigue la obra al pie de la letra. Los actores están geniales. Yo la vi en el cine y no les puedo explicar la emoción. Estén atentos a conseguir la versión completa, porque en video sacaron una versión editada que dura mucho menos.
En realidad, si tenemos que hablar de Shakespeare y el cine, para mí Branagh y Olivier son los que hicieron las mejores versiones.
"I will tell why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late --but wherefore I know not-- lost all mirth, forgone all custom of excercises; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire --why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so"
(Act II - scene ii)
"To be, or not to be --that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? --To die -- to sleep --
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to; 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die -- to sleep --
To sleep! perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppresor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of déspised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who woul fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death --
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns -- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Sot you now!
The fair Ophelia!
Nimph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered"
(Act III - scene i)
"I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?
[...]
'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do.
Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't tear thyself?
Woo't drink up eisel? Eat a crocodile?
I'll do't. - Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I.
And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, and thou'tl mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou."
(Act V - scene i)
