Trouble remembering in which country Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers cross paths? Branagh’s panting paean to Fellini will sort you out. Stylish as a monochromatic Vogue spread, and as self-consciously Italian as Bruno Tonioli guzzling lasagne in a gondola, it’s not exactly a triumph of cultural nuance. Capulet is a sharp-suited mafia don who makes an affected entrance sipping espresso, the Prince is a fascist enforcer, al-fresco dining is interrupted by fiery gesticulation, and every loss is met with operatic wailing.
- @michaelhogan True - always happens. If he gets the thrills up again next ep, no one will care. This week's was a bit of a snooze 14 hours ago
- @michaelhogan Def joyless to take it to this extreme, tho arguably Mercurio's dramas - in contrast to those egs - a… twitter.com/i/web/status/1… 14 hours ago
- RT @pronounced_ing: “A certain kind of man not getting exactly what he wants, precisely when he wants it, will truly believe he’s suffering… 17 hours ago