Although early in the film adaptation of Kenneth Branagh's Henry V, Derek Jacobi implores that we try to "think" when the players talk about Agincourt, that we "see" the commotion (Prologue. 27), we quickly realize that there is no need to pretend. Surrounded on all sides by sleeping soldiers, a masked figure crouches near the warmth of a dying fire, while moonbeams illuminate a half-covered but familiar face in the silent darkness. This character is Henry V, and this moment in the film most certainly does justice to his written counterpart: we hear the "creeping murmur filling the vast vessel of the universe" (4.1.2) through the haunting hum of the violins, and feel “porous darkness” (4.1.2) envelops us as the fire diminishes on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt. Indeed, what Shakespeare wrote unfolds before us, perhaps more clearly and more authentically than the playwright himself could ever have imagined. The magic of the film lies in its ability to make Shakespeare's words authentic and fill them with a story of tears, breath and blood. The film exposes the private secrets of a story that, at first glance, appears to be what Stephen Greenblatt calls "a celebration of charismatic leadership and martial heroism" (223). Branagh's portrayal fascinates by effortlessly showcasing a power to transcend the obvious, examining delicate and intimate moments with the king and other monarchs, elucidating discreet truths about Henry that might otherwise escape readers occasional. There are, for attentive readers, powerful moments in the text that illuminate an area of ​​negative space, revealing a fundamental paradox in Henry's character and delineating the dichotomy of spirit inherent in kingship. Branagh's interpretation proves his attachment to these moments by seeking to unmask Henry, to reach his innermost content and the essential landscape of his existence as a man and a monarch. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay In Act IV, Henry mingles with his troops on the eve of battle and, in a heated debate with one soldier in particular, discovers the near absurdity of his role as King of England. In Shakespeare's version, Michael Williams tells him that "if these men die not well, it will be a black affair to the king who led them thither" (IV.i.148-150). Henry responds by insisting that a king “is not bound to respond to the particular ends of his soldiers” (IV.i.159-60) with a quickness and resentment that suggests frustration. The film, however, fosters in us an appreciation of the painful anxiety he experiences in taking responsibility for its subject's life, as well as his painful acceptance that he is as powerful and influential as a god , but that he is still only a man. On the king! Let our lives, our souls, our debts, our prudent wives, our children and our sins rest on the King! We have to endure everything. O harsh condition, Gemini born of greatness, subject to the breath of every fool whose senses can no longer feel anything but his own twists. What infinite ease of heart must kings neglect that private men enjoy? …O be sick, great greatness. (IV. i. 238-245) Branagh brilliantly captures Henry's anxiety: tears shine in his eyes, and we hear the aggravation and unease with which he proclaims: "Every subject's soul is his own » (IV. i. 183). In disguise he is both a king and a commoner, and with subjects sleeping on either side of him he is both incompany, but alone enough to speak as if no one could hear him. This scene is the first clear articulation of an irony intended by Shakespeare, but which Branagh's film makes real. As Henry seeks within himself to reconcile the dual nature of his being, we realize how the play comments on the disturbing fusion of spirit and matter in human beings in general, and the confrontation between the surface and the substrate which is intrinsic to the kings of the time. particular. Although “in his nudity he appears only a man” (IV.i.107), the king learns that he was “born a twin”; he bears the obligations of a king, but he is “subject” to the same “breath” as those who benefit from his protection. Indeed, what a “difficult condition” to be both royal and mortal. In the second scene of Act V, after England has defeated France, the plot reveals very suddenly, if not arbitrarily, that he is in love with Princess Katherine of France. Henry's romantic determinations are an even more striking example of this paradox. If the "witchcraft" lay in the kiss of Katherine's lips, then the same can be said of Henry's courtly techniques (V.ii.287), a fact made evident by his "true English" statement that he love him, calling his voice. under the name of “music”. The tenacity with which he courts her reveals his intention to conquer her just as he did his country. Where in Act IV he strove to harmoniously lead the two parts of himself (the man and the king), in Act V he strove to detach them, to know the limits of his duties of conqueror and lover: But by loving me, you should love the friend of France, because I love France so well that I will not part with a village from it. I will have everything to myself. And Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then France is yours and you are mine. (V.ii.179-85, emphasis added) The irony is further revealed when he admits to loving her “cruelly” (V.ii.211). His use of the word cruel (which conjures up images of indifference, harshness, and lack of compassion), his inappropriate and transactional language, and his assertion that he loves her "really-fake" (Vi234) show that he is unable to separate the feelings he feels about the conquest of France from those he feels for his princess. Even in circumstances of tender intimacy, Henry struggles with himself to let go of his royal instincts. Katherine's facial expressions on film show her displeasure with Henry's attitude. His voice is devoid of the smiles and lightness you might expect after a proposal. Even his kiss is that of someone conquered, subordinate. He will have “everything”. Henry's romantic and erotic aspirations are not spared from the persistent difficulty of belonging to a king "born a twin." Furthermore, when Katherine tells Henry that their marriage "will please the king", her father, we begin to understand that she too must reckon with conflicting lives. Woman and princess, she too must negotiate a space between personal needs and family expectations. When at the very end, she and Henry raise their hands in celebration of a newly unified nation, we see in her eyes the same death and discontent that we saw earlier in the scene; part of her is far from thrilled to marry the man responsible for the deaths of her compatriots, but the other part knows what she must do. This scene shows the tragedy of two characters lost in themselves; Katherine and Henry have two minds, but one body. The tragedy of Shakespeare's Henry V and Branagh's Henry V lies in their tendency to hesitate. Sometimes simple, sometimes invisible, both manifest and elusive, they function like, 2005.