Writer-director Michael Radford drowns The Merchant of Venice in self-importance.
Like Luchino Visconti, Franco Zeffirelli identifies with women, but he doesn’t know how to tap into their souls, only their clothes.
The film is a tart, observant look at the seductiveness of revenge and its generally empty aftertaste.
The Lion King is loaded with hoary bibilical references (rays of light, burning bushes) and Shakespearean shout-outs, but that’s all they are.
Every sound, line of dialogue, and cloying musical number comes through loud and clear.
More tragic than the uneven mix of jokes and schlock is the brevity of Jeremy Irons’s cameo role.