The film’s the thing. But, for a motion-picture celebrity, nothing
confers the prestige that a theatrical engagement does: it’s “live,”
it’s “dangerous,” there’s “nowhere to hide.” To be—or merely to be
screened: that is the question. Daniel Day-Lewis, one of
Hollywood’s fashionable contingent of rangey Anglo-Celts, opted for
Hamlet at Britain’s National Theatre and awakened so many long
dormant feelings about his own father, the poet C. Day-Lewis, that he
had a nervous breakdown. Moreover, the very fact of his nervous
breakdown—which is mostly what anyone remembers about his Hamlet
—is
seen as a triumphant vindication of his decision to take the role: he
confronted his demons! live on stage!—and you can’t do that in Look
Who’s Talking, Too. Keanu Reeves emerged less scathed from his
Hamlet but still with his status considerably enhanced: he was
just some hugely wealthy Hollywood beefcake until he did Shakespeare
… for Equity-minimum peanuts … in Winnipeg. Is Winnipeg a
competitive market for Hamlets? No matter. Even as I write, yet
another celluloid hunk is probably planning to do Hamlet in a hamlet.

In London, the latest Hamlet opened the same week as the film
Disclosure: Demi Moore got better notices just for turning up at
the first night of the Shakespeare in the East End
than she did for her leading role in the movie. It’s all so
democratic: stars whose agents routinely demand on their behalf top
billing and executive-producer credit are suddenly happy to