Henry V on Film:
Olivier vs. Branagh

Both Laurence Olivier’s (1944) and Kenneth Branagh’s (1989) adaptations of William Shakespeare’s Henry V present radically contested notions of national identity, selectively emphasising and suppressing aspects of the original text in an effort to further explicitly ideological and propagandistic motives. As a patriotic hymn to “Englishness”, Olivier’s wartime epic seeks to glorify an “official” version of the play, presenting King Henry’s military victories at Harfleur and Agincourt as prefiguring Britain’s eventual victories at the Normandy landings. By contrast, Branagh’s film (inflected by post-war critiques and anti-war productions) explicitly rejects such chauvinistic and patriotic readings of the play, in an attempt to foreground the Machiavellian aspects of Henry’s character, and question the justness of England’s invasion of France. Stylistically, Olivier’s film emphasises artificiality over realism, glamorising the English war effort as a vivid technicolour allegory through carefully omitting the play’s more problematic explorations of war and nationalism. In conscious opposition to this, Branagh’s film offers a far more realistic worldview which fully confronts the play’s inherent complexities and troubling ambiguities, as well as the universal barbarity of war. Whereas Olivier deliberately presents the French King and his court as figures of ridicule who are rightly defeated by a divinely sanctioned English army, Branagh appropriately registers the tragic aspect of the French characters, forcing viewers to reconsider the French sympathetically as victims of aggressive English imperialism. Sir Laurence Olivier’s hegemonic status as the modern-day embodiment of “Englishness” also inevitably affects his presentation of other “British” identities on screen, relegating the Scottish, Irish, and Welsh Captains to mere comic stereotypes. On the other hand, Branagh’s dual status as both a working-class Northern Irish outsider and heir apparent to Olivier leads him to adopt a more nuanced perspective, presenting figures such as the Welshman Fluellen with true moral integrity. Ultimately, both films stand as a testament to Shakespeare’s famed ‘Negative Capability’; that is, his ability to present various national identities in a balanced and sympathetic manner, without lapsing into either narrow-minded jingoism or weary post-war cynicism.

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The presentation of English national identity in Henry V, as embodied by the play’s quasi-mythological protagonist, has been the subject of much critical debate. Whereas some critics read the play as the “official” consolidation of the ‘Elizabethan world picture’, leading to the ‘establishment of civil peace under the Tudors’, revisionist critics such as Gerald Gould (and later Alan Sinfield) instead reinterpret the play as a ‘satire on monarchical government, on imperialism, on the baser kinds of “patriotism”, and on war’. Norman Rabkin has consolidated the play’s ‘problem of meaning’ through reference to the famous “Rabbit-Duck” illusion, in which one can see either an illustration of a “Rabbit” (corresponding to the “official” version of the play, which depicts Henry as ‘the mirror of all Christian kings’ through waging a just war against the arrogant French) or a “Duck” (signifying the “secret” version, depicting Henry as a Machiavellian “war criminal”). Having appeared in various propagandistic wartime films including That Hamilton Woman (1941) and 49th Parallel (1941), Olivier was similarly commissioned by the Ministry of Information to produce Henry V ‘to enhance the British cause’ and boost public morale. Given this, it is not surprising that his depiction of Henry (and the English more generally), conforms to the “Rabbit” interpretation of the play. In order to present Henry as the ideal embodiment of “Englishness”, Olivier relies upon the cultural capital and nationalist appeal of Shakespeare, as well as his own place in an uninterrupted English dramatical tradition, originating with Richard Burbage. Indeed, Olivier introduces the viewer to Henry as a player-king, a thoroughly externalised ‘pageant figure’ who practically exudes charm, eloquence, and an air of self-assurance and moral superiority (as shown through the nonchalant tossing of his crown after having declared war on France). Yet, to present Henry as a noble leader of a morally blameless nation, Olivier is forced to selectively omit certain “Duck-like” aspects of his character which could contradict his otherwise unsullied portrait of the ‘star of England’ (HV, Epilogue. 6). Thus in Olivier’s radically condensed screenplay (which contains only half the lines in the Folio text), there is no suggestion of conspiracy or treachery within the English ranks (HV, II. 2. 12–194); nor is Henry’s callous execution of his childhood friend Bardolph included. Olivier also refuses to include Henry’s savage threats to ‘[d]efile the locks of […] shrill-shrieking daughters’ and have ‘naked infants spitted upon pikes’ (HV, III. 3. 35–38) at the siege of Harfleur, as well as omitting Henry’s most contentious action in the play: the order to ‘cut the throats’ (HV, IV. 7. 62) of the French prisoners. By retaining Henry’s positive characteristics, including his decision instead to ‘[u]se mercy to them all’ (HV, III. 3. 54) at Harfleur, and the ‘pardon[ing]’ of the drunkard who ‘railed against’ him (HV, II. 2. 41–43), Olivier can paint a morally untarnished, yet psychologically shallow, portrait of an ideal English king.

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Olivier’s film, which was ‘preserved like a Grade One listed monument in the post-war cultural patrimony of Britain’, left an indelible mark on late twentieth-century performances of the play, such that all later adaptations were forced to either conform to, or rebel against, the nationalistic paradigms it established. Branagh’s 1989 film (drawing upon Adrian Noble’s 1984 RSC production) sets itself in conscious opposition to its filmic predecessor, most notably in its nuanced depiction of Henry’s moral character, thus exploring both the “Rabbit” and the “Duck” gestalts of Shakespeare’s original text ‘as fully as possible’. Whilst acknowledging that Olivier was obliged to ignore the ‘violence and extremism of Henry’s behaviour’ in his wartime film, Branagh admitted that his ‘post-war sensibilities’ would force him to view such omissions with ‘suspicion’. In contrast to Olivier’s more fully-fledged, extroverted player-king, Branagh introduces his Henry as a ‘solitary, pensive boy’ (Bran, p. 7, emphasis mine) with ‘more than a little of the Hamlet in him’ (Bran, p. xiv), seated on a glaringly oversized throne (see Fig. 1). Branagh thus establishes his film as a self-critical bildungsroman, which will stage the various ‘public trials of strength […] provided for the King’ (Bran, p. 53) whilst highlighting the intensely personal costs of kingship and military exploits. For example, Branagh makes clear that Henry must hang Bardolph in order to resist any accusations of ‘favouritism or sentiment’ yet acknowledges the ‘cost to the King [as being] enormous’ (Bran, p. 53). Indeed, Branagh’s close-up of the King’s tear-stained cheeks presents a monarch painfully torn between the personal and the political. In a far more impassioned tone than Olivier, Branagh’s ‘Upon the king’ soliloquy (HV, IV. 1. 227–302) is spoken with true desperation and uncertainty ‘because of the terrible certainty’ with which Michael Williams’s challenges the King and his militarism (HV, IV. 1. 134–200). Moreover, Branagh deliberately reinstates many of the aforementioned scenes cut by Olivier, in order to add realism and complexity to his characterisation of Henry: for example, the King’s Machiavellian instincts are highlighted through his skilful coercion of Scroop, Cambridge, and Grey, while the brutal threats at Harfleur are delivered against a backdrop of fire and explosions as if echoed from the ‘vasty jaws’ (HV, II. 4. 105) of hell (see Fig. 2). However, Branagh also omits any mention of Henry’s order to kill the French prisoners; one may venture to argue that such a controversial action would render even this most ‘amiable monster’ beyond the sympathy of a modern British audience.

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The cinematic depictions of war in both Olivier’s and Branagh’s films highlight their contrasting presentations of English national identity, yet ultimately both directors fall prey to a glorification of war through an emphasis on rugged individualism and a clichéd invocation of the underdog “triumphing-against-the-odds”. As Gorman Beauchamp makes clear, the ‘myth of Henry V as blameless hero and of Henry V as a patriotic paean to righteous militarism’ fundamentally ‘depends on the war […] having a moral legitimatization’. Despite retaining the Archbishop of Canterbury’s convoluted ‘Salique law’ speech (HV, I. 2. 33–95), Olivier presents this scene as a farcical double-act, with Felix Aylmer’s “straight man” Canterbury playing alongside Robert Helpmann’s incompetent Bishop of Ely, prompting ‘roars [of] laughter’ from the audience. Understandably, Olivier was keen to distract viewers away from Henry’s specious claim for France, since any mention of a less than noble motivation for foreign invasion would have proved disastrous for a wartime public. By contrast, Branagh’s post-Vietnam and Falklands perspective leads him to be wary of the play’s impulsive foreign exploits, and thus foregrounds the political elements of the first act. Branagh presents the discussion between the clerics in dimly-lit candlelight, which cast ‘sinister silhouette[s]’ (Bran, p. 2), thereby establishing a ‘conspiratorial political mood’ underlying their apparently ‘spiritual’ (Bran, p. 3) motivations. By thus calling into question Henry’s ‘claim’ (HV. I. 1. 96) to the French throne, Branagh implicitly condemns the invasion as an imperialist quest for power and land, rather than a merely patriotic ‘Boy’s Own adventure’ (Bran, p. xiv).

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In their presentations of the battles at Harfleur and Agincourt, Olivier’s vibrant pageant of colour and ceremonial pomp contrasts starkly with Branagh’s gritty realism. In keeping with the film’s general “fairy-tale” aesthetic, Olivier’s battle scenes resist realism in favour of allegory, taking the form of finely-wrought paintings or tapestries (such as those depicted in Paolo Uccello’s The Battle of San Romano (see Figs. 3 and 4)). Thus, most of the gruesome realities of war (including almost all ‘bloody gashes’) are omitted, in favour of emphasising the harmoniously ‘formal elements and patterns of the battle’, thus giving a consolingly providential account of England’s inevitable victory. The only depiction of blood in the entire battle of Agincourt is shown on the face of one of the murdered luggage boys inside a burning tent (see Fig. 5), which would, for a wartime audience, inevitably evoke comparisons with the Nazis’ contemporary atrocities, which were also actions ‘expressly against the law of arms’ (HV, IV. 7. 1). Thus, Olivier clearly frames the battle in propagandistic terms as an ancient parallel to the present-day Normandy landings. Here, the English underdogs, filmed from above to present them as outnumbered and ‘enfeebled’ (HV. III. 6. 144; see Fig. 6), defeat the unchivalrous, morally evil enemy through sheer determination and will. By contrast, Branagh’s presentation of both Harfleur and Agincourt rejects the ‘Elizabethean pageantry and […] chivalric splendour’ (Bran, p. xiii) of Olivier’s film through an unremitting focus on the ‘sensational brutality’ of war itself. Influenced by harrowing filmic depictions of the wars in Vietnam and the Falklands, as well as Orson Welles’s Chimes at Midnight (1965), Branagh’s directorial aims were explicitly anti-war in intent: he ‘wanted to reveal as much of the devastation as possible’. As Peter S. Donaldson has argued, whereas Olivier mythologised and sanitised his presentation of war, Branagh ‘resists […] [such] recourse to the transcendent’ through an unflinching focus on the sheer physicality of battle. This is conveyed through slow-motion, close-up shots of the ‘densely physical struggle’, emphasising ‘the painful effort […] of hand-to-hand combat’ and effectively visualising Williams’s horrifying image of ‘legs and arms and heads […] chopped off in a battle’ (HV, IV. 1. 135–36; see Fig. 7). However, in the concluding four-minute tracking shot, Branagh carefully manipulates the viewer’s sympathies for the English, chiefly through Adrian Doyle’s swelling (yet ambiguous) “Non Nobis” choral score. In this shot, Branagh elevates and aestheticises both the English “victory-against-all-odds” trope, and the heroic individualism of Henry – even as he ‘drops [his head] […] in shame’ (Bran, p. 97; see Fig. 8) – as a segue into the comedy of the final act (much like Olivier’s final panoramic shot of the ‘Field of the Dead’ (Oliv, p. 76; see Fig. 9)). Despite Branagh’s explicitly anti-war intentions, the film ultimately cannot resist this final lapse into jubilant English nationalism; thus, as James Loehlin has usefully framed it: ‘Branagh’s Henry V is the “official” version of the play disguised as the “secret” one’.

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Crucial to Olivier and Branagh’s differing presentation of English national identity is their contrast to the French King and his court. Whereas Olivier ridicules the French characters as arrogant aristocrats who deserve to be beaten by the humble English, Branagh sympathetically renders the French in their full tragic dignity. Olivier’s depiction of the French palace attempted to capture the ‘spirit of contemporary [fourteenth-century] paintings’ through taking on the appearance of intricate medieval calendar paintings, such as the Limbourg brothers’ Les Tres Riches Heures du Duc de Berry (1478) (see Figs. 10 and 11). Olivier thus establishes the French as a decadent, ostentatious, and superficial nation, wholly detached from the reality of the impending English invasion (exemplified by laughable encomiums to their armour and horses (HV, III. 7. 1–89)). Indeed, when Olivier first introduces the French characters, the viewer finds each of them in various states of lethargy and boredom, blending into their painted surroundings, with the pathetically weak King Charles VI propped up against a pillar, looking around nervously (see Fig. 12). Again, in order to achieve such a simplistic depiction of the French as a nation who are unfit to rule even themselves, Olivier is obliged to omit Shakespeare’s lines which reference their spirited heroism, for example, the Dauphin’s indignant response to Exeter’s threats (HV, II. 4. 127–31). At the battle of Agincourt, Olivier is at pains to heighten the contrast between the aristocratic French, who arrogantly presume victory with a ‘toast’ (Oliv, p. 67) before the battle begins, and wear armour so impractically heavy they must be lowered onto their horses with a ‘pulley’ (Oliv, p. 67; see Fig. 13), with the tight-knit band of honest, practical, and democratic Englishmen who diligently prepare together with stakes and arrows (see Fig. 14). To achieve such a propagandistic contrast between the French and the English in a wartime setting, Olivier employs what Raymond Durgnat has termed ‘sliding symbolism’; here, the ‘English are the English but Agincourt is D-Day’, whereas the ‘French are the Germans, until Henry courts Katherine, whereupon the French are probably the French’. This ambiguous relation to the present-day Anglo-French alliance explains Olivier’s refusal to take the French seriously as an enemy threat; in fact, the entire film seems to point ineluctably towards the final Anglo-French union, encapsulated in the close-up shot of Henry and Katherine’s national ‘heraldry’ (Oliv, p. 89) on their rings. Whilst Branagh’s adaptation still presents the English as underdogs and the French as ‘arrogan[t]’ (Bran, p. 33), he refuses to glamorise the English at the expense of the French. Instead, Branagh consistently presents the French King sympathetically, with his ‘haunted expression’ (Bran, p. 35) betraying real fear for his besieged nation. Branagh also suggests a final reconciliation between Henry and the French, through a shared participation in post-war grief, as shown in the shot where the Dauphin and Orleans ‘cradl[e] the dead Constable in [their] arms’ (Bran, p. 97; see Fig. 15). Thus, Branagh seems to suggest that the ‘dreadful price they have all had to pay for this so-called victory’ (Bran, p. 97) remains the same, regardless of one’s national identity.

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The presentation of Welsh, Irish, and Scottish national identities, in the form of the three Captains Fluellen, Macmorris, and Jamy, highlights the juxtaposition between Lord Olivier’s hegemonic status as the ideal English gentleman, and Branagh’s outsider status as a working-class Northern Irishman. Olivier’s scene with the Captains, in keeping with the film’s allegorical nature, is set against a painted landscape, wholly removed from the siege at Harfleur, thus establishing it as a realm of stereotypes and symbols. Indeed, rather than depicting them as individuals, Olivier presents the Captains as emblems of their respective nations, subordinated to their stereotyped national insignias: the leek, the shamrock, and the thistle. Rather than celebrating these national identities for their own sake, Olivier (and Shakespeare) merely present them insofar as they highlight the ability for the British Isles to unite as a ‘band of brothers’ (HV, IV. 3. 60) behind a common English cause – namely, an invasion of France. In his attempt to present a consoling myth of British unity against axis powers, Olivier omits all mention of a Scottish conspiracy to invade England’s ‘unguarded nest’ (HV, I. 2. 170), as well as downplaying the Anglo-Irish tensions regarding Macmorris’s national allegiances (HV, III. 2. 121–36). By contrast, Branagh’s ‘double life’ as both an ‘English[man] at school and [an] Irish[man] at home’ meant that Macmorris’s searching question ‘[w]hat ish my nation?’ (HV, III. 2. 124) must’ve haunted Branagh in his agon with his explicitly English forebear. As Samuel Crowl points out, ‘much of [Branagh’s] artistic power […] [stems] from his unique stance as an outsider’ to the English theatrical tradition. Thus, in his depiction of the Captains, Branagh removes the stereotypically comic elements from the scene, presenting them instead as fully-fledged individuals. Most notably, in contrast to Esmond Knight’s eccentric, almost pantomime interpretation of Fluellen, Ian Holm chooses to play the character as someone who is deeply moved by the horrors of war. Indeed, Branagh admitted that the ‘resoundingly unfunny leek scene’ (Bran, p. xv) between Pistol and Fluellen was the first scene he cut from the film. Through rendering Fluellen as a character of true moral integrity in the film, Branagh is able to subtly undermine the hegemonic myth of the King’s “Englishness” by having Fluellen proudly remind Henry of his historic ‘Welsh plood’ (HV, IV. 7. 106). In this scene (which is one of the film’s most moving, aided again by Doyle’s score), the King tearfully admits to his ‘Welsh’ (HV, IV. 7. 104) heritage in a sudden effusion of emotion, and proceeds to heartily embrace his fellow compatriot (see Fig. 16). In doing so, Branagh, unlike Olivier, offers a powerful celebration of alterity and national difference, rather than lapsing into narrow-minded English chauvinism.

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To conclude, it is clear that both Olivier’s and Branagh’s films exemplify two historically contrasted approaches to the presentation of national identity in Henry V. Whereas the former adaptation reinforces “official” national stereotypes through shallow characterisations, the latter adaptation challenges and subverts such simplistic readings through a more nuanced depiction of the paradoxes and contradictions inherent in Shakespeare’s original play. Ideologically, Olivier’s thoroughly “English” film succeeded in its propagandistic intentions: it rallied wartime troops around a shared, quasi-mythological national identity (achieved through a highly censored depiction of history as a glorious pageant) and presented the French/German enemy as both morally evil and defeatable. However, in order to achieve such an interpretation, Olivier had to ignore almost all of the elements of Shakespeare’s play which contest, rather than merely consolidate, the issues of war, imperialism and national identity. By contrast, Branagh’s more darkly ambiguous and realistic exploration of national identity reflects an increasingly informed late-twentieth-century attitude, wary of the all too personal costs (on both the oppressor and the oppressed) of aggressive foreign policies and narrow-minded chauvinism. Yet, even as Branagh’s film seeks to explicitly revise Olivier’s seminal adaption, it continues to fall prey to an irresistible glorification of “English” war victories. Nevertheless, both films remain powerful (albeit incomplete) statements on the nature of national identity, and highlight the myriad ways in which Shakespeare’s plays can be, and will continue to be, appropriated for radically different ideological means.