Film

We were opposed to playfully anachronistic productions of the Bard until a historian told us that in the case of Macbeth, the default mode of puffy shirts and breeches was equally bogus, since 11th-century Highland warriors were actually runty, hairy little guys scooting around in body-length woolen tubes. We reckon that an authentic midgets-in-tubes version of Macbeth would look pretty cool, but until that gets made, we’re now willing to consider any setting as long as the language isn’t messed with unduly.

This Aussie adaptation, set among leather-jacketed thugs in Melbourne’s clubland, struck us as good, violent, sexy fun. Worthington’s Macbeth isn’t the psychologically deepest take on the role, but there’s a coarse and sweaty energy to it. Hulme, who plays Macduff, is a rather more solid screen presence, and we wondered if director Wright (Romper Stomper) ever considered switching the two around.

Other than that, our main quibble was that, as usual with film versions of the tragedies, all the comic relief got left on the cutting-room floor (e.g., why no junk-addled porter answering Macduff’s nocturnal knock on the door?). On top of which, the score was a bit weak. We’re not saying they shouldn’t have used thumping club beats and crunching power chords, just that they should have used better ones.