One of the most intriguing comments I've heard about this film is that it pales in comparison to the stage production. On the one hand, this is true in that the film loses much of the inventive staging that was inherent in the play (e.g., convention of having the "horses" played by actors in black with horsehead headdresses, the tight focus of the action within a small perimeter). The problem, however, isn't so much Sidney Lumet's concept of the film as it is the limitations of the medium itself -- devices which are striking on stage simply don't work on film. Indeed, those directors who have tried to make such conventions work usually end up shortchanging the material.
And it is here where Lumet's genius comes in. If there is one thing that Lumet has a feel for, it is the gritty, down-to-earth feel of everyday life. While this usually means New York life, he does a marvelous job in this film of capturing the drab sterility of Dysart's world, as well as that of the Strang home. When these are compared to the vivid, almost ethereal shots of Alan in the stables or with the horses on the field (also, compare the striking image of horse and rider on the beach with the remainder of the beachgoers), we can fully understand Dysart's frustration about "looking at pages of centaurs trampling the soil of Argos" while Alan "is trying to become one in a Hampshire field". Alan has found a way to completely escape the drabness of his world, while Dysart has become sterile trying to find ways not remind himself of it. Similarly, the tight perimeter of the stage play has been replaced by tight focused shots which, more often than not, achieve the same result through a claustrophobic effect.
Likewise, the absence of theatrical staging does nothing to dampen the power of Shaffer's text, which remains as potent as ever. Indeed, what's often overlooked about this play is that, while the visual images of the staging are striking, they are, in most instances, completely detached from the central thrust of the text, both as a mystery and as a commentary on the consequences of society's demand for "normality" at any cost.
In this regard, the performances are outstanding. Richard Burton gives one of his last great performances as Dysart, showing us the literally crumbling facade of the doctor's spirit, while at the same time giving us a complete character (contrast his cynicism throughout with the moments of tenderness, such as those shown to Alan's mother and to Alan himself after the final session). Likewise, Peter Firth presents us with a cipher, wrapped up in television jingles, who is revealed to us piece by piece through moments of vulnerability until we see in full force what has made his character commit these horrible crimes. The rest of the cast -- notably Joan Plowright, Colin Blakely and Jenny Agutter -- do wonders with the limited dialogue they have to work with.
Put simply, Equus is an astonishing film to watch, provided that you're ready to watch it as a film, rather than as a filmed stage play. For those who hold to the notion that only the stage devices can make this play work, I'd advise them not to watch any film adapted from a play, as they'll almost certainly be disappointed every time.
And it is here where Lumet's genius comes in. If there is one thing that Lumet has a feel for, it is the gritty, down-to-earth feel of everyday life. While this usually means New York life, he does a marvelous job in this film of capturing the drab sterility of Dysart's world, as well as that of the Strang home. When these are compared to the vivid, almost ethereal shots of Alan in the stables or with the horses on the field (also, compare the striking image of horse and rider on the beach with the remainder of the beachgoers), we can fully understand Dysart's frustration about "looking at pages of centaurs trampling the soil of Argos" while Alan "is trying to become one in a Hampshire field". Alan has found a way to completely escape the drabness of his world, while Dysart has become sterile trying to find ways not remind himself of it. Similarly, the tight perimeter of the stage play has been replaced by tight focused shots which, more often than not, achieve the same result through a claustrophobic effect.
Likewise, the absence of theatrical staging does nothing to dampen the power of Shaffer's text, which remains as potent as ever. Indeed, what's often overlooked about this play is that, while the visual images of the staging are striking, they are, in most instances, completely detached from the central thrust of the text, both as a mystery and as a commentary on the consequences of society's demand for "normality" at any cost.
In this regard, the performances are outstanding. Richard Burton gives one of his last great performances as Dysart, showing us the literally crumbling facade of the doctor's spirit, while at the same time giving us a complete character (contrast his cynicism throughout with the moments of tenderness, such as those shown to Alan's mother and to Alan himself after the final session). Likewise, Peter Firth presents us with a cipher, wrapped up in television jingles, who is revealed to us piece by piece through moments of vulnerability until we see in full force what has made his character commit these horrible crimes. The rest of the cast -- notably Joan Plowright, Colin Blakely and Jenny Agutter -- do wonders with the limited dialogue they have to work with.
Put simply, Equus is an astonishing film to watch, provided that you're ready to watch it as a film, rather than as a filmed stage play. For those who hold to the notion that only the stage devices can make this play work, I'd advise them not to watch any film adapted from a play, as they'll almost certainly be disappointed every time.
