Nicol Williamson(1936-2011)
- Actor
- Additional Crew
- Soundtrack
Nicol Williamson was an enormously talented actor who was considered by
some critics to be the finest actor of his generation in the late 1960s
and the 1970s, rivaled only by
Albert Finney, whom Williamson bested in
the classics. Williamson's 1969 "Hamlet" at the Roundhouse Theatre was
a sensation in London, considered by many to be the best limning of
The Dane since the definitive 20th-century portrayal by
John Gielgud, a performance in that period,
rivaled in kudos only by
Richard Burton's 1964 Broadway
performance. In a sense, Williamson and Burton were the last two great
Hamlets of the century. Finney's Hamlet was a failure, and while
Derek Jacobi's turn as The Dane was widely
hailed by English critics, he lacked the charisma and magnetism -- the
star power -- of a Williamson or Burton.
Playwright John Osborne, whose play
"Inadmissible Evidence" was a star vehicle for Williamson in London's
West End and on Broadway, called him "the greatest actor since
Marlon Brando." While it was unlikely that
Williamson could ever achieved the film reputation of Brando (who but
Brando did?) or the superstar status that Burton obtained and then
lost, his inability to maintain a consistent film career most likely is
a result of his own well-noted eccentricities than it is from any
deficiency in acting skills.
The great critic and raconteur
Kenneth Tynan
(Laurence Olivier's first dramaturg at
the National Theatre) wrote a 1971 profile of Williamson that
elucidated the problem with this potentially great performer.
Williamson's Hamlet had wowed Prime Minister
Harold Wilson, and Wilson in
turn raved about his performance to President
Richard Nixon. Nixon invited Williamson to
stage a one-man show at the White House, which was a success. However,
in the same time period, Williamson's reputation was tarred by his
erratic behavior during the North American tour of "Hamlet". In Boston
he stopped during a performance and berated the audience, which led one
cast member to publicly apologize to the Boston audience. Williamson
would be involved in an even more famous incident on Broadway a
generation later.
Even before the Boston incident, Williamson had made headlines when,
during the Philadelphia tryout of "Inadmissible Evidence," he struck
producer David Merrick whilst
defending Anthony Page. In 1976 he slapped a fellow actor during the
curtain call for the Broadway musical "Rex." Fifteen years later, his
co-star in the Broadway production of "I Hate Hamlet" was terrified of
him after Williamson whacked the actor on his buttocks with a sword,
after the actor had abandoned the choreography.
A great stage actor, who also did a memorable "Macbeth" in London and
on Broadway, Williamson was twice nominated for Tony Awards as Best
Actor (Dramatic), in 1966 for Osborne's "Inadmissible Evidence" (a
performance he recreated in the film version) and in 1974 for a revival
of "Uncle Vanya." On film, Williamson was superb in many roles, such as
the suicidal Irish soldier in
The Bofors Gun (1968) and
Tony Richardson's
Hamlet (1969). He got his chance playing
leads, such as Sherlock Holmes in
The Seven-Per-Cent Solution (1976)
and Castle in Otto Preminger's
The Human Factor (1979), and
was competent if not spectacular, likely diminished by deficiencies in
the scripts rather than his own talent. Richardson also replaced
Williamson's rival as Hamlet, Burton, in his adaptation of
Vladimir Nabokov's
Laughter in the Dark (1969).
It was in supporting work that he excelled in film in the 1970s and
1980s. He was quite effective as a supporting actor, such as his Little
John to Sean Connery's Robin Hood in
Richard Lester's
Robin and Marian (1976), was
brilliant in
I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can (1982)
and gave a performance for the ages (albeit in the scenery-chewing
category as Merlin) in
Excalibur (1981). His Merlin lives on
as one of the most enjoyable performances ever caught on film.
Then it was over. While the film work didn't dry up, it didn't reach
the heights anymore. He failed to harness that enormous talent and
convert it into memorable film performances. He did good work as
Louis Mountbatten in a 1986 TV-movie,
but the roles became more sporadic, and after 1997 this great actor no
longer appeared in motion pictures.
Williamson's eccentricities showed themselves again in the early 1990s.
When appearing as the ghost of
John Barrymore in the 1991
Broadway production of Paul Rudnick's "I
Hate Hamlet" on Broadway in 1991, Williamson's co-star quit the play
after being thumped on the buttocks with a sword during a stage fight.
Although critics hailed the performances of the understudy as a "vast
improvement" it caused a sensation in the press. Despite good reviews,
the play lasted only 100 performances.
Surprisingly, Williamson never won an Oscar nomination, yet that never
was a game he seemed to play. In 1970, after his Hamlet triumph, he
turned down a six-figure salary to appear as Enobarbus in
Charlton Heston's film of Shakespeare's
Antony and Cleopatra (1972)_. The role was played by
Eric Porter, but his choice was
justified in that the film was derided as a vanity production and
savaged by critics).
Williamson had been a staple on Broadway, even using his fine singing
voice to appear as Henry VIII in the Broadway musical "Rex" In 1976. He
has not appeared on the Great White Way since his own one-man show
about John Barrymore that he himself crafted, "Jack: A Night on the
Town with John Barrymore," which had enormously successful runs, both
at the Criterion Theater in London, and The Geffen Theater in Los
Angeles playing to packed houses, before closing on Broadway after only
12 performances in 1996.
The "I Hate Hamlet" and "Jack" shows are still talked about on
Broadway. Williamson has joined the ranks of Barrymore, Burton, and
Brando, in that they have become phantoms who haunt the theater and
film that they they served so admirably on the one hand but failed on
the other. All enormously gifted artists, perhaps possessed of genius,
they were discombobulated by that gift that became their curse, the
burden of dreams -- the dreams of their audiences, their collaborators,
their critics. While there is a wistfulness over the loss of such
greatness, there is a relief offered, not so much from a moral tale,
but as a release from guilt for the run-of-the-mill artists lacking
such genius. One can be comforted by the fact that while one lacks the
pearl of such a talent, they also lack the irritating genius that
engenders that pearl.
some critics to be the finest actor of his generation in the late 1960s
and the 1970s, rivaled only by
Albert Finney, whom Williamson bested in
the classics. Williamson's 1969 "Hamlet" at the Roundhouse Theatre was
a sensation in London, considered by many to be the best limning of
The Dane since the definitive 20th-century portrayal by
John Gielgud, a performance in that period,
rivaled in kudos only by
Richard Burton's 1964 Broadway
performance. In a sense, Williamson and Burton were the last two great
Hamlets of the century. Finney's Hamlet was a failure, and while
Derek Jacobi's turn as The Dane was widely
hailed by English critics, he lacked the charisma and magnetism -- the
star power -- of a Williamson or Burton.
Playwright John Osborne, whose play
"Inadmissible Evidence" was a star vehicle for Williamson in London's
West End and on Broadway, called him "the greatest actor since
Marlon Brando." While it was unlikely that
Williamson could ever achieved the film reputation of Brando (who but
Brando did?) or the superstar status that Burton obtained and then
lost, his inability to maintain a consistent film career most likely is
a result of his own well-noted eccentricities than it is from any
deficiency in acting skills.
The great critic and raconteur
Kenneth Tynan
(Laurence Olivier's first dramaturg at
the National Theatre) wrote a 1971 profile of Williamson that
elucidated the problem with this potentially great performer.
Williamson's Hamlet had wowed Prime Minister
Harold Wilson, and Wilson in
turn raved about his performance to President
Richard Nixon. Nixon invited Williamson to
stage a one-man show at the White House, which was a success. However,
in the same time period, Williamson's reputation was tarred by his
erratic behavior during the North American tour of "Hamlet". In Boston
he stopped during a performance and berated the audience, which led one
cast member to publicly apologize to the Boston audience. Williamson
would be involved in an even more famous incident on Broadway a
generation later.
Even before the Boston incident, Williamson had made headlines when,
during the Philadelphia tryout of "Inadmissible Evidence," he struck
producer David Merrick whilst
defending Anthony Page. In 1976 he slapped a fellow actor during the
curtain call for the Broadway musical "Rex." Fifteen years later, his
co-star in the Broadway production of "I Hate Hamlet" was terrified of
him after Williamson whacked the actor on his buttocks with a sword,
after the actor had abandoned the choreography.
A great stage actor, who also did a memorable "Macbeth" in London and
on Broadway, Williamson was twice nominated for Tony Awards as Best
Actor (Dramatic), in 1966 for Osborne's "Inadmissible Evidence" (a
performance he recreated in the film version) and in 1974 for a revival
of "Uncle Vanya." On film, Williamson was superb in many roles, such as
the suicidal Irish soldier in
The Bofors Gun (1968) and
Tony Richardson's
Hamlet (1969). He got his chance playing
leads, such as Sherlock Holmes in
The Seven-Per-Cent Solution (1976)
and Castle in Otto Preminger's
The Human Factor (1979), and
was competent if not spectacular, likely diminished by deficiencies in
the scripts rather than his own talent. Richardson also replaced
Williamson's rival as Hamlet, Burton, in his adaptation of
Vladimir Nabokov's
Laughter in the Dark (1969).
It was in supporting work that he excelled in film in the 1970s and
1980s. He was quite effective as a supporting actor, such as his Little
John to Sean Connery's Robin Hood in
Richard Lester's
Robin and Marian (1976), was
brilliant in
I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can (1982)
and gave a performance for the ages (albeit in the scenery-chewing
category as Merlin) in
Excalibur (1981). His Merlin lives on
as one of the most enjoyable performances ever caught on film.
Then it was over. While the film work didn't dry up, it didn't reach
the heights anymore. He failed to harness that enormous talent and
convert it into memorable film performances. He did good work as
Louis Mountbatten in a 1986 TV-movie,
but the roles became more sporadic, and after 1997 this great actor no
longer appeared in motion pictures.
Williamson's eccentricities showed themselves again in the early 1990s.
When appearing as the ghost of
John Barrymore in the 1991
Broadway production of Paul Rudnick's "I
Hate Hamlet" on Broadway in 1991, Williamson's co-star quit the play
after being thumped on the buttocks with a sword during a stage fight.
Although critics hailed the performances of the understudy as a "vast
improvement" it caused a sensation in the press. Despite good reviews,
the play lasted only 100 performances.
Surprisingly, Williamson never won an Oscar nomination, yet that never
was a game he seemed to play. In 1970, after his Hamlet triumph, he
turned down a six-figure salary to appear as Enobarbus in
Charlton Heston's film of Shakespeare's
Antony and Cleopatra (1972)_. The role was played by
Eric Porter, but his choice was
justified in that the film was derided as a vanity production and
savaged by critics).
Williamson had been a staple on Broadway, even using his fine singing
voice to appear as Henry VIII in the Broadway musical "Rex" In 1976. He
has not appeared on the Great White Way since his own one-man show
about John Barrymore that he himself crafted, "Jack: A Night on the
Town with John Barrymore," which had enormously successful runs, both
at the Criterion Theater in London, and The Geffen Theater in Los
Angeles playing to packed houses, before closing on Broadway after only
12 performances in 1996.
The "I Hate Hamlet" and "Jack" shows are still talked about on
Broadway. Williamson has joined the ranks of Barrymore, Burton, and
Brando, in that they have become phantoms who haunt the theater and
film that they they served so admirably on the one hand but failed on
the other. All enormously gifted artists, perhaps possessed of genius,
they were discombobulated by that gift that became their curse, the
burden of dreams -- the dreams of their audiences, their collaborators,
their critics. While there is a wistfulness over the loss of such
greatness, there is a relief offered, not so much from a moral tale,
but as a release from guilt for the run-of-the-mill artists lacking
such genius. One can be comforted by the fact that while one lacks the
pearl of such a talent, they also lack the irritating genius that
engenders that pearl.