With the Oscars on our minds this weekend, it’s apt timing for a re-release of “Becket,” a once-honored, now-obscure film from 1964.
“Becket” was nominated for a whopping 12 Oscars that year, but it won only one (for best adapted screenplay, to Edward Anhalt). It was the epitome of the prestige picture, a historical drama with weighty arguments and formidable acting.
The latter came mostly from two titans of the era: Richard Burton and Peter O’Toole. Both were nominated for Oscars for their roles; both lost (to Rex Harrison, for “My Fair Lady”), and neither ever won a competitive Oscar (although O’Toole has a shot on Sunday, for “Venus”).
The story is set in the 12th century and revolves around the friendship of King Henry II (that’s O’Toole) and Thomas Becket (Burton). They cavort with women, when Becket isn’t acting as the king’s closest strategist.
Irritated by the clergy, Henry appoints Becket, a former deacon, as the Archbishop of Canterbury, the better to have his own man in the powerful position. The problem is, Becket takes the role seriously, and a rift forms between the two men.
“Becket” is based on a play by Jean Anouilh, which veers away from historical accuracy but hits some interesting ideas about power, ethics and friendship. And it provides a showcase for its lead actors.
The nature of the relationship means that Burton gives the quieter performance and O’Toole the outsized, brassy one. At the time, Burton was the bigger star, a respected actor who had also become tabloid fodder after his affair with Elizabeth Taylor while shooting “Cleopatra.”
His air of tragedy and his shrewdly modulated voice give a good reminder of his talents. As for O’Toole, who was just off his career-making role in “Lawrence of Arabia,” he shows off all the sound and fury of a young lion with enormous skills. He also emphasizes the implied but unstated sexual tension in the friendship between the two men, to the point where it seems a bit heavy-handed.
But then there’s nothing light about this movie, which has not aged especially well. It looks good, impeccably photographed by the great Geoffrey Unsworth and superbly designed.
But director Peter Glenville, a theater veteran who made few pictures, sticks all too closely to the feeling of a stage play. The pace is stately to the point of sleepwalking, and if it weren’t for the dexterity of Burton and O’Toole (and Oscar nominee John Gielgud in support), the film would come to a halt.
Luckily, the actors are in gear, and the movie can be seen as a kind of throwback to an age where respectability carried a lot of weight at Oscar time. Twelve nominations’ worth, in fact.
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