TITUS

Directed by Julie Taymor. Starring Anthony Hopkins, Jessica Lange, Jonathan Rhys-Myers, Laura Fraser

The first – and, without the faintest doubt, the greatest – of Shakespeare’s 42 plays, Titus Andronicus proves beyond doubt that the late great Shake could out-shock any storyteller of the last five centuries, Messrs. Marlowe, Hitchcock and Cave included. In spite of the guy’s iconic status in so many bourgeois homes, the overwhelming evidence is that he was in fact hardcore to the fucking bone, and Titus serves up plenty by way of proof.

It’s a relentless parade of gang-rape, warfare, cannibalism, murder, gruesome torture, mutilation and generally impolite behaviour, clocking in at a healthy 160 minutes.

Plot: Titus (Hopkins, overacting gloriously) returns to Rome after four decades’ worth of fighting, in tandem with Tamora (Lange), the Queen of the Goths, and her three sons. In accordance with the finer points of battle etiquette, he then has her firstborn ritually sacrificed, prompting her to swear revenge.

Tamora, together with her murderously Machiavellian Moorish lover (this isn’t exactly the most PC film you’ll ever see, even by the Bard’s standards) then spurs on her remaining offspring (Matthew Rhys and Rhys-Myers in fine form as a pair of demented degenerates) to perpetrate an unparalleled act of barbarity upon Titus’ only daughter (rape, and the removal of her hands and tongue). All this kerfuffle renders Titus such a gibbering wreck that his descent into King Lear-style senility is virtually assured, but it’s only then that things start getting really nasty.

The collective histrionics of the cast are entirely in keeping with the tone of this unyielding gore-fest, and Hopkins’ increasingly hysterical acting style (Nixon, Instinct and now this) dovetails perfectly with the nature of the project. Our eponymous hero is thus, without doubt, the most memorable, maniacal basket-case this side of Dick Advocaat, and an absolute treat to behold. Lange, if anything, is even better, essaying the sort of vicious-hellcat role Glenn Close thought she’d cornered the market in.

Meanwhile, the film’s visual style is decadence itself, a historical and stylistic mish-mash apparently influenced in equal measure by ‘70s glam-rock and fascistic fetishism. Mussolini turned camp-as-Mandelson, if you like, replete with Fellini-style orgies and entrails galore.

Arguably, one or two of the director’s fantastical flights of fancy are superfluous and pretentious enough to give latter-day Greenaway a run for his money, but this works more to the film’s advantage than its detriment, as it rages and rages relentlessly onward toward – you’ll never guess! – a final pile-up of corpses.

While not a film you’re casually advised to bring your granny to, Titus borders on masterpiece status. It’s likely to be virtually ignored by press and public, of course – I can only urge you not to make the same mistake. Tarantino would be proud of this.